Tag: Crossroads

Crossroads

CROSSROADS

Sweet Serendipity

The gift of friendship

By Joyce Reehling

Finding true friends is seldom easy, but sometimes it feels like destiny. I walked onto a plane some 40 years ago on my way to a job in New Zealand and, as it turned out, a friend for life was about to drop into the seat next to me.

I confess, I generally approach seatmates with caution. I’ve had men confess to me that they were lying to their wives about a “business trip” when actually they were off to meet someone they’d fallen in “love” with a month before. I’ve sat next to a child who would only stop crying if I played Uno with him for the entire flight. And I’ve been beside women who have filled me in on the personal details surrounding the lives of allll their children and grandchildren. There are times when earbuds and an eyeshade are a godsend.

Years ago I was flying PanAm — when it still existed — in what was one of the last, great first class cabin experiences. My seatmate was a woman, and there were two men in front of us. Before we took off the man in the window seat in front of me asked his seatmate if he would switch with the lady next to me, as she was his wife and they would like to fly together. Of course, the fellow said. He would be happy to accommodate them. A short, four-way conversation about seat bookings ensued, bodies unbuckled and moved, followed by polite thank-yous all around.

In that moment I didn’t realize I’d hit the jackpot. Randy Boyd was now sitting next to me. The ice-breaking small talk and quick game of musical seats lead us to a deeper conversation that lasted the entire flight from New York to L.A. We laughed and enjoyed one another for hours.

What began as a lovely day of chatting and eating superior airline food — hard to believe now — ended with promises of visits. He wanted to meet me in the PanAm lounge on my layover back to NYC in a few weeks, back in the pre-9/11 days when such a thing was possible. We made plans for meeting the people we each loved. I had recently started dating the man who was to become my darling husband and, as Randy frequently came to NYC, I knew they would enjoy one another no end. And it all came true over nearly four decades of life’s fickle ups and downs.

COVID kept us apart, as it did so many, but we texted and talked online. Randy and I hadn’t seen one other in person since the summer of 2017 when I was visiting the United Kingdom with a friend and we rented a cottage from his sister Cindy and her husband, Nick, who live in Braybrooke with property in the Cotswolds. In 2024 my darling husband, Tony, was doing well with his cancer treatment until a single-cell form of cancer suddenly appeared and reversed our course. We could not know then that Tony would pass on July 4th of that year — blessedly peaceful and at home with me, as he wished. The word devastated doesn’t come close. My dear friends here were my salvation and family, both mine and Tony’s, held me up.

We had been invited to Randy and Mark’s wedding, though we knew Tony wasn’t well enough to make the trip, and it pained us not to be with them. When Tony died two weeks before the wedding, Randy could not bear to be away from me, and although he had so much still to do, he came for a week to uplift me and share in our mutual loss.

That love and empathy and caring was borne out of a simple seat assignment. On his visit, Randy fell in love with Pinehurst, Southern Pines and our whole area. He and Mark married and came for a visit in December, which is a great time to sell how wonderful it can be here. I decorated my house for Christmas — which I did not think I had the bandwidth to do — so that they might, crazy as it sounded, consider leaving Palm Springs for Pinehurst. It was worth a charm offensive.

And it worked. One of my dearest friends now lives a little over a mile away when he used to live 3,000 miles across the country, and Mark has added more joy to my life. I think Tony might have had a celestial hand in it.

If there is a lesson to be learned, it is this: Be open to the happy accidents of life. Be open to the joy that people can bring. You can never tell what little event might give you the chance to have a huge chunk of love deposited in your spiritual account. When you see an open door to a good soul walk through it. Your best friend may be right there in front of you.

Crossroads

CROSSROADS

The Accord

And the art of the deal

By Janet Wheaton

In 1976, at the age of 25, I left the U.S. with my French husband. People ask me where I met Jean-Claude, expecting to hear an exotic story set in a romantic Parisian café, and they are surprised to hear that we met in Kansas. I only mention him because he’s the reason I spent 14 years living in Canada, Germany and The Netherlands, where Jean-Claude and I divorced in 1989.

I was single, 39 and on my own for the first time when I landed in L.A. to pursue a new career and rent an apartment, both of which are impossible in Southern California without an automobile. So, my first order of business was to acquire one.

It was the end of a hot and sunny day, my second on the new job, when I stepped out of a taxi at the local Honda dealership and stared out at a sea of automobiles.

