Out of the Blue

The Feline Mystique

Yes, my cat is smarter than your border collie

By Deborah Salomon

Hello, Happy New Year and welcome to my Fifth Annual January Kitty Column.

First, a recap:

After a lifetime of rescuing and adopting animals, I had retired. Then, seven years ago a coal-black kitty came to my door, friendly and hungry. Black cats are so special, needy and mournful. I fed him outside for months before letting him into my home and my life, later learning that he — a neutered male with front claws removed — had been abandoned when his family moved away.

I named him Lucky because any animal I adopt is.

A year later I noticed another cat — mottled grey and white, cross-eyed, lumpy and grumpy — sitting on various porches. Neighbors called her “everybody’s” because she begged more than enough food. Her clipped ear indicated a spayed feral. I added chicken livers to the mix. One day she showed up with a bloody paw. I opened the door and that was that — except for her disposition, which prompted the name Hissy. Hisses quickly turned to purrs. Now, she’s Missy, Lucky’s devoted companion who mothers him, fusses over him, wrestles him and pushes into his food bowl.

Whereas Lucky possesses keen intelligence, deductive reasoning, powerful persuasion and the sweetest disposition I have ever encountered in an animal, Missy’s a dingbat, always underfoot, forever wanting something . . . like my lap. I should have named her Edith.

There’s just one problem. Two, actually. Cats can tell time and, to my surprise, cats are creatures of habit.

From the beginning, they slept on my bed. But because Lucky had napped all afternoon he didn’t snooze for long. By midnight he was pacing across my back, purring in my ear, pawing my hand. He must be hungry, I thought. I’ll keep a little bowl of kibble in the nightstand drawer and give him a few — a pacifier.

Huge, life-changing mistake. Soon, Lucky considered my bedtime his noshtime. His inner clock knew exactly what time I usually retire. Late basketball game? A perturbed Lucky tries to lead me away from it, into the bedroom. When I finally succumb he perches on the nightstand and commences pawing excitedly, desperately, first at me, then at the drawer, which he can open if cracked. The expression in his eyes mixes pleading with annoyance and, finally, desperation: “Hey lady, this was your idea. I’m only playing along.”

After a half-dozen kibble snacks, he desists, nudges onto the heating pad that should be soothing my shoulder arthritis, and snores softly.

Until 3 a.m.

I am a lifelong early riser, about 5 a.m. In high school and college, I studied. A rested brain fueled with black coffee works efficiently. Later, I baked and folded laundry. Once back at work, I wrote. Still do. That means by 10 a.m. I’m ready for lunch. By 1 p.m., a nap because after his 3 a.m. snack lucky Lucky can resume his sleep but I can’t. Once I’m up, I’m up. Imagine when the end of daylight saving turned 3 a.m. into 2 a.m. Took a month to convince him that just because it’s dark doesn’t mean it’s bedtime, especially with Duke roaring onto the court.

I hear you feline-dissers screaming, “Close the bedroom door!” Well, maybe Lucky doesn’t have front claws to scratch it, but his pathetic meow is worse.

***

Lesson: Just because you can’t teach cats tricks doesn’t mean they won’t learn. Watch my Lucky: He gives his paw on cue, when the clock clicks 3:00. Smart boy, Lucky. Now roll over, please, and gimme a break.  PS

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

Birdwatch

Wheezy Does It

Listen for the distinctive call of the pine siskin this winter

By Susan Campbell

Each winter I hear from folks who encounter small brown birds they cannot identify, sometimes visiting their feeders, other times pecking around on the forest floor. Some are American goldfinches in their dull, nonbreeding plumage. Others end up being identified as female house finches through their gray-brown coloration and their distinctive streaked breasts and bellies. But there are other possibilities — especially this season: That finch-like, striped visitor just might be a pine siskin.

In the Sandhills, these feisty little birds frequent evergreens with, as their name implies, pines being their favorite. They can often be seen clinging to the cones, determined to pry out the energy-rich seeds from within. However, they will not hesitate to search far and wide for other abundant seed sources. During the summer months, pine siskins usually are found breeding in the open, coniferous forests of the boreal region throughout northern states of the United States. They also range into southern Canada, as well as higher elevations of the Rockies and western mountain regions. Nondescript, with brown streaks and splashes of yellow on the wings and tail, these small birds are easy to miss. But the wheezy call coming from their little delicate bills is quite distinctive and hard to miss once you’ve heard it. Another tip for spotting them is to remember that pine siskins associate closely when breeding as well as foraging.

This winter we just may have an abundance of pine siskins here. That is because siskins are a species that ornithologists term “irruptive.” Like red-breasted nuthatches, cedar waxwings and purple finches, pine siskins are nomadic and move farther southward in winters when certain seed crops are in short supply across the northern forests. When these gregarious invaders find feeders offering sunflower or thistle seed, they will take up residence by the dozens. Most people maintaining a feeding station, at least in the Sandhills, have almost certainly hosted at least a few of these little Northerners during the last big irruption, which was five years ago.

As numerous as they may become in the weeks ahead, it is unlikely siskins will attempt to breed here. We have actually documented them staying through April in the past. But remaining individuals have always vanished with the early summer warm-up. Southern forests that mimic the usual northern habitat, such as our tracts of longleaf pine, certainly do have the necessary components for the birds to successfully breed, and attempts to be successful by other irruptive species have been documented in our area previously. The most remarkable of these were a few red crossbill pairs that bred in the area back in the mid-1970s.

