The One That Got Away

A true (and only slight) fishie tale

By Sara Phile

A few years ago, when my boys were 8 and 3, we were renting a home in downtown Southern Pines. Since having a pet would have cost us more, we did not have any. Well, except a fish. “Fishie,” a blue beta, moved into our lives shortly after we moved into our house. The boys could not agree on a name for him. One wanted to name him Harold the Helicopter, the other wanted to name him Spiderman, and there was absolutely no room for compromise, so I made an executive decision and declared his name “Fishie.”

Well, after a few years, Fishie passed away.

I remember that day so clearly because when I found him lifeless under a plant, I was surprised that he lasted as long as he did, and here are a few reasons why.

One afternoon, a few months prior to Fishie’s death, I couldn’t find my phone anywhere, which wasn’t exactly an uncommon occurrence. I had called it numerous times and looked around for a few hours. Kevin, the 3-year-old, was notorious for “hiding it” in random places: under his bed, in his train sets, under the bathroom sink, in the dryer, just to name a few of his favorite hiding spots.

Suddenly, it clicked. I knew he knew. I waited until he was playing contently with his trains before I asked him.

“Kevin, where’s Mommy’s phone?”

“Ow, I don know, Mommy.” Sheepish grin.

“Kevin, where’s Mommy’s phone? I know you know.”

“I don know, Mommy.” His brown eyes darted to the left.

“Yes you do. Tell me now.”

“Well . . . Mommy. Fishie needed to call someone.”

Oh no. A quick glance into the fish tank confirmed that Fishie did indeed need to call someone. In fact, he had been “on the phone” for hours.

There was no reviving my phone, but Fishie was fine.

Another time, after dinner, I realized there was . . . uh . . . something abnormal about the fish tank. As I looked closer, I realized there were peas, yes peas, in there. Along with bread crust. And an entire banana. Sigh. So this was why Kevin had finished dinner unusually early that evening and declared he was “ready for dessert.”

One time the entire can of fish food was dumped into the tank. I caught him (Kevin) in the act of that one and was able to yank Fishie out and rescue him from the downpour.

After I realized Fishie had died, I unplugged the tank and carried it into the bathroom. I dropped Fishie into the toilet, but in the process accidentally dropped a few marbles in as well. I was attempting to retrieve the marbles with the fish floating around the commode when 8-year-old David peeked in the halfway open bathroom door and said, “Uh, Mom, what are you doing?”

“Oh, just trying to . . . uh . . . retrieve something.”

“What?” He blinked.

“Marbles,” I said, as if fishing marbles from the toilet bowl was the most normal activity.

“How did marbles get in the toilet?”

“Well, uh, the fish died this morning, so I am flushing him . . . that’s just what you do when a fish dies and I dropped some marbles in there too.”

David’s eyes widened and he yelled, “Kevin killed the fish!”

“No, Kevin did not kill the fish. Why would you even say that?”

“Yes, he did! Because of all the stuff he put in the tank!” David wailed.

At this point, Kevin, startled by the commotion, threw open the bathroom door and asked what had happened to Fishie.

“Fishie died this morning,” I said, bracing for the reaction.

“Oh no!” Kevin wailed. “I need to say good-bye to Fishie!”

“You killed him,” David said, matter of factly.

“I not kill Fishie! I need to say goodbye to Fishie!”

At this point I had retrieved the marbles and could still see Fishie’s blue fin under the toilet hole.

“OK, then let’s all say goodbye to Fishie.”

The boys, sullen, crowded around the toilet bowl. Fishie’s blue fin peeked out from the hole, but that was it. Kevin, tears slipping from his eyes, exclaimed, “Goodbye Fishie!” as I flushed our pet. David just glared at Kevin, convinced that this tragic event was his fault.

I mentally prepared for a conversation of where Fishie would go, and if we will see him in heaven, and could we get another fish, but after about five minutes both boys began playing with their trains and didn’t mention Fishie again. I cleaned the tank and put it away.

Since Fishie has left us, we have raised several more betas. Bradley, Thomas, Bubbles and Chuckles, to name a few. And in case you are wondering, Fishie was the only one of them who ever needed to make a call.  PS

Sara Phile teaches English composition at Sandhills Community College.