“Looks like you’re a lady in need of a new car.” It had taken less than 10 seconds for a salesman to beam his body from inside the showroom and materialize on a spot directly in front of me. I don’t remember his name, so I’ll call him Mike. Mike was a thin man of average height, with a tan face of pleasant features that were unfortunately overshadowed by a ghastly toupee.

“What did you have in mind? A Civic, Accord, CRX, wagon, hatchback?”

What I had in mind was a simple business transaction. The simpler the better. I looked past Mike and pointed to a sleek and shiny sedan parked in front of the showroom. It was taupe. Cars don’t get any simpler than taupe. “What’s that one?”

Mike looked over his shoulder. “That’s a 1990 Accord. Been a dealer’s car, just driven a couple of months by one of our execs.” We walked over to it and he opened the door. “Want to take it for a drive?”

“Sure.”

“You have a driver’s license?”

“Of course.”

It was Canadian. I also had a license from The Netherlands, which practically qualified me to fly an airplane. I had the sense that, for a sale, Mike wouldn’t have cared if the license came from Kuala Lumpur. He went inside for the key.

“All set.” Mike tossed the key to me, and I slid behind the steering wheel and studied the dashboard.

“The car’s insured, right?” I couldn’t help messing with him.

“Absolutely, every car on the lot is insured,” he said, though I noted a slight furrow of concern creasing his brow.

A moment later we were cruising down the street as Mike described the car’s features: power windows and mirrors, cruise control, AM/FM stereo cassette sound system. He droned on about the LX model upgrades: comfier this, snazzier that.

The car had almost 8,000 miles on it but Mike assured me it still came with a new automobile warranty. The exec must’ve been a very tidy guy — the interior was pristine and still had that new car smell. After driving it a few blocks, I took it out on the Freeway and eased down on the accelerator. Hold on to your hair, Mike, I thought.

“So, what were you doing up there in Canada?” he asked, his eyes fixed firmly on the highway.

“You know, working, living, stuff.”

“Did you like it?”

I gave him the answer I’d settled on over the years. “Some things a lot; some things not so much.”

When I pulled back into the dealership 10 minutes later, Mike asked me if I’d like to try out another model.

“No, this one’s fine. How much is it?”

Mike seemed pleasantly surprised. “Let’s go back inside and talk about that.” He ushered me into his office and shut the door. Mike flipped through some paper, punched some numbers into his computer and smiled at me like he’s ringing up my discount coupons. But I hadn’t come in that day quite as unprepared as it may have seemed. A friend of a friend was a Honda dealer who had been willing to violate the industry’s blood brother oath by giving me some ballpark figures.

When Mike announced what he thought “his manager might accept,” I countered with the one my friend of a friend had assured me he would accept. I padded it a bit because I was anxious to get back to my new apartment and have a glass of pinot grigio. Mike frowned. I smiled politely. He sighed a dubious sigh. “Let me see what I can do . . . ” he said and left the room.

I could see him consulting with his manager, a conversation that I felt certain was more likely to be about the Dodgers than about me. When Mike came back into his office and closed the door behind him, he gave his head a shake meant to convey his utter disbelief. “This must be your lucky day.” He grinned at me. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Then he asked me about financing.

“I’m paying cash,” I said. I’d come back into the country flush and with an aversion to credit.

“OK,” Mike said, rubbing his hands together. “We take cash. You can write me a check and drive that beauty home this evening.”

I shook my head. “Sorry, I need to call my insurance company first.”

Mike countered dismissively, “Actually, my dear, your current car insurance will cover the new one automatically.”

Oh, right, I’m just a lady.

“I don’t have any insurance . . . in this country,” I said. “I’ll get that set up first thing in —”

“You don’t have to drive it home this evening,” he cut me off. “You can give me a check, we’ll slap a sold sticker on it and it’ll be sitting here waiting for you.”

I shook my head again. “Once I give you a check and the car’s mine, I don’t believe your insurance would cover it if someone were to drive it and wreck it.”

Mike stood up and came around his desk, leaned against it, while I remained seated. He lowered his chin. That furrowed brow was back and deepening into annoyance. “But no one,” he said, “is going to drive it.”

He was obviously not familiar with hypervigilance, for which I am a poster child.

I stood up and smiled. “You never know.”

I sensed his mounting exasperation. “If you don’t take advantage of this opportunity today,” Mike straightened up, positioning himself between me and the door. “Someone else might.”