The numbers of feathered winter visitors is surely on the rise now that natural food sources are becoming scarcer. After a summer that produced a bounty for wildlife, the inevitable depletion of seeds and berries is occurring. So definitely keep an eye (and an ear) out and keep your feeders full — a siskin or two just may drop by!    PS

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

Golftown Journal

Winter Rules

And the golfers play on

By Lee Pace

“The unkind winds and muddy, plugged lies of April and May, the deepening rough of June, the thronging summer folk of July and August, the obfuscating goose feathers and fallen leaves of autumn are all gone, gone, and golf feels, on the frost-stiffed fairways, reduced to its austere and innocent essence.” — John Updike

In early January 1919, the Pinehurst Outlook celebrated the riches of the local golf experience, writing of the annual Mid-Winter Tournament and of a Tin Whistles competition. It previewed the upcoming St. Valentine’s Day Tournament, listed hundreds of arrivals at the Carolina Hotel, and advertised an antiseptic powder for the feet just used by troops in World War I as perfect for golfers because it “takes the friction from the shoe and freshens the foot.” The newspaper also espoused the appeal of the Sandhills: “As the winter golf centre of the two hemispheres, Pinehurst is now thoroughly established, its unequalled equipment embracing three distinct six-thousand-yard courses and an additional nine-hole course.”

Many of you wearing wool, eating stew and checking the Delta schedule to Palm Beach here in the numb of January have forgotten, or were never even aware, that Pinehurst was created as a wintertime resort. The Carolina Hotel one century ago was open Nov. 10 to May 1, and Richard Tufts of the founding family once noted that the aesthetics of the area soon after being cleared for timber in the late 1890s weren’t very high, but “The one thing Pinehurst had to offer in these early days was its climate.”

Which is all the more reason to celebrate golf in the off-months.

Others across the land do so with imagination and great élan. The Jemsek family, longtime owners of Cog Hill Golf & Country Club in the Chicago suburbs, created the Eskimo Open in 1963, and it’s been played every year since on the first Saturday of January with from two dozen to several hundred players. Golfers bring orange balls (the easier to find them in the snow), hammers (the easier to get your tee in the ground), and an appetite (gallons of chili are downed after the golf). 

“It’s a little bit crazy, just like people who go dip themselves in Lake Michigan every year,” Frank Jemsek says.

Golfers numbering up to 1,700 have flocked to Lake Minnetonka just west of Minneapolis each February for 34 years for the Wayzata Chilly Open, where golf “architects” lay out three nine-hole courses on the frozen lake and participants crack tennis balls with golf clubs — or even hockey sticks. Up in Alaska, golfers afflicted with cabin fever wear ice skates and aim their balls toward holes carved with ice augers into the hardened lake surfaces.

The average daily high in Kansas City is 39 degrees in January and 44 in February, so native Tom Watson was nonplussed during the second round of the 1979 Memorial Tournament in Ohio when he hit 16 greens and shot a 69 while battling 30 mph wind, sideways rain and wind-chill factors of 13 degrees. Some say it’s the finest bad-weather round on American soil in history.

“The key was keeping my hands warm,” Watson said. “I guess I’m used to playing in this kind of weather. It’s good Kansas City weather.”

Before air travel began whisking snowbound New Englanders and Manhattanites to Florida, the Sandhills were a Mecca for cold-weather golf. Golfers in Pinehurst have always had it lucky. So what if it rains in January? The water seeps quickly through the sandy loam.

“They came by train all winter long, from New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania — places that had been covered by snow for a month,” remembered the late Peggy Kirk Bell, who bought the Pine Needles golf course with husband, Warren, in 1953. “We’d have short cold snaps but soon it would be warm enough to play. They would ride the train all night on Thursday and we’d pick them up early Friday morning. They played golf all day Friday, Saturday and Sunday, then we’d give them an early dinner and put them back on the train. They were back in New York for work Monday morning.”

Pinehurst was literally turning guests away during the popular winter months in the early 1920s, which is one reason a private club with a lodging component (Mid Pines in 1921), and a resort club with a real estate component (Pine Needles in 1928) were conceived and built. But then came the Depression and the Second World War, turning all the pre-existing travel and leisure trends on their ear. The advent of air conditioning in the mid-1900s opened Pinehurst and all its hotel properties to a 12-month market, and the area had lost its mark as a wintertime resort forever.

Peter deYoung’s roots growing up in Rochester, New York, and living three decades in Chicago adapted him to the ways and means of harsh weather golf. Twenty-five years ago, he suggested to then-Pinehurst CEO Pat Corso that he could put some traffic in empty hotel rooms and on golf courses if Corso would give him a price cut for junior golfers in what deYoung would call the Winternational Junior Series. The program still exists and in 2018-19 will host nine tournaments from late November through early March.

“If I had known it would last 25 years, I’m not sure I would have done it,” deYoung says with a laugh. “But we’ve had a lot of fun with it and brought a lot of kids from the North down here in the winter. We’ve had all kinds of weather stories.

“I remember one year standing on the fifth green watching the first group walk down the fairway. By the time they got to the green, we’d had an inch and a half of snow. Obviously we postponed the round.”

The Donald Ross Memorial Junior Championship has been organized for the week at the end of December every year since 1948 at Pinehurst, with players like Leonard Thompson, David Thore, David Eger and Chip Beck among the winners.

“We see the parents covered in blankets and wearing gloves, but the kids don’t seem to mind the cold,” says tournament director Brian Fahey. “The kids are pretty resilient. They just go play. The cold doesn’t bother them.”