The Real Thing

Skip the mix and please your guests

By Tony Cross

About a year or so ago, Carter, my very good friend, and I were at a restaurant bar scoping out their cocktail list. Now, my friend doesn’t geek out as much as I’ve been known to when we frequent restaurant bars; however, he does appreciate a good drink, and has picked up a knack for calling out poorly made ones. We decided to order a few apps and cocktails to start. I ordered a Manhattan, and Carter chose their house margarita. Our bartender posed a question to Carter that perplexed the two of us: Would he like fresh juice in his drink? We both sat there puzzled, our minds blown. “Yes?…” Carter replied after a moment of sitting, and staring at the bartender in a (sober) stupor. We soon realized after studying the menu that having fresh-pressed juice was a $2 upcharge. You know, because limes are expensive. The only thing that made me laugh more was the fact that Carter had just spent $14 (that’s right) on one of the worst margaritas of his life. I tried it, and it was pretty bad. Point being — it’s the 21st century; why isn’t everyone using fresh citrus?

Sour mix is everywhere: in all of the chain restaurants and dive bars. It’s also in many independent restaurants, private clubs and country clubs. It’s available from wine distributors and food distribution companies. Part of me doesn’t understand how an establishment that prides itself on using fresh ingredients won’t carry the same thought process behind the bar. It’s safe to say that no chef would ever use a lemon juice substitute when creating a sauce. So why are bartenders ordering container after container of this gooey, high-fructose corn syrupy mess, and putting them in their cocktails? The answer’s pretty simple. You’re paying for them. One after another.

Using fresh citrus is crucial when concocting a drink for your guests. Here’s the thing with lemons and limes, though: Their juice loses its “pop” within four to six hours. It’s even shorter for orange juice. I’ve been to places that will juice enough citrus for the week, and call it a day. You’ve got to juice for the moment, be that the afternoon, or for your shift. Yes, juice the next day is better than corn syrupy imitation juice, but that’s not the point. Try making the same cocktail with fresh juice, and juice from the day before, and you’ll notice immediately what is wrong with the latter. Some professional bartenders want juice that has just been pressed, while others like using juice that’s had a few hours to breathe. I like having my juice sitting for about two hours; I feel like it opens up a bit, and doesn’t bite as much. I know that makes no sense to you, so you’re going to have to trust me.

Here are a few cocktails that you can put to the test. Invite a friend over, give them the drink with the sour mix, give yourself the one with fresh citrus. Then, give ’em a taste.

Margarita

Now, this is the most asexual drink there is on the planet. Every grocery store has some type of margarita mix, and we’ve all probably purchased them at one time or another. Remember, give your friend the ’Rita with the bad mix. After they taste yours with the fresh juice, they’ll want to switch, and that’s OK. Just be sure to charge ’em two bucks.

2 ounces blanco tequila (I like Milagro Silver)

1/2 ounce Cointreau

3/4 ounce lime juice

1/2 ounce simple syrup (2:1)

Salt (optional)

Lime wedge

Combine all ingredients in a Boston shaker with ice, and shake like hell for 10 seconds. Strain into a rocks glass over ice. If you’d like salt, just rim half of your rocks glass with a lime wedge, and then carefully roll it over salt. I like using half of the glass; that way if you want to switch, you can rotate the glass to the non-salty side. Add a wedge of lime.

Whiskey Sour

Like most first encounters I’ve had over the years with cocktails, the whiskey sour definitely was not love at first gulp. And that’s because it was made with some crap whiskey, and (you guessed it) sour mix. When made correctly, a true whiskey sour is made with rye whiskey, fresh lemon and sugar. It’s that simple. I love it with an egg white, too. Don’t make that face; it gives the cocktail a velvety mouth-feel, and brings a whole new dimension to the drink.

2 ounces rye whiskey (I like Rittenhouse)

3/4 ounce lemon juice

1/2 ounce simple syrup (2:1)

(With an egg white, add it to the shaker first, and then the above ingredients. If you add it last, you run the risk of getting the yolk into the mix, thus ruining it. I’d still drink it.)