This brought to mind a boy in college who’d once issued that same warning. I wanted to tell Mike what I’d told that guy. But I was feeling more indulgent with Mike because he was, after all, just trying to earn a living.

“I want to buy this car but if it’s gone in the morning, I’ll buy another one. So, I guess I’m ready to go.” I glanced at the closed door behind him. “Unless you’re holding me captive?”

“Of course not!” He jumped aside. “I just know how much you want that car.”

“I do, and I believe it will be here tomorrow morning,” I said and asked if he might call me a cab.

It took me a little longer than I anticipated to get my insurance set up, but when I finally got back to the dealership, I was glad to see that “my” car was indeed still there. Mike’s face lit up when he saw me.

“Have you been guarding my car for me all this time?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said and laughed. A good deal, I once heard, was one that was just as good for the other guy as it was for you. I don’t know about Mike but I got 20 years out of that Accord.

2025 Crossroads Department

Crossroads

CROSSROADS

Bowled Over

Finding the right words

By Robert Kowalski

Fifty-one years ago, Ed Miller spoke. He didn’t speak standing at a podium in a crowded auditorium. He spoke sitting down, in a smoked-filled bowling alley, to five teenagers, in front of lane 20. Ed’s speech was brief. He spoke only long enough to utter three one-syllable words in a graveled, Brandoesque voice.

“Don’t get old,” he said.

Competitive league bowling was all the rage when my friends and I joined an adult league. We were still in high school. The grown men wore slacks and monogrammed bowling shirts. We wore bell bottom blue jeans and T-shirts. The adults were annoyed. We were cool. The nights we won they grumbled about those damn kids. When we lost, they wore smiles of satisfaction believing that order had been restored.

Ed Miller was the worst bowler in the league. If they gave a trophy for futility, Ed would have won in a landslide. He had deep-set humorless eyes. His ill-fitting attire made him look wider and shorter than he really was. He always sat at the edge of the bench closest to the rack: silent and stoic. He stared out at the pins seeming to be contemplating 10 personal tragedies. When his turn came, he’d limp to the rack, pick up the ball and, without aiming, take four short uneven steps and, instead of rolling the ball, drop it with a loud thud. It took an eternity to hit the pins. He never seemed as interested in the outcome as he was resigned to it.

We were playing Ed’s team the night he spoke. It was late in the season. If we won all three games, we’d clinch first place in the league. Ed occupied his usual spot at the edge of the bench. We won the first two games by comfortable margins. The third game was close. Due in large part to Ed missing a one pin spare in the last frame, we eked out a victory. My teammates and I were backslapping and trash-talking when Ed looked up and, to no one in particular, said those three little words. “What did that old man say?” one of my teammates asked.

“He said, ‘Don’t get old,’” I replied.

We looked at each other and dismissed Ed with a shrug. He was just a sore loser throwing shade on our parade, I thought. We went on celebrating. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of him as he struggled with his ball bag. I couldn’t help but stare as he fought to scale the two steps to the main level. I turned away for a moment and when I looked again, I saw the back of his head as he limped out the door.

When he didn’t show up the following week, I assumed he was still suffering from the sting of the previous week’s defeat. I asked one of his teammates where Ed was. I was told he fell at home and broke his hip. “He wasn’t a young man,” his friend said. I never saw Ed Miller again.

Through the years, Ed’s words have nagged at me. What is old? Was old a journey or a destination? Would it happen gradually or all at once? Would I know when it happened to me?

Recently, I was walking off the 18th green when one of the guys in our group said he had to hurry home because it was bowling night. Immediately my mind returned to those days when the kids battled the men for pots of cash and bragging rights. Ed Miller’s ghost returned as well. This time I had an epiphany. Maybe the lesson was less about getting old and more about staying young. If we weren’t so cocky that night long ago and Ed wasn’t so sad, his words might have been different. Instead of a dire warning, he might have said, “Stay young, my friends, as long as you can.”

Wisdom isn’t the only thing that comes with age; it can also bring regrets. If Ed Miller and I could have parted with a smile and handshake that night, our victory over the men would have been so much sweeter.

2025 Crossroads Department

Crossroads

History Finds a Home

Taylortown museum preserves town’s heritage

By Audrey Moriarty

It took almost two decades to get there, but in October of 2023, the Taylortown Museum celebrated its one-year anniversary. According to Nadine Moody, volunteer at the museum and a former Taylortown council member, the house where the museum is located — 8263 Main St., in Taylortown — was originally the home of Demus Taylor’s great-granddaughter, Margaret Mangum. Demus Taylor is the founder of Taylortown, and Margaret worked as a teacher at the Academy Heights School, where she taught Moody in third grade. The Mangum home was purchased roughly 20 years ago, when Ulysses Barrett was the town mayor. While the building was intended all along to house a museum, bringing the plan to fruition took time.