Kelly Mitchum of the Pinehurst teaching staff was pitched on the idea in December of 2017 of playing the resort’s new short course, The Cradle, on the shortest day of the year, the winter solstice of Dec. 21, from sunup to sundown, perhaps as a charity enterprise. Mitchum played 26 rounds from 7:20 a.m. to 5:15 p.m. on something of a lark and a test run for a more organized event in December 2018 to raise money for Young Life of the Sandhills and the Sandhills Food Bank.

“I was pretty sore at the end of it, but it was a lot of fun,” Mitchum says of the 2017 marathon. “It was 50 degrees or so, pretty comfortable. The thing about winter golf is the wind. If the wind blows, it’s tough. But even if it’s 45 degrees and there’s no wind, it’s pretty comfortable.”

Each year I pledge to myself to remain engaged with my golf through the winter. You don’t need a tee time and you can play quickly. Dormant Bermuda is actually a terrific playing surface. Walking and lugging — my preferred style of golf — keeps the inner furnace roaring. The late afternoon winter sun yields a burnish on the sepia fairways you can’t find any other time. You can play winter rules — lift, clean and cheat. And playing the game beats watching it on television.

“As long as golf is an outdoor game, we’re going to play in all kind of conditions,” deYoung says.  PS

Chapel Hill writer Lee Pace has chronicled many winters worth of Pinehurst golf lore in three of his books — Pinehurst Stories (1991), The Spirit of Pinehurst (2004) and The Golden Age of Pinehurst (2012).

Southwords

Puppy Prison

Life on the night shift

By Beth MacDonald

My husband, Mason, volunteered to build a new shelter for animals at a county facility occupied by a particularly adorable, needy shepherd mix. Every day he’d show up, “Adorable” would playfully beg him for attention. He sent pictures via text message to our daughter and me that, when opened, played that Sarah McLaughlin song “In the Arms of the Angels.” Our daughter took one look and said, “Bleeding hearts unite!” I wanted to know more.

Her adoption ad read like this: “This cutie-pie loves long walks, playing tug of war, ‘Dungeons & Dragons,’ and other games like ‘Drop My Shoe.’ She eats everything she sees; rocks are her favorite snack. She’s definitely the type of dog that will get her head stuck in a banister. Her best friends are the worms and parasites that infest her. Her favorite color is white to match the contamination suits you’ll be getting if you take this lovable, good-natured heartbreaker home!”

Welcome to the family!

The newest member of the Mac Pack needed a name. We figured we’d wait a few days to see what her personality was like, and how she interacted with our other dogs, before committing to some boring name that had to do with her coloring. The first few hours alone with her produced some good front-runners such as Nononononooooo, Wheresmyshoe, and Yougottapeeoutside (which sounds French if you say it fast with the accent on the last two syllables). By our second visit to the vet for her bi-weekly checkup, I was so exhausted from “puppy watch” that when they asked to confirm her coloring was black and tan I said, “Yes, please. And hurry.” I thought they were offering me a drink. We almost named her Stout.

Like our other two dogs, we decided to crate train her to help with housebreaking. The older dogs have been out of their crates and managing the house for years. They do most of the cooking, cleaning and handle the bills, thanks to the trusty crate. House training the first week became “a thing,” as Mason says. We all agreed to shifts watching the dog — actively, not passively — to keep the house and yard clean, given her best friend infestation. I had first shift; Mason took the late shift.

The first night in her crate the puppy sang the song of its people all night long. We tried our best to ignore it, but even our oldest dog barked a harsh, “Silence! We sleep at night!” a few times. At 3:33 a.m. (I checked the clock to validate my self-pity), I gave up and let her out. She wasn’t interested in going to the bathroom outside. She much preferred the hardwood floor toilet. I took her outside anyway, but she only wanted to play with all the horrors lurking in the dark. Great! Me too!

I started brewing my coffee once I got back inside. I was up for the day. My oldest dog sat at my feet and asked for a light roast. Before 5:00 a.m. we covered several training modules such as “Appropriate Chew Toy Replacement,” “The Meaning of the Word No,” “No Means No,” “No Really Means No,” “Down,” “Drop My Shoe,” “How About You Eat Dad’s Camouflage Crocs,” “How to Properly Disinfect a House Before Consuming Coffee,” “Land Navigation for Dog Poo Deep in the Bushes Sans Flashlight,” and we completed 30 minutes of cardio doing laps around the living and dining rooms trying to get my shoes back.

By the end of the first week we realized we were just night shift jailhouse guards. The puppy had begun her set of auditions for her career as a blues singer the minute we put her to bed. The oldest dog asked me to put on some PBS programming to drown her out until her voice coach could get her on par with Etta James. I started to Google life hacks for keeping your eyes open when sleep deprived. Mason chimed in with his Ranger school advice and suggested a Copenhagen dip or toothpicks in my eyelids.

After a few weeks she settled into a nightly routine doing a 30-minute set of her favorite prison songs before finally letting us sleep. Most days she was up by 3:30 a.m. trying for her own Shawshank Redemption. After removing a poster of Raquel Welch and a worn-out bone fashioned into a hammer, I began the shuffle to get her outside before she had an accident. One night it was raining. I put her down, looked at the sky, and wondered whether the real Andy Dufresne was Tim Robbins or me  and when I’d be free from the first shift.  PS

Beth MacDonald is a Southern Pines suburban misadventurer who likes to make words up. She loves to travel with her family and read everything she can.