Combine all ingredients in a Boston shaker with ice, and shake for 10 seconds. Strain into a rocks glass over ice. Take a lemon or orange peel, expressing the oils over the cocktail, and then dropping it into the drink. If you want to try something different, take 1/2 ounce of a dry red wine (I like using malbec or syrah), floating it on top of the cocktail. Now you have a New York Sour.

Shadowplay

I was having a hard time deciding if I wanted a beer or cocktail one afternoon. This spawned a combo that I am quite happy with. I named it after the only song it seems that anyone knows from the 1970s band “Joy Division.” Not that you care, but when I’m making drinks, I usually have a song stuck in my head, which ultimately becomes the name of that drink. In this case, it was the infamous “Joy Division” tune.

1 1/2 ounces Don Julio Blanco

1/4 ounce Aperol

1/2 ounce grapefruit juice

1/4 ounce lime juice

1/4 ounce light agave syrup

2 dashes Scrappy’s Lime Bitters (optional)

1 ounce Southern Pines Brewery Man of Law IPA

Repeat the adding and shaking from above, pouring this over ice. Top off with Man of Law. Garnish with a grapefruit peel, expressing the oils over the drink before violently throwing it in your cocktail. Good stuff.  PS

Tony Cross is a bartender who runs cocktail catering company Reverie Cocktails in Southern pines. He can also recommend a vitamin supplement for the morning after at Nature’s Own.

Wish I Could Find the Words

The joy of a good read

By Sam Walker

On my first ever plane ride from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh, I became the star attraction. “So you’re going there to ask this guy you’ve never met if you can marry his daughter? Are you nuts, just in love or both?” asked my aisle seat companion. Cheers followed. Right then I promised myself never to fly without a book again.

It would take a few years before my romance with reading and the power of words would begin. Books for me were to be studied. They were assignments written by experts in various academic fields. Reading was a responsibility, an often tedious chore to be done in library nooks.

Even on family vacations my beach or lakeside reading was “heavy,” as my wife surmised. One day she offered, “How about reading something just for fun?” Sometimes a person suggests you need to do something even before you know you need to. That afternoon I rode my bike to the summer library in a quaint clapboard cottage and entered a new world. The romance began with a small volume by Anne Morrow Lindberg called Gift from the Sea, and I displayed it proudly after dinner. I was hooked.

I would discover that, if stuck at a social gathering or caught in an awkward silence, you can ask, “What are you reading?” The conversation may surprise you. Book clubs are everywhere. The team from The Country Bookshop has guided me to folks I never would have met — Sue Monk Kidd, Laura Hillenbrand, Barbara Shapiro, Louise Penny, Khaled Hosseini and in a deeper way, Richard Rohr. Books can be wonderful companions. You can close a book, mark your place, and pick it up later. Dogs and people, wonderful as they are, don’t have a pause button.

Written or spoken, words are powerful. They can inspire, encourage and heal. They can also do deep and lasting harm. In these days of parties, promises and pundits, words can overwhelm and numb us. Sometimes mute is the better choice. Words on social media can be dangerous. Words can be walls to hide behind or invitations to breakthroughs. Words are part of relationships, part of simply being human.

Consider renowned photographer Ansel Adams, some of whose works were recently displayed at Reynolda House in Winston-Salem. The interplay of black and white, essential to the portrayal, was inspiring. But it was Adams’ words framed at the exhibit’s entrance that drew me in and spoke to me:  “I hope these pictures will rekindle an appreciation of the marvelous.” True of landscapes and, more so, of people.

Consider the images of some of our planet’s humanity unfolding from the opening ceremonies and throughout the summer’s Olympics. Inspiring and full of hope for the best of our world. But it was the poet Maya Angelou’s words as a lyrical accompaniment to a diversity of faces on the only commercial worth watching that drew me in and spoke to my heart: “We are more alike, my friend, than we are unalike.” True of our own community right here.