If the museum had a little trouble getting off the ground, the house was always busy, serving as a venue for various community events. In the interim a handful of dedicated volunteers decided to begin recording and preserving Taylortown’s history. The group consisted of various members of the community: Gail McKinnon, president of the Historical Society; Jef Moody, vice-president of the Historical Society; Wendy Martin, of the Beautification Committee; Nadine Moody (Jef’s wife); and several others.

Inside the museum are exhibits of old tools, a display of images of the mayors of Taylortown, photos of local church dignitaries, information on the Academy Heights School, and a large “Welcome to Taylortown” banner, featuring Demus Taylor and some local historic sites.

According to McKinnon one of the ongoing projects the volunteers have begun is an “obituary book” listing the names of spouses, siblings and children, helping community members fill out family trees. They are hoping to get more input from family members of deceased residents to add to their book and family records. “What I wish we could do is to get each Black community to give us a brief history, because we all know each other and are related somehow,” says Nadine Moody.

Gary Brown, another volunteer, is working on a gravesite webpage, identifying and documenting local graves. High on the list of the museum’s current needs is a computer to house the information they’re compiling. The hope is that visitors to the museum will one day be able to search the collection and family data base. Brown, with Martin’s help and donations from Food Lion and local churches, also operates a food bank every Tuesday at Johnny Boler Park in Taylortown.

Recently the museum had a surprise visit from Paula Hall, Demus Taylor’s great-great-granddaughter. The museum is looking for more items to add to its exhibits, and hopes to get a few old canvas and leather carry bags and wood-shafted clubs — an homage to the work Taylortown residents, especially Demus Taylor, did caddying at the Pinehurst Resort. They’re also in search of a closet or curio cabinet for displays. Nadine Moody says 99 percent of their current exhibits were donated by local citizens and businesses. Homewood Suites donated some tables and chairs after a recent renovation and the museum repurposed them, some for workspace, while others are attractively set with dishes and stemware.

Current plans call for expanding the exhibition space to the upstairs portion of the house. “We are so excited,” says Nadine Moody. “We’re busting at the seams.” PS

The Taylortown Museum is open to the public on Wednesdays and the first Saturday of the month, from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m., and on Thursdays for groups, by appointment. You can reach the Taylortown Museum at (910) 215-0744, or by calling the Town Hall at (910) 295-4010.

Audrey Moriarty is the Library Services and Archives director for the village of Pinehurst.

2024 Crossroads Department

Crossroads

The Unbitter End

On the road less traveled by

By Beth MacDonald

The cruelest thing I have learned about divorce is that I have been left with a poor WiFi signal and a hint of mild road rage.

My husband announced he no longer wanted to be married at some point (when is quite irrelevant at this juncture). I left. Insert real-life game of Mad Libs with four nouns, three verbs, six adjectives, one location and two party favors. Oh, have I’ve got adjectives.

I am now alone. A singular entity in my late 40s, completely unsupervised. I need to reorganize, so I turn to the food triangle I learned in grade school. I think the first thing I need is carbs. Then I realize I’ve made a rookie mistake — wrong triangle. Maslow Shelter to the rescue. My deficiency needs are definitely deficient.

I’m employed by a wonderful nonprofit organization. I love my job. A place to live seems like a good starting point. What can I afford? I go to the farthest end of the Pines, closest to Alaska. It’s beautiful, serene, the perfect place to establish a base camp where the cost of living is low. So low, in fact, that WiFi and sunlight don’t reach the ground. You have to pay extra for sunlight and, even if they offered good WiFi, I couldn’t afford it. Luckily Panera has both carbs (I’m confusing my pyramids again) and free WiFi.

I traded my luxury sports car for a reliable four-cylinder Ford SUV. I used to live 2 miles from downtown Southern Pines. Now, I live a mile down a dirt road out there somewhere. It’s beautiful. I had to simplify my life and, truthfully, loved the process. I don’t mind coaxing my four little SUV hamsters up at 7:30 a.m. to get me to work. The five of us think very hard about the decisions we make at the Pinehurst Traffic Circle.

