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The legend and allure of the Pine Crest

By Bill Case

It’s March 1961. You’re 45 and a lifelong resident of Erie, Pennsylvania, where you’re the respected managing editor of the local newspaper, the Erie Daily Times. You’ve worked at the paper for 20 years and been its editor for five. You have an excellent relationship with the paper’s owner. The job is yours as long as you want it. And you love it.

Your wife, Betty, comes from a prominent Erie family. Her father, Charles A. Dailey Sr., owned and operated Dailey’s Chevrolet from 1925 until his death in 1958, when Betty’s brother, Charles “Chuck” Dailey Jr., took over. The Dailey family has been among Erie’s foremost philanthropists. And your kids  — Bobby, age 9, and Peter, age 5 — are happy in Erie.

Bob and Betty Barrett seemed the unlikeliest of couples to pull up stakes and seek a new life. While Bob was making a good living at the hometown paper, he wanted to own his own business. He discussed the possibility of partnering with Betty’s father in a second auto dealership in Erie, but that trial balloon blew away with Charles Sr.’s death. His passing did, however, result in a significant bequest to daughter Betty. With this nest egg and additional assistance from Betty’s mother, Elizabeth Dailey, the Barretts began looking for investment opportunities. But where?

“My dad had contracted pneumonia and worried he might not live long if he stayed where he was,” says Bobby Barrett, now 74. “He thought he stood a better chance of a long life if the family moved south. The Barretts and Daileys made regular golf trips to the Sandhills after my dad started playing in his mid-’30s. He fell in love with Pinehurst.”

While walking down Dogwood Road during a March ’61 vacation, Bob happened to encounter Carl Moser, then owner of the Pine Crest, sweeping the inn’s front steps. The men struck up a conversation in which Moser indicated he would consider selling if the price was right. Bob and Betty began mulling over the idea of making an offer. While the Pine Crest was no luxury hotel, the Barretts knew that many golfers weren’t interested in cushy surroundings. The inn’s 44 modestly sized rooms provided a homey, affordable alternative to the upscale lodgings at the Carolina Hotel and Holly Inn. And it was a going concern. The Pine Crest boasted a solid base of recurring guests, migrating golfers who returned like swallows year after year. Some had been doing it for as long as the inn had been in existence, 48 years.

Built in 1913, the hotel was the creation of enterprising innkeeper Emma Bliss. A New Hampshire native, Bliss had spent the previous nine years (1903 to 1912 ) managing The Lexington Hotel — where The Manor is today — which primarily served as a boarding house for resort employees. Leonard Tufts, who controlled most business activity in Pinehurst, hired Bliss after being impressed with her surehanded management of a Bethlehem, New Hampshire, inn.

Bliss shuttled back and forth with the seasons between managing The Lexington and her inn in Bethlehem. Possessing an entrepreneurial spirit of her own, she aspired to own a hotel herself, not just manage one. In January 1913, Tufts sold Bliss property on Dogwood Road, adjacent to the Lexington. By year end, she had erected and opened the Pine Crest Inn.

The Pinehurst Outlook hailed the inn’s arrival as a “delightful addition to the list of hotels; its comfort is suggested by the charm of its exterior . . . Modern in every particular, it provides several suites with private bath; radiant with fresh air; sunshine, good cheer, and ‘hominess’.”

Bliss operated the Pine Crest for seven years before selling it in April 1920 to Donald Ross and his fellow Scot expatriate W. James MacNab for $52,500. Ross, Pinehurst’s patron saint, was hitting his stride in the golf course architecture business and supplied the money for the purchase. MacNab managed the inn.

Instead of simply returning to run The Lexington, Bliss bought that property and tore down the old hotel. In its footprint, she erected a new lodging house — The Manor, a far more upscale house than its predecessor. Neither Tufts nor Ross seemed to begrudge Emma’s maneuvering, and Bliss owned and operated The Manor until her death in 1936.

To keep pace, Ross financed several improvements at the Pine Crest. He summarized them in correspondence with a prospective buyer in 1939: “Ever since I purchased the property, I have put back every cent earned and also some additional cash in the furnishing and maintenance of it. . . . Among the improvements I made are a telephone in every room and a Grinnell fireproofing system.” Ross dropped an additional $35,000 adding the inn’s east wing.

The Ross era at the inn began winding down after MacNab died in 1942. Aging himself, Ross chose to sell the inn in 1944 to the Arthur L. Roberts Hotel Company for $65,000. The company operated hotels in Florida, Minnesota and Indiana. The company’s founder, Arthur L. Roberts, arranged for title to the Pine Crest’s property to be placed in his individual name.

In September 1950, Carl Moser came to Pinehurst to manage the Pine Crest. Moser had extensive experience in hotel management and customer service. In 1941, the native New Yorker managed the Officers Club at Fort Bragg while serving in the Army Reserve. He had subsequent stints managing hotels in Greensboro (the Sedgefield Inn), Charlotte (Selwyn Hotel) and Stamford, Connecticut.

Along with his wife, Jean, the Mosers chose to live in the Pine Crest, occupying rooms 6, 8 and 10 on the first floor. Daughter Carlean joined her parents in these cozy quarters following her birth in May 1953. Arthur L. Roberts passed away in October 1952, and the trustees of his eponymously named company began liquidating its portfolio of hotels. In June 1953, Carl and Jean Moser entered into a land contract with Roberts Hotels to buy the Pine Crest Inn for $65,000 — $12,000 down and the balance paid over time.

By virtue of the deed records, Roberts’ heirs thought they owned the property, not the company. If they were right, neither Roberts Hotels nor the Mosers had any cognizable interest in the property. To resolve the issue, litigation was instituted in Moore County in September 1953. After hearing evidence, a local jury determined that (1) Roberts was acting in his capacity “as president and agent” of Roberts Hotel in effecting the 1944 purchase from Ross and MacNab; (2) it was Roberts Hotels, not Arthur Roberts individually, that paid the $65,000 purchase price; and (3) Roberts Hotels was not “under any duty to provide for the said Arthur L. Roberts in purchasing said property.”

Roberts Hotels was declared the inn’s rightful owner. Carl and Jean Moser breathed a sigh of relief; they had been dealing with the right party after all. And if in the future they wanted to sell the inn, they could do so.

Eight years later, the Mosers were ready to entertain offers, but according to daughter Carlean, her parents did not initially consider the Barretts serious prospects. After the sidewalk chat between Bob and Carl, there was no immediate follow-up. Not long afterward, however, representatives of the Barretts — probably Betty and her brother Chuck, who had experience in evaluating businesses — came to inspect the premises. Negotiations heated up, and in May 1961, the Barretts agreed to buy the Pine Crest for $125,000.