Consider a bookmark I grabbed on leaving a bookshop in San Francisco for the return flight to North Carolina following a friend’s wedding. It was strictly utilitarian. After takeoff I saw its odd design of sun, moon and stars set in purple shading with a small line of words around the perimeter. It would be these that really drew me in and spoke to me: “Everything leads us to believe that there exists a certain point of intelligence at which life and death, the real and the imaginary, the past and the future cease to be perceived as opposites.” True, and a way to look through artificial stereotypes. The bookmark guides my reading of daily meditations today.

Why have these few simple words of a photographer, a poet and an unknown author spoken to me? Why have I shared them? Because, I suspect, I needed to hear them. Because sometimes words suggest something you need to know before you know you need to. May you take time to seek and listen to those intriguing, peaceful and true words that speak to you.  PS

Sam Walker, a retired minister, maintains a curiosity about life and is an old friend of PineStraw. 

On Beaver Pond

Joy is the only thing that slows the clock

By Tom Bryant

It was my favorite time of year. I don’t know why I say that. Every season is my favorite, except that maybe fall has more in the plus column because of bird-hunting, surf-fishing, and just the beauty of the great outdoors. In the fall, Mother Nature pulls out her most colorful palette and paints the landscape in brilliant hues of red, yellow, russet and pine green, preparing nature for its long winter sleep and another beauty that’s entirely different.

This past summer, during one of my many forays afield, by chance I discovered a beaver pond way back off the beaten path, down close to a small creek where I hoped to do a little cane pole fishing. I was really far back in swamp country and being extra careful not to disturb “Mr. No-Shoulders” (an old Native American term for a snake). I was treading lightly. It had been fairly dry for a couple of weeks, and farm crops and wildlife needed some rain badly, so the ground that would have been very marshy was passable. I hardly got my feet wet. But after stepping around wet, overgrown areas and toting some unwieldy fishing poles, I decided to head back to the truck, drive over to the farm pond, and fish there.

As I angled back on the return path, I noticed to the west a general sloping where the land and vegetation seemed to be more vibrant. Walking slowly that way and being extra quiet not to alert wildlife, I discovered the beaver pond. It was a picture right out of Sporting Classics magazine. Alders were thick on the banks, and hickory trees and oaks and even some cypress completed the picture of a perfect, undisturbed wild habitat created by some of my favorite animals, the industrious beaver.

It was late in the afternoon, so I gave up the idea of fishing and decided to sit and watch a bit to see what game was using the pond. I had just sat down with my back against a big longleaf pine when two wood ducks, a hen and a drake, darted through the alders and skidded across the water right in front of me. They swam for a couple of minutes and then leaped straight up, kicked in the afterburner, and jetted out the far end of the pond. They must have seen me, I thought, as they climbed out of sight. As soon as the ducks were gone, a pair of deer, a doe and a new fawn, materialized on the far side and nosed down to the water to drink. They stood for a minute or two and disappeared back into the forest as if they had never been there. Three beavers swam close to where the deer had been. They were dragging freshly cut alders through the water, probably to reinforce their dam. My new discovery was so unbelievably pristine, it was hard for me to leave, but sunset was on the way and I needed good light for my trek back to the truck. I made mental notes on the location of the beaver pond, resolving to come back as soon as I could; but as in a lot of my endeavors lately, I was delayed. It was October before I could visit the pond again.

A northwestern front had moved through the area the evening before, leaving behind the first real cool snap of the season. I was on my way to revisit the pond and was really up for a big day in the woods. The deep blue sky was the perfect backdrop for the russet colored dogwoods accented with yellow hickory leaves. I pulled the truck into the woods a little way and grabbed my gunning bag and shotgun from the back. The shotgun was one of my favorites, a 28-gauge Remington 870 that I had rigged with a sling so I could carry it over my shoulder. Linda, my bride, had given me the little gun for my birthday many years ago, and it became the one I used the most when I was going to be in the field for an extended time.

Birthdays. They were rolling around pretty fast, it seemed. I had just celebrated one that really got my attention. It wasn’t one with zeros, although those tend to amplify the speed of time. This one quartered the century and was a special event in my rush through life. It increased awareness of my own mortality.