My organization allowed me to rent office space in Southern Pines, so I can at least work at a real desk and get exposure to Vitamin D. Every day I enjoy a lovely 30-minute commute and private concert brought to you by Ford Motor Co. I practice being the lead vocals, backup singers and band (air guitar, keyboard, drums). I think I might be nominated for a Grammy by my fellow commuters queued up to get on the Traffic Circle. I don’t lip-sync — it’s full-on, live carpool karaoke.

I take Midland Road to Pennsylvania Avenue every day. The minute I make that right turn I am behind the let’s-go-23-mph-in-a-35-zone person, who I follow all the way into downtown. Every day. Every. Day. My iTunes automatically shuffles to Rob Zombie’s “Dragula.” I am now a suburbanite futzing down the road infuriated. I am white-knuckling my steering wheel as I coast past the Police Department slowly enough to make them think I’m avoiding a DUI instead of trapped in a hostage situation. I can’t even breathe until I get to my parking space and unclench my jaw.

That one minor drawback aside, I have otherwise found divorce to be freeing. Marie Kondo would be inspired by my minimalist ways. Buddha would be proud at my level of mellow. I might have found inner peace, even at 23 mph.

My first marriage ended in “till death do us part.” I am familiar with loss — not to minimize it because you can’t. Grief is always “a thing.” We grieve a lot in our lives. We grieve big losses and little losses: death, friendships, our favorite pair of shoes, our wallets. (Who wants to go to the DMV and replace a license?) So, my second marriage went on vacation, and all I got is this lousy WiFi. At least I didn’t lose my wallet. PS

Beth MacDonald is a suburban misadventurer, author and essayist who often tries to get out of her car without unfastening her seat belt.

2024 Crossroads Department

Crossroads

A Mission that Rings True

The Village Chapel turns 125

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

By Steve Woodward

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Pastors of The Village Chapel

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

Rev. Alleyne C. Howell, Episcopalian: 1907

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Source: The Village Chapel)

2023 Crossroads Department

Crossroads

Didion’s Masterpiece

Judson Theatre presents The Year of Magical Thinking

By Jim Moriarty

Above: Linda Purl and Henry Winkler starring in Happy Days

Right: Andy Griffith and Linda Purl in Matlock

When the late Joan Didion’s book The Year of Magical Thinking was published in 2005, it instantly became the indispensable handbook for grief and loss. The book, and the subsequent one-woman play that starred Vanessa Redgrave and debuted on Broadway in 2007, was published in October of ʼ05 and won that year’s National Book Award for Nonfiction. It recounts the year following the death of her husband, the writer John Gregory Dunne, from a sudden heart attack in 2003, and how that death and her ability, or inability, to process it transforms her reality. The book includes the illness of Didion and Dunne’s only child, their daughter, Quintana, and the play, a masterpiece of storytelling, expands to include Quintanaʼs death from pancreatitis in 2005.

The Year of Magical Thinking, starring Linda Purl, is the middle offering in Judson Theatre Company’s three-play summer festival, and will run from August 4-13 in the intimate McPherson Theater at the Bradshaw Performing Arts Center at Sandhills Community College.

Purl is likely best known to Sandhills audiences as Andy Griffith’s daughter, Charlene, in the long-running Matlock series, or as Steve Carell’s love interest in The Office, where she played the mother of Pam Beesly (Jenna Fischer). She also starred as Fonzieʼs (Henry Winkler) girlfriend from Happy Days.

Purl’s intimate relationship with The Year of Magical Thinking began 11 years ago when her close friend, Bonnie Franklin, was set to perform the one-woman monologue but had fallen ill. Franklin suggested Purl replace her and she agreed, but only if she could pass the role back to her friend when she recovered. “So, I started learning it, then my own mother was diagnosed with cancer, terminally,” says Purl. Her mother insisted she continue with the play, even running lines with her daughter quite literally from her deathbed. With her mother gravely ill, Purl decided she’d have to call the director and back out. “I opened my email in the morning and Bonnie had died,” says Purl. “So that was how I came to the role. Pretty intense.”

For Purl, her performances of the play have been a journey like no other. “Besides the fact that it’s a one-person play, you just feel like she (Didion) braved the rapids of how to negotiate some of the most difficult challenges one could ever face in life. It’s a template. It’s a map, and she gave it to us. I’m of an age where you lose people. Death is not a stranger.