True South

Make a Note of It

A catalog of the oddities of life

By Susan S. Kelly

For a certain kind of writer — OK, this kind of writer — what’s in your Costco cart, and what you do at night to get ready for bed, is invaluable and fascinating. Unfortunately, this sort of ephemera, discussed offhand in a grocery store parking lot, or city park, or next door on the treadmill, or at the office water cooler, tends to get lost, forgotten or ignored while you’re bringing in the trash cans, refilling the copier paper tray, or debating shredded or chunk parm.

So I make a practice of writing everything down, copying it to the computer, printing it out, punching holes in it, and filing it in notebooks under tabs, just like you did in fourth grade. A new year seems like a good time to revisit these collected works, and reconfirms my opinion that people will tell you anything.

What you may classify, in today’s parlance, as oversharing or TMI is pure gold for a writer. You never know when you’ll need an offhand comment like, “My grandchildren all sound like outlaws or whaling ships: Sophie Morgan. Casey Jackson. Wyatt James,” to punch up a scene. Or my friend’s house cleaners, a gay couple that comes while she’s at work, and routinely leaves complaint notes in the fridge saying, “Why don’t you get something decent to eat?” And while we’re on the subject of fridges, there’s my friend who told me she looked so terrible one day that she couldn’t go out in public. Instead, she went to the drive-through window at Krispy Kreme and bought four bottles of milk. Because she remembered that, as a child, Krispy Kreme had the best milk.

It pains me that I will likely never find a place to use this email: “Remind me to tell you the story some time about the husband of our class valedictorian (who herself picked her nose and ate it in class) who came to a hometown funeral and his tooth moved when he talked. I didn’t see it, but it was well reported by another friend.” Still, I’m comforted that, sooner or later, I’ll probably be able to fit in my Charleston friend’s road trip with her history-buff father to visit all the Civil War battlefields. But only the ones that the Confederacy won. So much for revisionist history. And Gettysburg.

Next time you make a move, stay focused on what’s really important and do what one friend did: While everything’s being wrapped, packed and stacked, draw a big smiley face on the box that has all the liquor in it.

Embarrassment tales are a dime a dozen, but here’s one I bet you won’t find in that long-gone “Was My Face Red” page in Reader’s Digest. The day after giving birth, a friend was immensely relieved when the doc came into her hospital room. She opened her gown, showed him her breasts and said, “I am sooo glad you’re here. My milk has come in and they hurt so badly and can you look at them and tell me if they’re normal and give me something for them?” The doctor looked at the floor for a long minute, then said, “I’m the pediatrician.”

But seriously, what is it about underwear? Stories tend from the mild — the friend who stained (OK, steeped) — all her heirloom linens in tea for the perfect antique shade, which was inspired by the memory of her mother boiling her bras when she came home from boarding school, to the lawyer who took off his blazer at work, not realizing a pair of underwear was stuck to the back of his shirt. Let that be a lesson to check your lint traps. Tricot has a natural affinity for non-iron Brooks Brothers shirts.

Underwear-related and completely unedited from the notebook original, this gem of a tail, I mean tale:

I know airport toilets are all about efficiency, but they are over-zealous. The best news is that every toilet I visited had seat covers plentiful, and I visited plenty between RDU, Dallas and Denver. So, I head for the toilet with 90 coats, backpack, luggage. As you disrobe, the toilet flushes because you’re moving. Then, I get the toilet cover assembled, and another auto-flush because you’re moving. Which creates the problem, because you’ve set the cover on the seat and it flushes the cover down, so you have to get another cover assembled. Of course it flushes again as you turn around to take off pants to sit down, but this time you’re holding the cover, but it keeps flushing forever and your cover is fairly mangled, so by that time you are holding it, trying to undo your pants and sit on it while it’s flushing, but still maintain sanitary integrity holding the seat cover and you sit down in a hurry still holding the seat cover that is trying to go down the toilet. It was exhausting and a complete waste of water.

And it’s only January. PS

Susan Kelly is a blithe spirit, author of several novels, and proud grandmother.

Sporting Life

Relief Guide

All’s well that ends well

By Tom Bryant

We were meandering around in the lobby of the old hotel like a couple of lost bird dogs. Bubba sidled over to me and said, “Well.”

“Well what? “ I replied.

“Where is that fool guide who’s supposed to take us sea ducking?”

“You got me. After that fiasco of a goose hunt this morning, he said he would have his man meet us here around lunch. It’s now 1 o’clock. Seems to me, it’s after lunch.”

“Coot, I don’t know how you always get us in messes like this.”

“What do you mean, me? It was your idea to bid on this guy at the auction.”

“I know, but he talked a good game. Maybe it is my fault, but you should have convinced me not to do it.”

“I tried, but your last gin and tonic had more influence than I did. Maybe he’ll show up. It’s early yet.”

We were on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, near the town of Easton to be exact, on a three-day Canada goose and sea duck hunt that Bubba had bought in an auction at our wildlife club. It wasn’t our first adventure in that part of the country. He and I had hunted on Bill Meyer’s plantation, Plimmhimon, on the banks of the Tred Avon River, and very successfully, I might add. But this misadventure only emphasized how good we had it at Bill’s farm.

Our early morning goose hunt was anticlimactic, to say the least. The night before, we had bunked at the fellow’s supposedly sumptuous clubhouse, which turned out to be a converted two-car garage attached to the good old boy’s house with bunks lined up along the wall. Bubba accused me of snoring; and a constant barrage of pillows, magazines and shoes kept me awake until he finally dozed off. Then an Amtrak train roaring through the front door couldn’t have awakened him.