Since the Dailey side of the family was providing the capital, it was determined Betty would hold title to the property.

Unlike Carl and Jean, the Barretts chose not to reside in the Pine Crest. They bought Chatham Cottage (now Barrett Cottage) across Dogwood Road and made it the family’s home. Over the summer, Bob moved his wife and children to Pinehurst, took a crash course in hotel management, and announced a fall reopening date of October 12, 1961.

Eight-year-old Carlean Moser was heartsick to be departing the inn. “My dad broached the subject by asking whether I thought it would be fun for us to live in our own house,” recalls Moser, now 74 and living in Washington, Georgia. “I said it wouldn’t be fun if it meant I had to make my own bed or couldn’t order off a menu like I could always do at the inn.”

To Carlean the Pine Crest’s employees were like family. Some doubled as playmates. Carl Jackson, the inn’s head chef since the Donald Ross days, was a special favorite. The burly African American would spot Carlean entering the kitchen and commence beating the pots and pans hanging over the counter. The cacophonous clanging delighted the little girl. “I nicknamed Carl “Boom-Boom,” says Moser. “He was kind and fun.”

She played with guests too. At age 6, she sat on the lap of 19-year-old lodger Jack Nicklaus, in town for the 1959 North and South Amateur (which he won). ”We sat in the lobby watching the Mickey Mouse Club on television, and I wore my mouse ears,” says Moser. “Jack was very shy then. As long as I was on his lap, no one was going to bother him.” (Nicklaus bunked in room 205 in ’59; 26 years later, son Jack Jr. also roomed in 205 while winning his own North and South title).

The inevitable pitfalls of Barrett’s unlikely career switch presented the sort of scenario reminiscent of the 1980s comedy Newhart, the long-running television show about a New York City-based author of travel books, played by Bob Newhart, who abandons his former life to operate a 200 year-old Vermont inn.

In contrast to Newhart’s neighbors — Larry, Darryl and his other brother Darryl — a coterie of dedicated employees kept Barrett on track. Foremost was Jackson, who proved to be the ultimate lifer, remaining the inn’s chef until 1997, a full 61 years of employment. Starting in 1936 as “the pot washer” in the kitchen, Jackson began preparing meals about five years later.

“I started cooking under a German lady, “he told a Pilot interviewer in 1986. “She became ill and left it in my hands.” Jackson mastered a variety of Southern-style recipes. His pièce de résistance was “Chef Jackson’s Famous Pork Chop,” 22 ounces of meat “so tender you can cut through it with a fork,” effused writer John March in his 100th anniversary piece “Legends of the Pine Crest.” The famous dish is still on the menu.

Barrett insisted the kitchen serve the best cuts of prime meat. Specially ordered steaks came from Gertman’s in Boston. Freshly squeezed orange juice graced breakfast tables. Assisting Jackson in the kitchen was his apprentice and nephew, Peter Jackson. Peter had been employed at the inn for three years when the Barretts arrived and worked in tandem with his uncle for nearly 40 years. Carl Jackson’s cousins Elizabeth “Tiz” Russell and Josephine “Peanut” Russell Swinnie were sisters and permanent fixtures on the housekeeping staff. Tiz also babysat for youngsters Bobby and Peter.

Then there was Peggy Thompson, who supervised the dining room for decades, charming the guests and making a point to know them on a first-name basis. She recruited Marie Hartsell, who labored at the inn for 33 years, first on the wait staff, then as kitchen supervisor. Though Hartsell did not fancy herself a cook, she assisted in the kitchen baking pies. Her tasty banana cream became a Payne Stewart favorite.

And Betty Barrett was a worker bee too. She assumed the duties of an assistant manager, working behind the counter, preparing menus and ordering supplies. Even Betty’s mother, Mrs. Dailey, a frequent presence in Pinehurst, pitched in, assisting with the inn’s bookkeeping.

Though it took time for Bob Barrett to find his innkeeping sea legs, his personality proved perfectly suited for his position. A natural schmoozer, Barrett easily befriended guests. A major factor was his resourcefulness in arranging golf itineraries, an aspect of the job he enjoyed. During the ’60s, independent hotels like the Pine Crest had little difficulty getting starting times at the Pinehurst resort, Mid Pines and Pine Needles — a lifeblood for the inn.

Barrett also expanded the Pine Crest’s footprint. When the old telephone exchange building next to the inn was offered for sale, he outbid The Manor to get it. The revamped “Telephone Cottage” would become a favorite lodging choice for pros like Roger Maltbie and Ben Crenshaw.

Things ran relatively smoothly for the Barretts throughout the 1960s, but that changed when the Tufts family sold Pinehurst in 1970 to Malcolm McLean. His Diamondhead Corporation promptly converted vast wooded acreage into housing subdivisions, tacking on Pinehurst Country Club memberships to lot purchases. With the ranks of new club members swelling, securing tee times by the independent hotels became a nightmare. Under the new regime, outside starting times could, at best, only be reserved three days in advance.

Barrett did find a lifeline at the resort who assisted him in coping with the new order. Young Drew Gross, the first assistant to the resort’s director of golf, greased the skids for Barrett, keeping him abreast of last-minute openings on the resort’s tee sheet. The two men formed a bond that would have lasting impact.

Despite Gross’ assistance, the early 1970s were a bleak time for the Barretts. Bobby recalls his dad becoming so frustrated with the starting time debacle he considered suing Diamondhead for ruining his business. Instead, Bob and Betty decided to get out altogether. In 1974, they sold the Pine Crest to Richmond businessman Nat Armistead. The Barretts agreed to take periodic payments from the buyer and to continue managing the inn for an interim period.

The Barretts were in the midst of planning their future when tragedy struck in 1975. Betty Barrett, just 53, died suddenly at home. The family was devastated. To make matters worse, Armistead defaulted and Barrett (now in joint ownership of the inn with sons Bobby and Peter) remained saddled with a teetering business.

Barrett rededicated himself to improving the Pine Crest’s facilities. He installed air conditioning in 1977, allowing the inn to stay open during the summer. He reduced the number of rooms in the hotel to 35, increasing the size of several, and added rooms by moving out of Barrett Cottage and converting it into an eight-room headquarters for larger golf groups. When Diamondhead exited the scene, obtaining tee times at the resort eased up and new courses, like the Carolina Golf Club and The Pit, were open for play.

A 1978 change in state liquor law provided a major boost to the Pine Crest’s bottom line. North Carolina had historically been a “brown bag” state; customers brought their own booze to restaurants, and the bartender would mix their drinks. But with passage of the new law, inns and hotels could sell liquor themselves. Originally situated in the Crystal Room at the western end of the inn, the bar was ultimately moved to its current location, just off the lobby. Bill Jones, the flamboyant personality who tended the bar, began attracting regulars to the watering hole known as “Mr. B.’s.”