“I did the play in Kansas and I was in the middle of the run and I was in the supermarket, and this woman came up to me and she said she’d seen the play the night before and she said, ‘My husband died three weeks ago. I thought I was going crazy and now I know I’m not.’ You want to feel that you’re doing something meaningful. If sharing her journey can be a comfort to someone else, then that’s a good day at work.”

While Purl has now done the play more times than she can recall, it’s never quite the same. “Every time I do it, it feels differently,” she says. “The play, its idea and its wisdom keep revealing itself to me. As an actress, it feeds you, too. It always feels like jumping off a cliff. But I never feel alone up there. I always feel like Joan is right there with me.”

That connection was revealed in her recent performance in London. In a review by Harry Bower for “All That Dazzles,” a theater website that popped up during the pandemic lockdown, Purl is described this way: “She knows every line of this script as if she and it are one. The inflection and delivery of each syllable is carefully measured and delivered with precision for maximum emotional impact. There is a vulnerability and sensitivity to her performance juxtaposed against a stoic bravery painted across her face in broad strokes. She is a force of nature, knowing the perfect moments to demonstrate restraint or let loose with her character’s truth. Her light-touch comic timing completes an extraordinary performance.”

The play’s passionate opening was crafted by Didion just days before its Broadway debut. Sitting and watching rehearsal, Didion looked at director David Hare and asked, “Wouldn’t this be better if it was less about me? And more about them?” And so it became about all of us. PS

Judson Theatre’s concluding play of its summer festival is The Last Five Years, running August 18-27. Tickets for either of the remaining plays are available at JudsonTheatre.com and ticketmesandhills.com.

2023 Crossroads Department

Crossroads

The Queen Is Dead,

Long live the king!

By Tony Rothwell

Sounds harsh doesn’t it? But that’s the way it’s been for a thousand years.

As London, and much of the world, prepares for another large helping of English pomp and circumstance, I can’t help thinking back to a cold, gloomy February day in Whitby, Yorkshire. The year was 1952. I was at a boarding school, in a spelling class. We were 9-year-olds. The door opened and in came a teacher who announced he had sad news — King George VI had died. He asked us to bow our heads in a minute of silence, after which he told us that Princess Elizabeth was now our queen.

King George had been an unassuming monarch, rather overshadowed by Winston Churchill in the public eye, and the truth was we didn’t know much about him. Yes, his head was on the back of our pennies and thruppenny bits but we had no real impression of him.

However, matters royal were about to change as year-long preparations were made for the coronation of our new queen. England had had a tough time of it since the beginning of World War II in 1939, and we were still suffering from shortages, rebuilding, even rationing. Now here was something we could all look forward to.

It wasn’t long before the date of the coronation was announced — June 2, 1953. Over a year of preparations lay ahead, and England went into overdrive. Long-made plans were dusted off for the service in Westminster Abbey, the procession, the invitation list and, out in the country, celebrations and street parties were planned in every town and village. Meanwhile, all manner of coronation merchandise was popping up in shops. I still have my treasure trove — a commemorative mug, a special coronation crown coin, first day cover postage stamps, a paperweight, the souvenir programme and BBC’s Radio Times for coronation week, in its original binder.

The big news was when the BBC announced that the coronation was to be televised, though only a handful of people had access to a set. My brother and I had recently watched TV for the first time when the English FA Cup final was shown in a hut in our village to a packed audience. The reception was terrible. Every vehicle that went by produced a snowstorm over the screen, but it was still very exciting. We heard our parents discussing getting a set and did all we could to encourage them. Then suddenly it was there. A beautiful, mahogany, floor-standing piece of furniture containing a tiny 12-inch screen behind double doors placed next to the fireplace in our living room.

The day of the coronation finally came. TV coverage began early, and we were all gathered round the cathode ray tube — my parents, brother Bill, our corgi Taffy and myself — at our house south of Manchester in northwest England with the Radio Times in hand. It perfectly reflected the all-consuming mood of patriotism and coronation-mania the country was experiencing. The pages were devoted to every conceivable aspect: the “Form and Order” of the 2 hour, 50 minute service with the crowning expected at approximately 12:30 p.m.; the symbology of the many trappings of the monarchy; the glorious music and who would be singing; a map of the route from Buckingham Palace to Westminster Abbey where a congregation of 7,000 would await the young queen; and, after the service, the much longer route back to Buckingham Palace to be cheered on by the huge crowds who had come from all over Britain.

Even the Times’ advertisements were in on the act. Shell Oil did it with poetry:

Along Pall Mall, along St. James

Old buildings echo with the din

Old streets remember famous names

Lord Byron, Wellington and Gwyn

While Guardsmen’s plumes awake the air

Like pigeons in Trafalgar Square.