The next morning we followed our learned guide in Bubba’s Land Rover as his old rattle trap of a pickup smoked down the road. We ended up at a long-ago picked cornfield that would have had a hard time supporting a field mouse, and a pit blind that needed re-brushing. This was our second day goose hunting, and our bag thus far: 0 for 2.

It didn’t take us long to settle in, and our guide said he was going to run over to his other farm to see if the geese were working there.

“Do you know what that means, Coot, other farm?” Bubba asked as the guide rattled away in his old pickup.

“Yeah, it means he’s going to town to get breakfast.”

“I’m going to catch up on some shut-eye. That snoring of yours kept me up all night. All the geese are probably down around Mattamuskeet anyway. Wake me if you hear anything.” Bubba made himself comfortable in a corner of the blind, and in no time, was dozing.

After about 30 minutes, as the sun was peeking over the horizon, I heard a lonesome goose calling in the far distance near the north tree line. I perked up and kept my eyes focused in that direction. In no time, three geese flew treetop high, heading toward the blind as if on a string.

“Bubba,” I whispered. I leaned over and grabbed his boot. I hadn’t even loaded my gun, so I was rapidly pushing shells into the magazine and shucked one down the pipe, ready to go. Bubba looked over at me and I said, “Get ready. You here to sleep or shoot?”

Bubba looked at me bleary-eyed and grabbed his gun. By then, the three geese were right in front of the blind, gaining altitude, heading to parts unknown. We stood, fired, and all three hit the ground.

We climbed out of the pit to retrieve the geese and Bubba said, “Coot, these are the three unluckiest geese in Maryland. They just happened to fly our way. Did you see how they flared when they saw those decoys? If this fellow, our guide, is a goose hunter, then I’m a brain surgeon.”  We put the geese in the blind and rearranged the decoys. “These decoys haven’t been moved since the season opened. When that guy comes back, I might shoot him.”

As the morning dragged on, our guide finally did show up. He was ecstatic that we had bagged three geese. “I saw several working over at the other farm, but they headed out over the river in the other direction.”

“Yeah, right,” I thought.  Bubba grimaced and didn’t say a word.

We spent the next hour with very little conversation, and after a bit, the guide said, “Well, fellows, we’ve got two options for the afternoon. You can come back here and try out the geese as they come in to feed, or I’ve got a fellow who will take you sea ducking. Your choice.”

Bubba answered, “You know what? We’re gonna get an early start in the morning, so here’s what we’ll do. We’ll go back to the lodge, load up our gear, find a couple of hotel rooms and meet your sea duck guide. We can clean the geese and have lunch while we wait. All you need to do is tell us where to meet this fellow.”

Bubba’s impromptu plan worked great. The hotel where we booked two rooms was right on the bay and had a marina where we assumed our sea duck guide kept his boat.

We were still in the lobby of the hotel commiserating about our lack of a guide when this young fellow came over to us and said, “I heard you guys talking about wanting to go sea ducking.”

“Absolutely,” Bubba said. “We didn’t think you were going to show up.”

“I’m not the guide you’re looking for, but I can sure take you hunting. If you haven’t been before, it’s quite an experience.”

He was right. It was unlike any other waterfowl hunting Bubba and I had ever done; and thanks to the young fellow and his boat, we had a grand time. We found out that he was leaving the very next morning for Alaska, where his uncle had a fishing lodge. He said he would probably get there in time for the opening of the season.

We also learned that he was, as he put it, “Fifty percent American Indian. I’m not particularly politically correct with this Native American thing. I’m proud to be part Indian.”

On the drive home, Bubba was in an unusually pensive mood as we talked about the trip and the lack of honesty shown by our goose-hunting host. We never did find out what happened to his sea duck hunting guide.

“And look at you, Coot, getting those two oldsquaw ducks. They’re gonna look good hanging on your wall.”

Bubba was right. They are two of my favorite duck mounts, though the oldsquaw name has been replaced, changed to “long-tailed duck” in deference to Native Americans. By any measure, they bring back wonderful memories of an unexpected guide who loved his heritage.  PS

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

The Accidental Astrologer

The Happiness Project

With a little effort, the world’s a better place in 2019

By Astrid Stellanova

Buh-bye, 2018! It’s all in the rearview mirror now, right? Not quite, Star Children. We tripped right on out of trippy December, barreling straight for the yellow brick road of the New Year, but first a check-in question for the New Age: Were you really good for goodness sake or was it to look good in your selfies?

Think about it. In the cosmic sense, all those clicks, likes and dislikes, will be relegated to the basement of history faster than a smiley face.

No matter, there are 365 days to get things right or just a little righter. Aim to do something to make this ole world twirl with happiness. — Ad Astra, Astrid

Capricorn (December 22– January 19)

It may have burned your biscuits that you didn’t get something promised to you, and you can blame it on that ole buzzkill buzzard Saturn, who’s been making you toe the line since last year. But take heart, little Goat, because the stars sure do point to a better twist in the tale. Hang onto your shorts, Love Bug. Things are resolving faster than you can say stink on a stick.

Aquarius (January 20–February 18)

New year, new you — which is saying something for Aquarians. You have a new sense of resolve, and Birthday Guys and Gals, I’m picking up what you’re laying down. Don’t let anybody trap you in just old ways of thinking or acting. You know what you want, you have resolved to pursue change, and don’t let your critics get in your head and change your mind. If there’s a bigger birthday wish you’re dreaming of than that one, just pucker up and blow!