While Jones’ long blond hair gave him the outward appearance of a California surfer dude, he was actually a high-voltage comedian, flashing his rapid-fire albeit caustic humor. John Marsh wrote that Jones’ “rapier-like wit reminded many of comedian Don Rickles, and it was generally conceded that you weren’t really accepted within the Pinehurst community until you had been insulted by Bill Jones.”

Adding to the atmosphere at Mr. B’s were regular appearances of renowned golf writers Bob Drum, Dick Taylor and Charles Price, all bon vivants. They formed the bar’s notorious “Press Row.” A Pittsburgh Press alum, Drum was Arnold Palmer’s muse and later a feature presence on CBS golf telecasts. Taylor was the longtime editor in chief of Golf World, and Price was the author of several noteworthy books (A Golf Story: Bobby Jones, Augusta National, and the Masters Tournament and Golfer at Large), and at one time or another wrote for every golf publication worth the ink. Bob Barrett often permitted these luminaries, as well as other notable golf figures, to imbibe on the house, or at least at a steep discount. And they made the most of it. 

Just about everyone in Drum’s family worked at the Pine Crest in some capacity. Son Kevin served as busboy or, as he puts it, “the relish tray girl.” Bob Drum himself served as a celebrity bartender from time to time, standing in for Jones. On one such occasion, a customer ordered a “George Dickel.” Drum, a man of substantial girth, broke a sweat rummaging through the bar in feverish efforts to locate the whiskey. Once he was ready to pour, the guest said, “Oh, and mix Coke with it.” The thought of despoiling fine Tennessee whiskey so offended Drum he suggested the man take his business elsewhere.

Barrett considered his generosity toward Press Row money well spent. He’d been in the newspaper trade himself, and the writers did provide the Pine Crest some favorable publicity. Mr. B.’s soon began appearing near the top of ubiquitous listings for “the best 19th holes in golf.”

Jones fit right in, moonlighting a golf column for The Pilot. Despite his bluster, he was a revered part of the scene, and it was a shock when Jones passed away in 1995 at age 40.

Bobby Barrett’s wife, Andy Hofmann, who has worked in reservations for 45 years, got teary-eyed recalling Jones’ passing. “Bill said he wasn’t feeling well at work on November 13th,” she says, “went home, and by the 15th he was in the hospital. He died December 5th.”

Jones’ successor behind the bar, Carl Wood (now the owner of Neville’s in Southern Pines), was at first unaware of the local luminary discount. He recalls two-time U.S. Amateur champion Harvie Ward sitting down at the bar with a friend and ordering a Bombay. “That will be $6, sir,” said Wood. A clearly mystified Harvie turned to his companion and observed, “I think he’s serious!”

The return of PGA Tour events to Pinehurst, beginning in 1973, brought increasing numbers of golf greats into the village. Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus, Payne Stewart, Bill Rogers, Ben Crenshaw and Tom Kite are just a few of the champions who stayed, ate or drank at the Pine Crest. And their appearances led to memorable anecdotes.

Barrett made friends with the great, the not-so-great and the run-of-the-mill alike. Probably his best buddy in PGA circles was Pinehurst pro Lionel Callaway. Whenever there was a March snowstorm, Bob would call on Lionel to give golf lessons in the lobby, a tradition begun by Donald Ross, who likewise provided instructional tips to snowbound guests when he owned the inn.

Callaway’s greatest contribution to the Pine Crest is the celebrated chipping board. No golfer’s Pinehurst pilgrimage is complete without trying to knock a ball into the hole in the wooden board covering the old fireplace. Ben Crenshaw has the record for consecutive chips holed  — 28. Not everyone is as accurate. The fireplace mantel has more dents than a car in a demolition derby. The glass protecting the painting of Donald Ross above the fireplace was smashed so often, it was ultimately bulletproofed.

Both of Barrett’s sons became skilled golfers. Bobby Barrett made the final field of the 1969 U.S. Amateur, competed at medal play that year at Oakmont Country Club, America’s most demanding championship test. Not to be outdone by his elder sibling, Peter Barrett would subsequently make a strong run at winning the Carolinas Open. He did win the 1974 Pinehurst Country Club championship, his 283 total edging Pinehurst mogul-to-be Marty McKenzie by one shot.

Both boys were advancing in their professional lives as well, though on different tracks. Bobby obtained professional degrees at Duke and UNC. He became a CPA catering to individuals and small businesses (including the Pine Crest). His office is located on Community Road just behind the inn. Bobby also obtained a law license but never practiced. “I never lost a case,” he deadpans.

Groomed by Bob to one day succeed him as the inn’s general manager, Peter attended hotel management school. Given his own golf chops, he related well to the younger pros, like Payne Stewart, who became a friend. It was he who created a slogan touting the inn’s no frills persona:  “A third-rate hotel for first rate people.” It supplemented the inn’s other tagline, employed since the Emma Bliss era: “An Inn Like a Home!” The youngest Barrett also sold real estate.

In the course of Bob Barrett’s first 37 years of the inn’s ownership, a slew of PGA Tour events were contested at Pinehurst, but no professional major championships. So it was a thrill for the 84-year-old when the USGA brought the 1999 U.S. Open to Pinehurst. And not surprisingly, both the Pine Crest and a longtime employee became involved in the lore surrounding Payne Stewart’s epic victory. Payne ate dinner at the Pine Crest after an early round of the championship and affixed a hyper-enlarged signature on the wall of the ground floor men’s room. The passage of time has rendered the script undecipherable, but his outsized signature is replicated in the lobby.

Margaret Swindell, a mainstay behind the desk for decades (you’re a newbie until you’ve been employed at the Pine Crest for at least a decade), had a memorable encounter with Stewart prior to his final round. Swindell was working at her then-primary job with Pinehurst Country Club at the Learning Center when Payne approached her counter and requested a pair of scissors. He did not like the feel of his rain jacket and wanted the sleeves trimmed away.

Swindell and a co-worker held the jacket taut while Stewart snipped. She placed the detached sleeves in a drawer, thinking nothing more about the remnants until Stewart won the championship, and a ruckus was made afterward concerning his sleeveless rain jacket. Today, the sleeves and scissors are displayed at the World Golf Hall of Fame in an exhibit titled “Style and Substance: The Life and Legacy of Payne Stewart.”

Bob Barrett’s hope that moving South would lead to a long life came to pass. He died at age 89, two months after the 2005 U.S. Open at Pinehurst. John Dempsey, the longtime president of Sandhills Community College, gave the eulogy.