Two days later the United States had its moment with a radio tribute to coronation week titled “A Star-Spangled Salute,” starring Burl Ives, Gregory Peck, Sam Wanamaker and Master of Ceremonies Ben Lyon.

My most vivid memories of the day are the arrival of the queen at the Abbey to the ear-splitting acclamation “Vivat! Vivat! Vivat! Regina”; the glorious coronation coach (it was black and white television, of course, but we were assured it was gold); and the massive, Union Jack-waving crowds lining the processional route.

In the year 1066 William the Conqueror was the first monarch to be crowned in Westminster Abbey, and 957 years later, on Saturday, May 6, King Charles will be the 40th monarch to process up the Abbey’s aisle. Once seated on the throne he will have the St. Edward’s crown, made in 1661 for Charles II, placed upon his head, and Camilla, as queen consort, will wear the crown made for Queen Mary in 1911. Incidentally the St. Edward’s crown weighs 4.9 pounds, which will explain the care exercised when it is being placed on Charles’ head.

The contrast between the two sovereigns, mother and son assuming the throne almost exactly 70 years apart, could not be greater — a pretty, sheltered, 25-year-old queen, and a 74-year-old, twice-married king. We are promised a somewhat scaled back service in the Abbey to that of the late queen, the king being sensitive to Britain’s current economic and social climate, but there will be three days of events and concerts and a national holiday on the Monday. For millions of Brits born after June 1953 and seeing their very first coronation, it will be a truly memorable occasion with celebrations up and down the country and glasses raised to the newly crowned sovereign — “Here’s a health unto His Majesty.”

Meanwhile our KCIII commemorative mug has just arrived. PS

Tony Rothwell moved to Pinehurst in 2017, exchanging the mind-numbing traffic of Washington, D.C., for less traffic, better weather and the vagaries of golf. He spent 50 years in the hotel business but in retirement writes short stories, collects caricatures, sings in the Moore County Choral Society. He can be reached at ajrothwell@gmail.com.

2023 Crossroads Department

Crossroads

Good and Dead

And totally down-to-earth

Story and Photograph by Ashley Walshe

Our neighbors are the best. They’re very quiet, very private — I’ve never actually seen them. But I should mention that they’re also very dead.

Last spring, my husband and I moved into an RV near Lake James as a sort of romantic venture as newlyweds. We live at the end of a private drive shared with other RV-ers (mostly weekend warriors) and a few retirees with swanky prefabs and sweeping views of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Our view is a little different. Just beyond the camper’s east-facing windows — and I do mean just beyond them — 11 white crosses are staggered among windswept pines, a sparse fringe of mountain laurel and a dusting of vibrant moss. Most of the crosses are wooden, one is broken; a handful are PVC replicas. Two weatherworn headstones blend with the rugged landscape.

The site is decidedly understated. No fencing; no benches; no fancy signage. Propped against the base of a lichen-laced pine, a wooden plank marks “Dobson Cemetery” in hand-painted lettering.

I make it a point to greet the Dobsons each day, same as I would any neighbors. There’s Alexander (d. 1876), who lived to be 83; and Cora J. (obviously dead but stone illegible); and at least 11 others. Lord knows how many bones rest 6 feet below. But I find comfort in the Dobsons’ quiet presence. So far as I can tell, they don’t seem to mind mine.

My fascination with cemeteries began six years ago while visiting my great aunt in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Shirley was dying of bone cancer, and I was there to help her sort through her worldly possessions. It was a tender time.

While Shirley was facing her mortality in a literal sense, I was navigating a different kind of loss. After supper, I’d venture down the street for a stroll through the city’s oldest cemetery. There, perhaps for obvious reasons, my heartache felt welcome. Yet so did my dreams of a full and happy life. As I wove among the ancient trees and motley gravestones — the living and the dead — my perspective shifted. We’re not here for long. What will we do with the time we’ve got?

Which brings me back to our camper with a view.

We see our share of white-tailed deer. Birds come and go. But you can imagine we don’t get a ton of human foot traffic back here. We’d had none, in fact, until the other morning.

We were dining on the back deck when our neighbor — a live one from a few lots down — appeared like an apparition amid the wooden crosses. Our startled dog went ballistic.