Pisces (February 19–March 20)

Well, Honey Bun, you’ve been up since the crack of noon saying you have a whole new brand to build. Who are you kidding? You are not a Kardashian. Honey, you are you — the you that everybody knows and loves doesn’t have to follow trends or trolls to roll with fabulousness.

Aries (March 21–April 19)

Oh, yeah. You want everybody but you to tend to their own knitting, but just look at what a tangled-up skein of yarn you have made. Now get it straightened out and don’t Tom Sawyer one of your many friends into fixing your mess. Word is you have a nice surprise soon after if you take care of business.

Taurus (April 20–May 20)

Stranger danger, Sugar, but only from burnout. It’s too people-y out there to venture forth. Stay in a little more, read a book, snuggle on the sofa and keep your own counsel. You have been struttin’ your stuff day and night; it wouldn’t hurt one iota to spend a night or two being a couch potato with a bag of Cheetos.

Gemini (May 21–June 20)

Make sure your brain is as sharp as your tongue this month, when you get to feeling a little challenged by those near and dear. It is possible you are over-reacting, Honey, or just plain acting for the love of drama. It is a good month for holding back a tee-ninesy bit.

Cancer (June 21– July 22)

You had a hissy fit with a tail on it, and what did it get you? You got to eat a slice of hypocrite pie, because the very thing you got so riled up about is something you have done to yourself. While all this played out, you didn’t notice something worth noting. Open your eyeballs.

Leo (July 23–August 22)

You know horse hockey when you step in it. And you stepped in it. But here we are with a new year, new view and an open path around all the traps you fell into last year. Step high, keep your eyes wide open and watch the horizon. Tall, dark and handsome (or be-yoo-tiful) is heading your way.

Virgo (August 23–September 22)

You felt out of whack. You were stressed. And it was a lot of piddlin’ things keeping you off your game. The things that kept you upside down were not of your own making. Clouds are clearing. Pretend you are already feeling better, Sweet Thing.

Libra (September 23– October 22)

Skedaddle and make sure you leave before you get invited out the door. You were innocent but ignored the signs that a sometimes friend wasn’t so friendly. They take some warming up to, and the heater went cold, so find new friends and move along as if it never even happened.

Scorpio (October 23–November 21)

You have big plans but your own stomping grounds aren’t so bad. Dollywood is fun, but right under your nose there are all kinds of possibilities, Sugar Foot. Many are fond of your wit and wisdom. Don’t let the familiar turn you away or off.

Sagittarius (November 22– December 21)

This year could be a wing dinger, Sugar. It happens to be one of your better ones. You’ve been busy taking up with all kinds of unusual occupations and friends, and that is a good thing. You will broaden your view, and have a whatchamadoodle of a time doing it.  PS

For years, Astrid Stellanova owned and operated Curl Up and Dye Beauty Salon in the boondocks of North Carolina until arthritic fingers and her popular astrological readings provoked a new career path. 

In The Spirit

The Ice Has It

More than just frozen water

By Tony Cross

Years ago, when I was thumbing through my first bartending book, I came to a short passage about ice. It was only a page long, quick and to the point. It explained how ice is an ingredient and a tool. I came straight up off the couch. Sounds a bit dramatic, but it’s true. I had never given any thought to ice. None at all. This was before craft cocktail bars were everywhere and I had never seen any kind of “special” ice. While this may sound overly dramatic, the fact is, ice is just as an important as your spirits and mixers. 

Let’s talk about ice as an ingredient. We use it to chill cocktails by shaking and stirring but, at the same time, we’re using it for dilution. If you’d like to run a test, make two of the same cocktails. In the first one add all of the ingredients in any mixing vessel you have available and place it in the fridge to chill. Then, make the second cocktail by shaking or stirring. If you’re making a Manhattan, for example, you’ll stir the cocktail, and strain into a chilled cocktail coupe. Place both drinks side-by-side, and sample. You’ll immediately notice that the first cocktail tastes hot, or boozy. The second cocktail (if made with the appropriate specs) will taste balanced. 

Just because your second cocktail in this experiment tasted balanced doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s good. What kind of ice did you use? Was it the crescent-shaped ice from your freezer? If so, that’s no good. (Unless you have no choice, and it’s either bad ice versus no cocktail, and you’re losing your mind.) Even if your freezer filters the water before it produces ice, that same finished ice will soak up any odor coming from the rest of the compartment, e.g., leftover spaghetti that you froze last spring. Any smells from your freezer will be absorbed in your ice. The solution: Use your freezer only for ice cubes and buy ice molds online. I recommend 1-inch or 2-inch squares, and if you want to splurge, a gas-eliminating sphere ice maker from Wintersmiths. 

Here’s why these types of ice are a tool in your arsenal. The 1×1-inch (actually 1.25×1.25-inch) are the first molds I used. I didn’t have one of those Kold-Draft ice machines when I was bartending, so I always had to fill my trays (copious amounts, mind you) the night before my shift started. I used distilled water, and they would be ready the next morning. These cubes can be used to shake cocktails with, but are ideal for stirring. When stacked with orders, I’d stir my drinks as follows (for one cocktail): three 1×1 cubes, and a fourth that I cracked with the back of my bar spoon. I used a cracked cube to speed up dilution while the others chilled the drink to the proper temperature. If you’re shaking, 4 or 5 cubes will do the trick. 