“Bob lit up every room he ever entered,” said Dempsey. “He was truly the community’s innkeeper.” Dempsey, who first met Barrett while guesting at the Pine Crest many decades ago, credits Bob for persuading him to apply for the position of SCC’s president, a job he would hold for 34 years.

Though already performing the bulk of managerial duties, Peter Barrett formally became the Pine Crest’s general manager following his father’s death. But additional leadership was required, and it came from Bob’s old friend.

Drew Gross was hired in 2011 as the Pine Crest’s resident manager. Gross had been involved in a diverse array of activities since his Diamondhead days: caddying on tour, event planning, cultivating relationships with airlines for National Car Rental, and operating a company that provided retired baseball players moneymaking opportunities. It was Gross who arranged for retired greats like Sparky Lyle, Lew Burdette, Tommy Davis and Warren Spahn to bivouac at the Pine Crest during the old ballplayers’ 1992 Pinehurst golf get-together.

Recognizing the inn’s history constitutes a major part of its appeal, Gross organized a gala centennial celebration of its founding on Nov. 1, 2013. Bagpipers played, dignitaries spoke, Hoagy Carmichael’s son, Randy, performed “Stardust,” and a bronze bust of Donald Ross was unveiled.

Free drinks at Mr. B’s are a thing of the past. Head bartender Annie Ulrich makes sure of that. The Long Island native came to the Pine Crest as a fill-in barkeep during the 2014 Open. Ulrich, whose husband, Gus, is a two-time North Carolina Open champion, loves her job. “Making one person happy is great,” she says. “But at any one time, I can make 20 people happy.” The narrow passage between the piano and the bar is now called “Annie Avenue.” Even as Mr. B’s flourishes, courses like Pine Needles, Mid Pines, Southern Pines, Talamore, Mid South, Tobacco Road, etc., continue to work with the inn booking tee times.

It is true that the Pine Crest celebrates its history — the three barstools at Mr. B’s bearing brass plaques dedicated to the long departed trio of Drum, Price and Taylor; the two Donald Ross sculptures and the painting of  Ross over the fireplace; the many images of long-gone golf heroes; and the tiny monument to the succession of orange cats, Marmalade or Marmaduke depending on the feline’s gender, that patrolled the porch — but this is no museum. Stop by on a weekend night when music is playing, folks are dancing and guests are chipping, all in the snug, yet somehow uncrowded, lobby. It’s vibrant, intimate and fun.

There’s no place quite like it.

Dissecting a Cocktail

DISSECTING A COCKTAIL

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Naked & Famous

Story and Photograph by Tony Cross

In 2014, famed New York City bar Death & Co. released its first cocktail book, Modern Classic Cocktails. It was the book that bartenders had to have and one of the best cocktail books ever printed.

One of the cocktails inside, the Naked & Famous, was created by bartender Joaquín Simo in 2011. The drink immediately caught my eye. The Naked and Famous is an Indie rock duo from New Zealand that had a hit song at the time of the drink’s creation, and I appreciated the fact that I wasn’t the only bartender in the world who tended to name drinks after bands and songs. The specs were interesting, too, with equal parts mezcal, Aperol, Yellow Chartreuse liqueur and lime juice. Why did this seem familiar? According to Simo, “This cocktail is the bastard child born out of an illicit Oaxacan love affair between the classic Last Word (a gin-based cocktail) and the Paper Plane, a drink Sam Ross created at the West Village bar Little Branch.”

I once read somewhere that Simo chose Aperol and Yellow Chartreuse instead of Campari and Green Chartreuse because he wanted lower ABV liqueurs to avoid overpowering the mezcal. The cocktail became an instant classic, and I put it on my outside patio bar menu, where it sold like crazy. These days if anyone hears the words “Naked and Famous,” it’s the drink — and not the band — that comes to mind. 

Specifications

3/4 ounce Del Maguey Chichicapa mezcal

3/4 ounce Yellow Chartreuse

3/4 ounce Aperol

3/4 ounce fresh lime juice

Execution

Shake all ingredients with ice, then strain into a chilled cocktail coupe. No garnish.

PinePitch February 2026

PINEPITCH

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February 2026

Sunrise Sounds

The beat goes on for the entire month of February at the Sunrise Theater, 250 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines:

• G. Love & Special Sauce, a hip hop and blues band, takes the stage on Friday, Feb. 6, from 8 to 11 p.m. Reserved seating is $39.50. VIP add-ons like drinks, a pre-show dinner and souvenir poster crank up the cost. Tickets and info at
www.sunrisetheater.com.

• On Valentine’s Day (come on, all y’all know the date) Ashes & Arrows will perform from 7 to 10 p.m. The combo Asheville, N.C./New Zealand group, earned standing ovations from Howie Mandel, Heidi Klum, Sofia Vergara and Simon Cowell on America’s Got Talent. General admission is $30 and premium seating is $49. Tickets and info at www.sunrisetheater.com.

• The Arts Council of Moore County’s classic concert series presents WindSync on Monday, Feb. 16, from 7:30 to 9 p.m. The wind quintet featuring Garrett Hudson (flute), Noah Kay (oboe), Graeme Steele Johnson (clarinet), Kara LaMoure (bassoon) and Anni Hochhalter (horn) frequently breaks the fourth wall between musicians and audience performing pieces ranging from revitalized standards, folk, songbook to freshly written works. Tickets are $37.45. For more info go to www.mooreart.org/CCS.

• The Rodney Marsalis Philadelphia Big Brass celebrates Mardi Gras at the Sunrise on Wednesday, Feb. 18, from 7 to 9 p.m.  The RMPBB had its beginnings on the streets of New Orleans. The group created its concert format, breaking the usual barriers between audience and performers at the advice of family patriarch Ellis Marsalis. Tickets start at $39 with the VIP package tipping the scales at $108. Tickets and info at www.sunrisetheater.com.

Not a Clue

From game board to the stage, Clue, The Musical opens at the Encore Center, 160 E. New Hampshire Ave., Southern Pines, on Friday, Feb. 13, at 7 p.m. Now a fun-filled musical, Clue brings the world’s best-known suspects to life and invites the audience to help solve the mystery of who killed Mr. Boddy, in what room, and with what weapon. There are additional performances on Feb. 14, 20 and 21. Tickets are $21 and $29, plus fees. For more information go to www.encorecenter.net.

Opening Night

The opening reception for Liz Apodaca’s exhibition “Carousel of Color” is Friday, Feb. 6, from 5 to 7 p.m. at the Artists League of the Sandhills, 129 Exchange St., Aberdeen. Apodaca began painting as a 6-year-old in El Paso, Texas, mentored by her grandfather. The exhibit will hang through Feb. 26. For additional information go to www.artistleague.org.