“Sorry to disrupt your brunch,” Dave chimed as he tromped heavily through the lot. Despite having lived here for over two years, he’d never felt inclined to visit the cemetery until hearing that the Dobsons “may or may not” be related to Daniel Boone.

He came. He saw. He seemed utterly unimpressed. We returned to our peaceful graveside picnic.

That our dead neighbors might be kin to an American trailblazer certainly intrigued me, but after a bit of fruitless digging — online, mind you — I gladly surrendered the search. The way I see it, they’ve all crossed the veil into that good night. They’re all pioneers. Besides, it’s often the mystery that keeps life interesting.

On that note, dear neighbors, I’m really glad you’re here. I hope you won’t mind if I keep saying hi. But it’s really OK if you don’t say it back. PS

Ashley Walshe is a former editor of O.Henry magazine and a longtime contributor to PineStraw.

2022 Crossroads Department

Crossroads

Lit Up like NEON

Nashville comes to Aberdeen

By Jenna Biter

“This is a listening room,” Derrick Numbers pleads into the mic, fully aware the roomful of music and alcohol enthusiasts won’t long maintain library etiquette. Weekend after weekend, his plea fails, but he doesn’t really seem to mind. “You guys are in for a special treat: All the way from Cincinnati, Ohio, we have Matt Waters and the Recipe!”

The crowd whoops, claps, and whistles. Inside voices, be gone.

A dark-haired mop in a black leather jacket with 6-inch arm fringe flashes a cool side-smile. “No, y’all, this is a treat for us. Sincerely, to come down to such a beautiful venue,” says Waters, eyeing the room. “Y’all have no idea who we are, but you’re giving us a chance to enhance your Friday night with a little shakin’ music.” He paws his cherry red electric guitar, snarls a groovy tune and pumps his legs like he’s playing charades, and elliptical is the answer.

Waters is onto something. “I wanted to be a music matchmaker,” Numbers says, divulging his motive for opening his Aberdeen music venue, the Neon Rooster, after purchasing what had been The Rooster’s Wife. “I want to introduce people to artists they’ve never heard of . . . ” he pauses and grins “ . . . and sometimes it’s a blind date.”

Waters squiggles across stage the way a 4-year-old scribbles on a white living room wall, with a little mischief. “This next one’s special. It’s about the most inappropriate type of people watching there is: We dedicate this song to hot strangers.” The frontman plucks a ditty that can only be described as the love child of funk and reggae. “Oh, pretty mama, I like the way you’re reading that book . . . ”

In the crowd, a baby boomer in a duckbill hat and the only other fringed jacket in sight taps his foot, and a bleary-eyed blonde dances in her chair with hands above her head. Posters for Nashville’s Bluebird Café decorate the Neon Rooster’s walls and do a little people watching of their own.

“It used to be this secret that people kind of knew about,” Numbers says of the Bluebird. It’s still a hole-in-the-wall, but the hit soap series Nashville “took it to the stratosphere. It may be only slightly bigger than our place, but all the best songwriters have played there.”

Numbers laughs at the lineage. “I don’t think I could ever be the next Bluebird.” His son, Logan, zips by balancing a stack of beer glasses and empty Coke cans. “I want this to be a place where people know they can find good music that also provides a place for new and upcoming bands to play.”

Bearded out and capped in a “Winston Cup Series” trucker hat, Addison Johnson, whose latest album debuted third on the iTunes country charts (behind Morgan Wallen and Willie Nelson), recently played the Neon Rooster. Just a man and his guitar.

People fidgeted in their seats. This guy and his guitar for two hours? But Johnson’s storytelling lived up to his Jim Croce T-shirt. “I looove talking to radio hosts about this one,” he says. “It’s a song about a man who steals a Chevelle to sell fake drugs to the mob down in New Orleans.” He twangs, “Yeah, that pound of white powder was a pound of white flour. Those Italians were looking for me.”

Johnson, a North Carolina native, worked through a Rolodex of old and new songs with lyrics that could outgun punchlines — apparently, he burned his ex’s stuff in a neighborhood bonfire; other songs ended in a cop chase or jail time; and Darth Vader and Neil Armstrong tag-teamed cameos in a psychoactive trip at a Woodstock-lite music festival.

By the 10 o’clock close, the evening’s skeptics were full-blown believers, buying T-shirts from the merch stand and hooting for an encore. Numbers makes a promise: “Whether you like country music, whether you like rock ’n’ roll, you’ll be able to enjoy any of our artists — we don’t book duds.” PS

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

2022 Crossroads Department