The 2×2-inch cubes are ideal for shaking cocktails. I used to add the smaller size when shaking (and still do if I don’t have the larger ones handy), until I read a passage from Dave Arnold’s Liquid Intelligence book. He explains he was never on the “large cube for shaking” bandwagon until he conducted a test and found that when shaking your cocktail, not only are you diluting and cooling the temperature, but you’re aerating it. This gives your drink its velvety texture — just like that thin layer of foam that sits atop a daiquiri for under a minute after it’s first poured. Using a big cube also eliminates the chances of having tiny ice chards break off while you’re shaking and having to double-strain the drink. If you’re using a big cube to shake your cocktails, make sure you shake hard for at least 10 seconds. 

Now that you’ve stirred or shaken your cocktail, which type should you use if you’re straining it over a glass with ice? I’d opt for sphered ice, mainly because of the surface area to volume ratio it has in your glass. There is less surface area from a sphere than a large (or several small) cubes. Your drink will stay chilled without watering it down. Sure, if you use smaller cubes in that Negroni, it’ll taste great on that first sip. But the second half of your cocktail won’t taste the same. Bet that. Even using a large cube will dilute a drink quicker than using a sphere. Does this mean that you have to use spherical ice in order to have a proper drink? Of course not, but it’d be a lot cooler if you did. Worst pun ever.

A few final thoughts on ice. Clear ice looks very cool. And it is. (Second worst pun ever.) It’s clear because it doesn’t have gases trapped inside it. The gases come from impurities like minerals, bacteria and dust. When you freeze ice in molds, the cubes freeze inward, leaving the center to freeze last, trapping any impurities and gas. One way to get around this is by boiling your water, letting it cool, and freezing it, though it doesn’t completely solve the problem. Instead — and I learned this from Arnold as well — take a small cooler (4-6 gallon) that can fit into your freezer, fill it with water that you’ve already boiled and allowed to cool some. Place the cooler in the fridge with the top off. Give it 2 days to freeze, and when it’s ready, flip the cooler upside down on your countertop and let it sit until it’s wet and glistening. Using the appropriate tools (an ice pick and long bread knife) saw off the bottom layer — before you emptied the ice from the cooler, this was the top layer — with the impurities. Why go through the trouble? Because cloudy ice will melt at a much faster rate than clear ice. 

Lastly, what to do when ordering a nice Scotch or bourbon on its own? There are some of you that may disagree, but I add water to whichever spirit I’m enjoying. I used to order my whisk(e)y with one small cube of ice and I was told, “You’re ruining it!” No, I’m not. Adding even a few tiny drops of water is enough to open up the complexities that may be hidden to our palate. You can do this on the fly by asking for a small side of water, sticking a finger into the glass and flicking it over your neat spirit. Next month I’ll tackle proper ways to shake and stir a cocktail. James Bond be damned.  PS

Tony Cross is a bartender who runs cocktail catering company Reverie Cocktails in Southern Pines. 

Simple Life

Kid Up a Tree

Because of a father who loved the Old North State

By Jim Dodson

Half a century ago, my dad was on a creative team from a High Point–based ad agency that produced perhaps the state of North Carolina’s most iconic travel and tourism campaign. 

It declared the Old North State to be “Variety Vacationland” and featured beauty shots of our blessed land from the Outer Banks to the Blue Ridge Mountains, along with a catchy theme song that sounded like a college fight song sung by the Fred Waring Singers. 

It was called the “North Carolina Vacation Song.” 

North Car-o-lina, friendly mountain breezes,

North Car-o-lina, with its sandy beaches,

Wonderland of Variety . . .

Coast to mountains it’s great to be 

Right here in North Car-o-lina 

Love the pines around in North Car-o-lina,

Get your cares behind you

Livin’ is right in ho-li-day bright 

NORTH CARO-O-LINA! 

If you’ve reached a certain threshold of age, you probably know this classic and clever jingle word for word. In fact, you probably can’t get the dang thing out of your head six decades later. It’s stuck in there playing on an endless loop with Speedy Alka-Seltzer (“Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, Oh what a relief it is . . .”) and Mighty Mouse pitching Colgate toothpaste as he battles Mr. Tooth Decay.

My old man couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, but he was a whiz at writing witty light verse, clever limericks and jingles in the style of Ogden Nash, the poet laureate of Light Verse, one of his literary heroes, the author of such timeless gems as:

My garden will never make me famous,

I’m a horticultural ignoramus,

I can’t tell a string bean from a soybean,

Or even a girl bean from a boy bean.

Or for you First Amendment Fans:

Senator Smoot is an institute

Not to be bribed with pelf;

He guards our homes from erotic tomes

By reading them all himself.

And lastly, a reassuring post-holiday ditty for those anxious about the post-nuclear age in which we reside:

At Christmas in olden times,

The sky was full of happy chimes.

But now the skies above us whistle,

With supersonic guided missiles.

This Christmas I’ll be modern, so

Here comes my guided mistletoe.

I suspect my clever papa had something to do with the lyrics of North Carolina’s wickedly infectious “Vacation Song” because he wrote lots of other memorable copy and commercials — print and television — that prompted large agencies in Chicago and Atlanta to try to lure him their way. 

He always politely listened to their pitches, but in the end stayed at home, his home, in North Carolina. Some of his favorite subjects, in fact, were rural counties he promoted with spots that illustrated their timeless qualities of life. My brother and I both wound up being models for a couple of these promotions. Brother Richard, circa 1964, is shown bird hunting with his “father” in a harvested cornfield on a beautiful autumn afternoon, revealing the rustic charms of Stanly County.