It's Been a Struggle

Acclaimed historian Jon Meacham will be in town to discuss his new book, American Struggle: Democracy, Dissent, and the Pursuit of a More Perfect Union, at the Moore Montessori Community School Auditorium, 255 S. May Street, Southern Pines, on Friday, Feb. 20, at 6 p.m. In this rich and diverse collection Meacham covers a wide spectrum of U.S. history, from 1619 to the 21st century, with primary source documents that take us back to critical moments when Americans fought over the meaning and the direction of the national experiment. For tickets and information go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.

All That Jazz

The Sandhills Community College Jazz Band celebrates “Takin’ a Chance on Love!” at 6:30 p.m. on Monday, Feb. 9. The swing and jazz favorites from the 1920s to the 1980s will fill BPAC’s Owens Auditorium, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. For more information and tickets go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.

Didn't We Almost Have It All?

BPAC continues is tribute series with Nicole Henry singing Whitney Houston hits at Owens Auditorium, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst, on Friday, Feb. 20, at 7 p.m. One of the jazz world’s most acclaimed vocalists, Henry brings the legendary music of Houston to life with her dynamic vocal prowess, impeccable phrasing and soul-stirring emotional resonance. A winner of the Soul Train Award for Best Traditional Jazz Performance, her album The Very Thought of You climbed to No. 7 on Billboard’s Jazz Chart. For tickets and information go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.

Awakened With a Kiss

An international cast of world-renowned ballet artists from 15 countries brings Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky’s unforgettable music, choreography by Marius Petipa and the magic of Princess Aurora together in The Sleeping Beauty. Follow the princess from her christening to her century-long slumber and her awakening by a true lover’s kiss on Monday, Feb. 23, at 7 p.m. in BPAC’s Owens Auditorium, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. For more information and tickets go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.

Masterworks

The Carolina Philharmonic under the direction of Maestro David Michael Wolff will present an evening of classical masterworks at BPAC’s Owens Auditorium, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst, on Saturday, Feb. 28, at 7:30 p.m. For additional information and tickets call (910) 687-0287 or go to www.carolinaphil.org.

At the Horse Park

It may be cold outside, but it’s heating up at the Carolina Horse Park, 2814 Montrose Road, Raeford. On Saturday, Feb. 14, there is the Pipe Opener II combined training with dressage and show jumping. On Saturday, Feb. 21, and Sunday, Feb. 22, there will be mounted games, and the Sedgefield Hunter/Jumper show is Friday, Feb. 27. It continues through March 1. Food trucks abound. For more information go to www.carolinahorsepark.com.

Focus on Food

FOCUS ON FOOD

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A Proper Mess

A different take on strawberries and cream

Story and Photograph by Rose Shewey

To be perfectly blunt, England hasn’t exactly been at the forefront of culinary excellence. May I be forgiven by those who cherish its cuisine. Perhaps it’s simply that English chefs need assistance choosing more appetizing names. Who wants to dig into a serving of spotted dick? Or take a hearty bite of rumbledethumps or bubble and squeak?

Eton mess, by comparison, is a relatively tame designation — while still managing to be properly unflattering — for a classic, delicious dessert made of berries, whipped cream and meringue. It may be messy, but it’s ingenious in its simplicity with a pleasing balance of flavors and textures. For all the mockery the English endure for their lack of appetizing food — which isn’t completely justified — they sure got this one right.

It is a safe assumption that the boys at Eton College, a prestigious boarding school in England and namesake for this tasty treat, did not suffer many hardships back in the day — and likely still don’t. While the genesis of “Eton mess” is hotly debated, no one seems to argue that it was, in fact, first served to the students in Berkshire about a century ago, thus painting a picture of a pretty sweet school life.

The least plausible but most popular account of the dessert’s origin is the story of pavlovas being served at an annual cricket match in the 1930s between Eton and the boys from Harrow School when a clumsy, or hungry, Labrador knocked over the desserts and smashed them to the ground. Undeterred, the Eton boys dug into the tasty “mess.” Whether Eton mess was a happy accident or a calculated move, we’re loving it all the same.

Eton Mess with Raspberry Coulis

(Serves 4)

5 ounces fresh or frozen raspberries

1 teaspoon freshly squeezed lemon juice

1 pound fresh strawberries

1 tablespoon sweetener, such as granulated sugar or honey, divided

4 ounces heavy cream

1 teaspoon rosewater (optional)

4 ounces Greek yogurt

5 ounces meringues, store bought or homemade

Make the Coulis

If using frozen raspberries, allow to thaw for about 20 minutes at room temperature. Add raspberries to a tall bowl together with the lemon juice, and puree, using an immersion blender. To get an extra fine sauce, strain through a sieve, transfer to an airtight container and refrigerate.

Make the Eton Mess

Quarter strawberries and add to a large bowl together with 1/2 tablespoon of sweetener. Mash up about half the berries with a fork and set aside. Combine cream with 1/2 tablespoon sugar and rosewater (if using), and whip until firm enough to form soft peaks, then fold in the yogurt. Add cream-yogurt mixture to the fruit and fold it in. Crumble meringue over top and drizzle with raspberry coulis. Serve right away.

Simple Life

SIMPLE LIFE

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The Man in the Mirror

And the power of a slow and careful shave

By Jim Dodson

A couple months ago, somewhat out of the blue, I had a small awakening.

I decided to shave the way my father did on every morning of his life — a slow and careful ritual performed at the bathroom sink, facing himself in the mirror.

Sounds a bit silly, I know. But rather than shave quickly in the shower with a disposable razor as I’d done since college, purely in the interest of saving time and getting on to work, life and whatever else the day held, it occurred to me that my dad might have been on to something important.

As a little kid in the late 1950s, you see, I sometimes sat on the closed toilet seat chatting with him as he performed his morning shaving routine. I have no memory of things we talked about, but do remember how he sometimes hummed (badly, I must note — the result of a natural tin ear) and once recited a ditty I recall to this day.

“Between the cradle and the grave, Jimmy, lies but a haircut and a shave.”

For years, I thought this bit of mortal whimsy was original with him, an adman with a poet’s heart, only to learn that it was really something he picked up from an old Burgess Meredith film.

No matter. His shaving routine utterly enthralled me. He began by filling the sink with steaming hot water and washing his face, holding a hot cloth against his skin. Next, he would pat his face dry with a towel and apply shaving cream in a slow, circular motion with a soft-bristled brush from a mug of soap he’d worked into a lather. I can still hear the faint swipe of his razor as it did its job.

As he aged, he abandoned the brush and mug in favor of an aerosol can of shaving cream, simply for convenience. But he never gave up his old-style “safety” razor that he used till the end of his days.

Watching him shave almost felt like observing a holy act. And maybe to him, it was.