I recognized the route to the beaver pond right off the bat and moved off in that direction at a brisk pace. I had plenty of time and had to keep telling myself that there was no train to catch and to slow down and enjoy the day. That was it, enjoy, and I thought of John MacDonald’s quote in his book that I had just read, reread actually. “Joy is the only thing that slows the clock” in our rush to the end, or as a lot of us hope, the beginning.

I caught glimpses of water reflected by the overhead sun and slowed my walk to a crawl, so as not to disturb any animals that were enjoying the pond. I came to the water at the same location I had on my first visit, propped my shotgun against the pine and sat down using the tree for a backrest.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. It was as if the area wildlife planned to put on a show for me and used the little pond as a stage. I saw beavers, deer, ducks, doves, a pair of otters, and even a bobcat made a special appearance. They didn’t notice me, or if they did, they didn’t care. They went about their business as if I was part of the scenery and belonged, just as they did.

It was an exceptional time in the backcountry, and all too soon my special day was gone. I had a real knowledge of the pond now, having walked the northern perimeter from the dam to the creek. It was about five acres and was situated in the swamp bottom. The beavers used the lay of the land to build one of the best nature habitats I’ve ever seen.

I came out of the woods near the truck just as a full moon was coming up over the eastern pines. I got a drink out of the cooler in the back, grabbed a sack of peanuts out of my gunning bag, leaned up against the front fender and watched as a pair of Canada geese, silhouetted against the moon, flew honking toward the pond, probably to roost, I thought

If MacDonald is right, and joy slows down the clock, I dang near stopped the thing that day.  PS

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

The Great Divide

What stays? What goes? Only Heaven knows

By Susan Kelly

William Faulkner freaks will tell you that a seminal scene in The Sound and the Fury is the basis for all that follows in his famous novel. A little girl named Caddy falls into a puddle. When she climbs a tree, her brothers see her muddy drawers and predict their mother’s fury that Caddy has gotten dirty.

What, you might fairly ask, has this English-majorish observation to do with downsizing?

Downsizing necessitates decisions, divesting and division, tasks that are, by turn, hilarious, tedious and heartbreaking. Never mind the big stuff; this weekend, we — myself and my two sisters — were merely dealing with the contents of our mother’s chests and closets and shelves. And so we find ourselves faced with What Goes, What Stays, What We Want, and What We Can’t Bear to Think About piles.

“Sentiment,” I quote from a past writing teacher who was quoting someone else, “is giving something more tenderness than God intended it to have.” We’re staring sentimentally at three pyramids of toys that defined each of us, certainly then, and kind of now.

My Steiff stuffed animals — brought from NYC by my father in the “rag trade” — and with which I made up endless stories. The writer. Save.

Her Barbies (and Kens and Midges) as well as their clothes, exquisitely made, with labels sewn in the collars, and tiny buttons and buttonholes, and real zippers. The clotheshorse extrovert. Save.

Her Tonka trucks. A big, shin-high pickup truck, a horse trailer, a hook-and-ladder, an earthmover. The tomboy. Suppressed sob … Sell. Because not a daughter or daughter-in-law alive would ever permit the no-doubt lethally leaded paint and sharp, semi-rusted corners of the metal vehicles in the sanitized, only-eats-non-GMO-avocados fingers of their helicopter-parented offspring. Tears blinked back.

We let the Barnabas Network guy have the Schlitz beer can lamp (he had a collection of beer can lamps, I kid you not.) We kept our Stokes County grandfather’s lapboard with the inlaid checkerboard where, if I could get a single king, I won. (I never did.) I sat on the radiator cover and watched him eat a hundred pieces of watermelon — cut not in wedges but in rounds, like a doughnut — on that lapboard as we watched “Jeopardy!” together.

At one point, after we’d unhesitatingly pitched the homemade afghan we remembered being sick — red measles to the vomits — beneath on the den sofa, the three of us laid flat on our backs on the floor to rest. “Get up and look at me,” I told the youngest. “This is what I’d look like with a face-lift.” At another point, my mother said, “I want to watch this part,” as we prepared to divide up table linens, from Italian damask to exquisite lace hems to monogrammed satin-hemmed napkins the size of small tablecloths to, well, tablecloths. We were made to understand that each set had its story: wedding present, purchased in France, etc. We counted, chose, caressed, chose, hovered, chose, thought silently and disloyally about drawer space and lifestyle. “This is boring,” my mother announced, and left.