Yours truly, roundabout age 10, wearing jeans, sneakers and a buzz worthy of a Parris Island recruit, is shown sitting on a large tree limb staring dreamily off into the firmament over the green hills of Old Catawba, an ad for Olin Paper Company that found its way into several national magazines. I worked cheap; the sneakers were brand new, though I’m still waiting for my residuals. 

Most of all, our ditty-loving daddy, a product of the Great Depression who never finished college but went off to war and steeped himself in poetry and literature and history for the rest of his days, believed that effective advertising had to be both honest and true, which are not always the same thing. He worked on Terry Sanford’s gubernatorial campaign, for example, largely because of Sanford’s strong commitment to higher education, but turned down several other politicians he sensed were “too smooth to be believable,” as he liked to say.

I spent much of this past year thinking about (and sorely missing) my old man’s infectious good humor and belief in the power of humility, honest words and decent language — something that seems quaintly out of fashion in the time of a President who tweets insults on the hour, grades himself superior to Abe Lincoln and seems to have only a passing acquaintance with the truth. 

As a new and hopeful year dawns, and I wish my dad were still around to pick me up with one of his funny verses about the worrisome state of affairs, perhaps his muse Ogden Nash will have to suffice:

The American people,

With grins jocose, 

Always survive the fatal dose.

And though our systems are slightly wobbly,

We’ll fool the doctor this time, probly.

But wait — stop the presses! 

On an even brighter note, my daughter Maggie, who turns 30 this month and actually works as a senior copywriter for one of those large ad agencies that tried to lure her grandfather to the big city half a century ago, just sent her old man the pick-me-up he needed — three clever video spots she wrote for, of all things, Keebler Crackers.

Her “other” life is writing beautiful short stories, screenplays and a witty newsletter for her Book Drunk Book Club. But as her cracker videos clearly prove, genius skips a generation. 

Judge for yourself.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jupoZctbUJs
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8w_gQsiXevA
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CUs2437pRS4

Somewhere off in the firmament over the state he dearly loved, I’m guessing my old man might be grinning. Maybe his friend Ogden Nash is, too.

In any case, so you’ll never get it out of your head, I shall leave you with the rest of the famous vacation song. You can Google it, too.

North Car-o-lina, would you like to roll along scenic highways?

Let your travels bring you,

Face to face with history,

For new excitement . . . you’ll agree!

It’s all in North Car-o-lina

Bigger land of pleasure,

Life can be fine-er,

You’ll discover treasure 

Where the moon shines through tall green pines in . . .

NORTH-CAR-O-LINA!   PS

Contact Editor Jim Dodson at jim@thepilot.com. 

Mom, Inc.

The Truck Guy

And Marlena’s two cents

By Renee Phile

She dragged the mop over the sticky floor while I stood behind the register in my Chick-fil-A uniform — chicken breading smeared on my black pants. I was 17 years old, a senior in high school, working on nights and weekends to earn money to pay for my car insurance, gas, clothes, makeup, caramel lattes, you know, teenage girl essentials. 

Her bleached blonde hair, coarse as a scouring pad, was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her face was tanned but weathered. A spray bottle hung from her left pocket. As she mopped she sprayed the tables and wiped them with a dirty towel. 

After my last customer walked away with his chargrilled sandwich, no pickle, I greeted her from behind the counter. “Hi, Marlena!”

“Hi, honey!” She beamed. 

“How are you?”

“I’ll be great once the truck guy gets here. It’s Thursday.” 

“Our truck guy?” 

“Yes, girl. Have you seen him?” 

I laughed. The truck guy was a hit among the single (and not single) women up and down the food court. He appeared every Thursday, armed with chicken breasts, waffle fries, cheesecake and other Chick-fil-A essentials. One of our employees would help him unload the truck and put everything into our freezer. Sometimes it was me. His green eyes sparkled every time he said, “Here, let me help you with that box.” 

“Marlena, I thought you had a husband.”

“Wes? Yeah. But he ain’t worth much. Doesn’t hurt to look, does it, honey?” She winked. 

I laughed and thought of my boyfriend and how awful things were. I was 17, he was 18, and had just gone away to college. It was a four-hour drive that might as well have been forever. 

“Can I get a No. 1 with Coke and extra Polynesian sauce?” said the red-haired woman. A cross between a rat and dog poked its head out of her purse. “And an extra fry for Scrappy,” she said. Scrappy. Yes, he was. 

I punched her order into the register. Marlena was straightening chairs in the lobby, hanging around so she wouldn’t miss the truck guy. 

The customer and her rat dog walked off. “Marlena,” I said, “my boyfriend just moved away. Should I break up with him?” 

She frowned, her eyes squinted a little. 

“Honey, do you love him?” 

“I don’t know. We’ve been together since I was 14.” A millennium in teenage years. 

“If you don’t even know if you love him, and you’ve been together that long, I’d get rid of him. That’s what I did to my first husband. My second and third one, too.” 

“First, second and third? Marlena, how many times have you been married?” 

She picked a crumb off the table, dropped it on the floor and swept it up. “Well . . . ”

“How many?” 

“Nine.” When the word escaped from her mouth, she looked like she wanted to stick it right back in there. 

“Are you kidding me? You don’t look that old!” 

“I’m telling you, Honey, when I get tired of them, I toss them. Life’s too short.” 

Right then the truck guy walked up to the counter with his paperwork, and Marlena’s eyes lit up while she patted her hair down.

“There he is!” she mouthed to me. I smiled and knew right then and there that all advice wasn’t created equal.  PS

Renee Phile loves being a teacher, even if it doesn’t show at certain moments.