During our final trip to England and Scotland in 1995, we had nine wonderful days of golf and intimate conversations. My dad’s cancer had returned, and he didn’t have long to live, but to look at him go at that moment you never would have guessed it.

During one of our last evenings in St Andrews, I remarked how curious it was that he still used his old-fashioned “safety” razor.

He smiled and explained, “With this kind of razor you must take your time. I always found shaving a good moment to look at the old fellow in the mirror and ask myself, so who are you? And what small thing can you do today for someone in this big and troubled world?”

I wasn’t the least bit surprised to hear him say this. My nickname for my dad — as I’ve mentioned before — was “Opti the Mystic,” owing to his knack for doing small acts of kindness for strangers. With several mates from the Sunday School class he moderated for a couple decades, for example, he helped establish a feeding ministry that is going strong to this day. 

Another time, as I recounted in my book Final Rounds, he picked me up from guitar practice with a depressed and drunken Santa in his car. He’d found the poor man wandering around his office’s empty parking lot, threatening to shoot himself during the holidays. We took him to a local diner and fed him a good meal so he could sober up a bit. Then, we drove him home to his tiny house on the east side of town. As he got out of our car, Opti discreetly slipped him a $50 bill and suggested that he buy his wife something nice for Christmas. The man thanked my dad, looked at me and growled, “You’re [effing] lucky, kid, to have an old man like this, a real Southern gentleman. Merry Christmas.” 

I was indeed. But frankly, it wasn’t always easy having a dad who cheerfully spoke to everyone he met and never seemed to lose his cool in any situation. Another time, I came home from college to find that my mom had impulsively given 10 grand out of their savings to a “needy young woman” at the Colonial grocery store. I was incredulous and wondered why she did this, pointing out that the woman was probably just a con artist.

“Because your father would have done the same thing,” she calmly answered.

“True,” Opti chipped with a wry smile. “Just not that much.”

As we sipped an expensive brandy Winston Churchill had reportedly preferred during the war on that distant night in Scotland, I reminded him of the famous Colonial store giveaway and the good laugh we shared over it for years. 

The story brought home to me how much I was going to miss this very good man. He then told me something that raised a big lump to my throat.

“When your granddad was dying, he asked me to give him a proper shave so he would look presentable when he met his maker.”

My late grandfather — whose name, Walter, I share — was a simple working man of the outdoors who probably only darkened the doorway of a church a few times in his life. Yet he wanted to meet his maker clean-shaven. 

“So, I gave him a nice, slow shave. He even asked for a bit of spice aftershave. It made him happy. He died peacefully a day or so later.”

We sipped our brandy in silence. “Maybe someday,” Opti remarked, almost as a second thought, “you can do the same for me.”

By this point, I could barely speak. I simply nodded.

Five months later, on a sleety March night, I did just that.

Which may explain why, as I approach the age Opti was when we made our journey together, the idea of carefully shaving in front of the bathroom mirror suddenly seemed like a good thing to do in these days of such social turmoil and chaos.

And so, for my birthday this month, I gave myself a new chrome Harry’s razor and took up the slow shaving ritual I’ve known about since I was knee-high to a bathroom sink.

Most mornings, I now find myself facing the man in the mirror, asking what small thing can I do today to makes someone’s life a little better?

It’s only a start. I’m nowhere near Opti’s level of grace yet. But I find myself frequently smiling in the grocery store and offering kind words to complete strangers. I’m even driving with greater courtesy in traffic.

Someday, hopefully many years from now, I may need to ask my son or daughter to give me a slow, final shave before I meet my maker.

Or maybe I’ll ask my brand-new granddaughter to handle the job when she’s grown up a bit. 

Whoever it is, the man in the mirror will be deeply, and forever, grateful. 

Almanac February 2026

ALMANAC

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February 2026

By Ashley Walshe

February leans in close, icy breath tingling the nape of your neck, and asks you to pick a door.

“A what?” you blurt, turning toward the raspy voice. No one. But that’s when you see it. A door straight out of a fantasy novel.

Approaching slowly, you take in the intricate details and lifelike carvings: apple blossoms and honeybees; pregnant doe and spring ephemerals; fiddleheads and fox kits.

Wood as frozen as the earth below, your fingers ache as they trace the grooves and ridges, then fumble across a secret panel. Beneath it? A round peep window with an unobstructed view to spring.

Bone-cold and weary, you press your face against the cold glass and glimpse a drift of wild violets, trees gleaming with sunlit leaves, a bouquet of ruby-throated hummingbirds.

“Yes, please,” you nearly sing, reaching for the frigid brass knob. Your heart sinks when you find that it’s locked.

Rapping the knocker for what feels like ages, desire becomes agony.

You wait, desperate for the door to open — desperate to bypass the bitter cold and step into the warm embrace of spring.

That’s when you remember the voice.

Pick a door.

Of course, there’s another. You spin on your heel and set out to find it.

As you walk, you notice how the frost resembles glittering stardust; the moon, a silver smile in the crystalline sky. How naked trees stand in praise and wonder of what pulses, unseen.

This is the doorway, you realize, feeling your breath deepen, your heart open, your jaw and belly soften.

There is peace here, at this threshold of endings and beginnings, where life moves slowly, where early crocuses burst through the wintry soil. Peace and wonder. But only if you choose it.

Early Signs of Spring

Love and birdsong are in the air. On mild days, mourning cloaks trail yellow-bellied sapsuckers, sipping maple, birch and apple sap from tidy rows of wells.

No vintage perfume smells as delicate and sweet as the trailing arbutus blooming in our sandy woodlands. And — oh, dear — a striped skunk rejects an unwanted suitor.

Soon, toads will begin calling. Gray squirrels will bear their spring litters. Bluebirds will craft their cup-shaped nests.

Spring makes her slow and subtle entrance, even when we can’t yet see it. 

Year of the Horse

The Year of the Fire Horse (aka, the Red Horse Year) begins on Tuesday, Feb. 17. According to the Chinese Zodiac, 2026 will be a spirited year of passion, dynamism and boundless freedom.

In other words: It won’t be a year for the sidelines.

Souls born this year are said to be bold, adventurous leaders, quick-witted and headstrong, magnetic and rebellious. Parents of Fire Horse children: Let it be known that they can’t be tamed. 

Hometown

HOMETOWN

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The Way We Were

Let your fingers do the walking

By Bill Fields

While cleaning out my childhood home almost a decade ago, I held on to some random items, one of them having been tucked in a cabinet below the wall-mounted phone in the hallway, an instrument through which good and bad news, salty gossip, and the time and temperature had been received for decades. In the final days of 692-8677, the long cord hanging toward the floor looked like it always did, a tangled mess that made privacy or pacing difficult.