But about those underpants.

“Where’s my Joy of Cooking?” she asks.

Exchange of panicked glances. Her Joy of Cooking was no longer a book. It was a chunk composed of a single frayed, faded, fabric-covered cardboard whose visible spine was stitched with what looked like kitchen twine holding clumps and singles of thin yellow pages with 6-point-font printing. And no pictures.

“It’s falling apart,” we object. “Do you think you’re going to be cooking recipes from The Joy of Cooking?” we ask. “We’ll get you a new one,” we offer.

“The new one doesn’t have the same recipes,” she says.

Like what? I think. Chilled beef consomme? No loss.

“I want it,” she says. This, from the same woman who threw out decades of travel pictures, even her wedding album, without a twinge.

“It’s in the car,” I say, cool as Melanie Wilkes lying to the Yankees. “I’ll get it.”

My mother’s Joy of Cooking was not in the car. It was buried somewhere in a black plastic bag in the Dumpster squatting in the asphalt parking lot of an elementary school. Which is how I came to find myself folded at the hips like a hinge over the sharp, rusty, Tonka truck-like Dumpster edge, fishing, digging, clawing, groping and tearing at bags of cafeteria refuse, supply room cast-offs and restroom detritus (Is that a book spine I feel or a box of rotting fish sticks?) in 100-degree heat while my sister stands behind me saying unhelpful things like, “I hope they don’t have closed circuit cameras to catch people illegally throwing stuff away.”

If so, kindergarten show and tell can be the film of my drawers and backside as I’m trying not to fall into the dark, stinking, super-heated, steel-walled abyss of a Dumpster interior. Although at the very least you should be in high school to really appreciate The Sound and the Fury. And you need to be 86 to really appreciate your original Joy of Cooking. Because I recovered it.

My sister recovered, too. The Tonka trucks sold instantly on consignment, for a lot of money. Plus, no one came down with lockjaw.  PS

In a former life, Susan Kelly published five novels, won some awards, did some teaching, and made a lot of speeches. These days, she’s freelancing and making up for all that time she spent indoors writing those five novels.

Wrong Number

How I found my way to the deadbeat Scrooge list

By Deborah Salomon

I am the hunted. Help! Please help!

I stand prey to denizens of faceless (though not nameless or voiceless) robots who wait until mealtime, or the evening news, to offer me hearing aids, funeral insurance or, most recently, an extended warranty on a car I traded in three years ago.

What happened to electronic record-keeping?

These robots, obviously, aren’t MIT computer whizzes. They aren’t even smart enough to hack into the DMV.

I am warned of their spiel by a blip when I pick up the receiver followed by a pause while I am plugged into some voiceboard, whatever that is. 

Then the cheery-sounding gal or gent greets me with a generic name like Kate Jordan or Bill Perkins. The voice never has an accent — heaven forbid, that might turn off prospects in a different region. At least I can chat about the weather in Mumbai when I call Dell or Time Warner.

After introducing him/herself the robocaller proceeds to “Howareya’ doin’ today?” at which most prospects hang up. Instead, I answer, “Horrible. An alligator just bit off my foot,” to which the voice replies, “Well, good. Now if you’ll just give me a minute of your time I’ll show you how . . .”

When robocalling and other nuisance telemarketers first raised their ugly heads it was possible to call a central agency to unsubscribe the number they got from — go figure. The last such agency I tried had been disconnected, a recording announced.

I assume AARP provides information to businesses targeting retirees. But really, who would buy insurance for “final expenses” over the phone?

Cells were safe (especially private numbers) until providers started annoying their customers with in-house sales pitches. Caller ID isn’t much help. Sometimes just a city name will pop up, or that same phony moniker.

Similar solicitations now arrive by email where a Jane Doe — more likely a Mike Stevens — appears on the “from” line and something like “a voice from the past” as the subject. Many have attachments, begging you to “see how the gang looks now,” the gang being Sammy Scam, Vera Virus … and Charlie CRASH!