I salvaged an old phone book that had been published in November 1975, its white and yellow pages good for the following year. “A Century of Telephone Progress” was heralded on the cover, along with renderings of antique and current phones — a state-of-the-art pushbutton model! — and the bearded visage of Alexander Graham Bell, who received a patent for the telephone on March 7, 1876.

Perusing the thin 6-by-9-inch volume of residences and businesses compiled by the United Telephone Company of The Carolinas five decades after it landed in our mailbox is nothing short of time travel to the way we were, before the Southern Pines area had grown and phones had shrunk.

Some of the “instructions” in the directory’s early pages are so rudimentary they are a reminder that, 50 years ago, a land line was considered a modern marvel.

“One way to avoid wrong numbers is to keep the area code and number before you as you dial.”

“When you make a call, give your party time to answer — about 10 rings — before you hang up. This could save you having to make a second call later.”

“You can save money by dialing all your calls direct without involving an operator.”

Making an out-of-state call? There was a 35 percent discount on weekday evenings and 60 percent off on Saturday and Sunday. Trying to describe a “collect” call to someone who came of age during the cellphone era is like explaining when gas was 49 cents a gallon or that airplanes had smoking sections.

By the time this directory came out my father was a policeman, and we had elected to have an unlisted number, not that teenagers joyriding through the Town & Country Shopping Center parking lot to whom he gave a warning would have done us any harm. My Grandmother Daisy, born 16 years after Bell’s invention, and Uncle Bob, both Jackson Springs residents, are listed.

So many familiar names were in the phone book: neighbors and friends, teachers and pastors, doctors and dentists. If you needed to reach the editor of The Pilot after business hours, Ragan Sam was on page 87; the owner of radio station WEEB, Younts J S, could be found on page 112.

There were lots of Blues and Browns, Davises and Fryes, Jacksons and Joneses, McKenzies and McNeills, Smiths and Thomases. Perhaps more Williamses than any other name, among them John W, otherwise “Coach” to so many for so long.

When you “let your fingers do the walking in the yellow pages” there was plenty to see.

Remember “Service Stations” where you’d get your windshield cleaned and oil checked while filling up? Dezalia Phillips 66, Poe’s Texaco, Red’s Exxon, Styers Gulf were among the dozens of such establishments listed in the yellow pages.

Restaurants? There was The Capri and The Chicken Hut, Dante’s and Duffy’s, Lob-Steer Inn and Park-N-Eat, Cecil’s Steak House and The Sandwich Shop, Mr. Flynn’s and Tastee Freez. None of those exist today, but Bob’s Pizza (“Call for Quicker Service”) does.

St. Joseph of the Pines was still a hospital. Mac’s Business Machines could set you up with a typewriter. You could get lodging at the Belvedere Hotel or Fairway Motel, groceries at A & P, Big Star, Piggly Wiggly or Winn-Dixie (“The Beef People”). The Glitter Box is no more, but Honeycutt Jewelers still sparkles.

Among the clip art (dogs, golfers and termites) and bold fonts, one of the categories caught my eye: “Ice.” Half a dozen places were listed, including Brooks Min-It Market and Ice Masters Service of Carthage, which boasted “clean, hard ice cubes” and “ice never touched by human hands.”

Now, we hold computers in our palms and text with our thumbs. That’s “person-to-person” these days. 

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

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Swamp Song

A liquid stream of notes

By Susan Campbell

To most folks, especially non-birders, a sparrow is just a sparrow — a small brown bird with varying amounts of streaking and a stubby little bill. Not very impressive. However, in Central and Eastern North Carolina, and especially in winter, nothing could be further from the truth.

Although few sparrow species can readily be found during the breeding season in our area, we have 10 different kinds that regularly spend the cooler months here. These range in size from the husky fox sparrow down to the diminutive chipping sparrow. Without a doubt, my favorite in this group is the swamp sparrow, whose handsome appearance and unique adaptations make it a definite standout.

At this time of the year, these medium-sized sparrows are a warm brown above with black streaking — like so many others — but swamps have a significant amount of chestnut apparent in the wings. The gray face, dark eye line and crown streak contrast sharply with the white throat and breast. The tail is relatively long and rounded, a very good rudder for moving around in the tight quarters where these birds live.

As the bird’s name implies, it is usually found in wetter habitat year-round. With longer legs than their conspecifics, swamp sparrows readily forage in the shallows, searching not only for fallen seeds and berries, but also for aquatic invertebrates. Individuals are even known to flip submerged vegetation with their bills in search of a meal.

The song is a liquid stream of notes that we rarely hear during the cooler months. The call note, however, is very loud and distinctive and uttered frequently. I hear far more of these birds calling from thick, wet habitat than I see along our coast. Swamps give themselves away with a metallic “chink.” If they are disturbed, they are hesitant to fly — probably due to their excellent camouflage. Instead, these birds usually choose to run from potential danger. They can maneuver deftly through sticks, stems and branches when pursued.

If a swamp sparrow does fly, it will not be over a great distance. A leery individual will sail to the nearest perch and survey the source of the disturbance, and then it will quickly vanish into thick vegetation.

Birds of wet areas such as these can be attracted to your yard even if you do not live in a coastal or riparian area. They may show up during the spring or fall migration if you can create cover for them. Adding low, thick shrubs such as blueberries or gallberry will help. A simple brush pile adjacent to your feeding station may be enough to get their attention, but in order to really up the odds of attracting a few swamp sparrows, consider creating a small wetland garden. A small depression will attract more than just this species: It will provide for a multitude of native critters and can be used to naturally treat (i.e., filter) household wastewater. Water features of all sizes have become a very popular way to increase wildlife, even on small properties.

Swamp sparrows have been studied for almost a century. It was one of the first species to be banded by ornithologists using modern methodology in the early 1900s. In fact, a banded bird from Massachusetts in October 1937 was relocated in central Florida in January of 1938 having covered a whopping 1,125 miles. This information was some of the earliest data produced on the migration of songbirds in the United States.

The next time you are out walking along the edge of a marshy area or paddling in the shallows, watch and listen for this neat little winter resident. One may pop into view and treat you with a short look. 

Southwords

SOUTHWORDS

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Blue Light Special

By Ruth Moose

Spooked. She, who had never had a single mark on her driving record, was now full of nerves anytime she was on the road. OK, maybe the first ticket was funny.

The little, sort of Barney Fife-scrawny highway patrolman even apologized when he gave it to her. He was so young and looked younger. Maybe it was his first day. “Ma’am,” he said after she handed him her vehicle registration, “did you know you were speeding?”

“No,” Lucy said.  “I truly was not aware I was speeding.”

She’d never been a fast driver. Just the opposite. Maybe she was enjoying her double espresso milkshake too much. She’d never had an espresso milkshake before, much less a double. But it was so cold and sweet and creamy and yummy. 

“You were doing 70 . . . in a 55-mile zone.”

“Oh, dear,” she said. “I know I had to pass that gravel truck.” She’d already had one windshield replaced.

“The date on the ticket is when you go to court,” the kid said. His hand shook when he wrote out her ticket. “You drive safe now.” He tipped his hat.

“Why honey, you were only doing your job,” she said.

Well, it was her fault, or maybe the espresso milkshake.

Later her son said, “You’re going to get points and your car insurance is going to skyrocket.” Her grandson laughed. He couldn’t wait to tell his friends his grandmother got a speeding ticket. His grandmother!

“Maybe there’s a lawyer who can take your money and make it disappear,” her son said.

“How much?” Lucy asked. “Do I still get points?”

“I’ll check,” her son said, “but it’s not going to be cheap”

Her grandson just kept laughing.

She ended up writing a hefty check to the secretary of some lawyer she never saw in a dark, backstreet office.

“I hope this teaches you a lesson,” her son said. “You are too old to be driving that fast.”

Espresso. She thought. Double espresso. It had been the best milkshake she’d ever had. And the most expensive.

She couldn’t believe her second ticket! Not again, she sighed when she saw flashing blue lights in her rearview mirror. She pulled over, shaking her head. Surely there had to be some mistake. She had been so careful, she thought.

This officer wasn’t anything like the first. He almost yelled. “Lady, do you have any idea how fast you were going?”

“No,” she said. “I thought I was being careful.”

“Don’t you know how to read signs? They’re there for a purpose,” he motioned for her license and registration.

By now she knew the routine.

He went back to his patrol car, icing her.

She waited. “I can’t believe this,” she kept saying. Two tickets in two weeks. Damn, damn, damn.

“Seventy,” he said when he came back, writing. “Seventy. You shouldn’t even be on the road.”

“Twice in two weeks,” she said.

His pen stopped moving. “What did you say?”

“I said this is my second ticket in two weeks.”

“Stay here.” He went back to his patrol car.

“This one . . . the one I’m writing you right now is the only one I saw.”

Well, at least she knew the money she paid the backstreet lawyer had been well spent.

When she told her son about the blue lights, he groaned. “This one is really going to cost you. Your lawyer might not even handle it.”

Wrong. It cost her $500.

Then, six weeks later, on the very same road, really reading and watching all the traffic signs — and driving like an old lady, which she was — the blue lights, flashing, flashing, flashing pulled her over again.

This time the trooper was tall, lean, graying at the temples.

They danced the dance of the documents.

“Lady,” he said handing them back. “How old are you?”

“I am 82 years old last week,” she said, pulling on the steering wheel to draw herself up an inch or two.

“Eighty-two,” he started laughing. “OK. I’m going to give you a late birthday present.”

He put his ticket book back in his breast pocket, patted it and started toward his patrol car.

No ticket!!!! No ticket!!!

She pulled out slowly and drove on.

Happy birthday to me. Maybe, she thought, she would treat herself to a double espresso milkshake. 

Out of the Blue

OUT OF THE BLUE

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We Have a Day for That

From groundhogs to presidents

By Deborah Salomon

One thing Americans excel at, regardless of political affiliation: assigning a persona or a product or an event to every month, ostensibly to inform, otherwise for profit.

Is there another reason to glorify a rodent on national TV, on Feb. 2?

February is top-heavy with such occasions, most celebrated by eating specific foods, beginning with Groundhog Day.

Huh?

No, braised groundhog is not on the menu. Then why the fuss? Something about a shadow and the remaining days of winter despite such a wide weather variant from Maine to the Carolinas that its significance is lost, especially in the era when AI does the thinking and people, the heavy lifting.

Next: Abe Lincoln’s birthday, which for ages was correctly observed on Feb. 12. Then the Uniform Monday Holiday Act of 1968 had the effect of merging Abe with George Washington, born on Feb. 22. When the new law bumped George to a Monday, Lincoln inevitably came to join him, anchoring Presidents Day weekend, which made ski resorts positively ecstatic.

Let Congress do the advertising! French onion soup baked in a crock, a skier’s delight, replaced George’s cherry pie. Lincoln wasn’t much on food. Hence the gaunt cheeks and bony fingers. His favorite meal: corned beef and cabbage.

Sorry, Abe. That doesn’t happen ’til March.

No mention of the other two February birthday boys: Ronald Reagan and William Henry Harrison.

Chinese New Year, a moveable feast this year occurring Feb. 17, is a huge deal in big-city Chinatowns. First parades, then multi-course banquets, each food representing a wish for the coming year (including luck and money), are a prized invitation from chefs wanting to thank loyal customers.

Just don’t ask too many questions about ingredients, in this Year of the Horse. Fire Horse, that is.

Oops, we jumped right over Valentine’s Day, Feb. 14. Maybe that’s a good thing, given chocolate has almost doubled in price since Cupid last launched an arrow. Another conflict: Feb.17 is also Mardi Gras, “Fat Tuesday,” a final splurge before the Lenten deprivations. I visited New Orleans just before Lent, in the Cajun-crazed 1990s, and learned to simmer a gumbo, throw together a po’ boy sandwich. Divine and quite different from bread fried in bottom-of-the-barrel lard used up by European peasants.

Then, certain holidays have been mismatched with their modernized versions. I learned that Thanksgiving, a harvest feast, probably originated in October — and seafood, bountiful off the Massachusetts coast, would have been favored over scrawny, flat-chested wild turkeys spit-cooked over an outdoor fire.

But plump lobster meat dipped in butter . . . fantastic. Ditch Butterballs. Make mine a Butterclaw.

February recalls a poignant memory.

My grandparents lived in Greensboro, on Lee Street, in the house where my mother and her brothers were born. That meant fireplaces, a wood stove, one bathroom tacked onto the back, a half-acre garden where Grandaddy grew a winter’s worth of vegetables that Nanny “put up,” along with pears falling from the tree and grapes from the arbor. The southeast side of the house got full, unobstructed sunshine all winter. By late February Nanny’s daffodils poked through the ground and leaned against the clapboards. She would pick a few still in bud, wrap them in damp rags and then a plastic bread bag, secure the bunch in a cardboard box and mail them to me, stuck in wintry Manhattan. Once in water and sitting on the windowsill, buds burst into bloom.

Nanny was gone (followed soon by Granddaddy, who had come to live with us) when the city appropriated their land, knocked down the house, uprooted the pear tree to widen, and in 2013 rename the street Gate City Boulevard. In February I still mourn Nanny’s faithful daffodils, a promise that spring would eventually warm the concrete city where I waited, impatiently, for my reward.