Even worse, a bogus message from your bank or credit card company suggesting a dire circumstance.

The most difficult requests to ignore come from veterans’ and police/ firefighters’ benevolent associations. At least you’re speaking to a real person, which makes saying no harder. Once scammed (by a lightbulbs scheme) always suspicious. So I reply, “Please mail me information about your organization, including its tax-exempt status. You accessed my phone number, so finding my address shouldn’t be difficult. Then I’ll consider a modest donation.”

Never got one single follow-up.

However, I regularly receive hand-addressed envelopes of greeting card or invitation dimensions that do, in fact, contain an invitation to a sales-pitch event.

Then, watch out what you browse online because the products will show up forever on your home page, an annoying reminder that you haven’t purchased them yet. This reveals your choices to whoever uses your computer. Uh-oh.

Door-to-door solicitations have all but disappeared. I’m almost glad to find students with overpriced chocolate bars ringing the bell. At least they’re not selling quinoa or kale.

Suppose I do donate. Practically overnight my mailbox overflows with requests from organizations that have purchased a list with my name on it. Imagine the wasted paper and postage. Must I be hounded by nature groups just because I subscribed to National Geographic, for my grandsons?

What to do? An anonymous donation means no tax receipt, which is better than the alternative. But I experience horrible angst during TV spots about abused animals and sick/starving children with insects crawling across their innocent little faces. I can’t stand it. I want to run to the bank, empty my checking account, cash in my IRA and CDs. Except past donations have triggered impassioned pleas to become a regular contributor, perhaps monthly.

The most disappointing attack occurs after canceling a magazine subscription. This happened with The New Yorker, after more than 50 years. Just too expensive. I even wrote them a letter, explaining why. Big mistake. The deluge of offers and reminders made me feel like I had abandoned a sick parent. But I stood my ground, which seems to have had some effect, since I’m still receiving articles online.

Let this serve as a public statement: I am that ghastly senior citizen living on a pension, Social Security and a good part-time job. My “final expenses” have been pre-paid. I don’t need a hearing aid. I am sympathetic, but wish the government (to whom I still pay considerable tax) would take better care of police and firefighters. I regularly donate to children’s causes and animal relief — I even buy chocolate bars, if the kids have bittersweet.

But that’s it. Hounding won’t help. So please, transfer my name, address, email and phone number to the miserable old deadbeat Scrooge list.

After that, “Have a nice day!”  PS

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

Old Sam Peabody

The song of the white-throated sparrow heralds winter

By Susan Campbell

Here in central North Carolina, the winged harbinger of winter is the white-throated sparrow. After summering in the forests of the far north, this bold little bird breeds across Canada and in northern New England at higher elevations. Then it heads south for the winter, probably stopping off in your backyard. A medium-sized sparrow, it is anything but drab, with brown notes on its upper body and white below. Look for bold markings on the head. Pale stripes on the crown and a white throat patch are set off by gray feathers on the face. And to top it all off, white-throateds sport a yellow spot at the base of their stout bill.

Interestingly there are two color forms of this species: those with heads that are white-striped and those that are tan-striped. Both forms persist. While white-striped individuals are more aggressive during the breeding season, either type will breed with the other. Following courtship, females handle the nest-making, usually in a depression on the ground under a low-growing tree or shrub. However, should it, not surprisingly, fall victim to predators, the second nest may be placed on low branches.

If you have not spotted one of these birds, you almost certainly have heard their distinctive loud “seet” call emanating from thick vegetation. Their song, which can be heard even during cold weather, is a recognizable, liquid “oh sweet Canada.” (Others hear “old Sam Peabody.”) Since they tend to flock together, you are likely to encounter small groups along forest edges, farm fields, parks and suburban areas

These squatty sparrows actually have a broad diet. Although they primarily feed on a range of seeds during the winter months, their preference shifts during the year. In spring, they are more likely to seek out buds and flowers of fresh vegetation. Luckily, white-throateds love feeding stations, often in association with dark-eyed juncos, another bird of the high country.

White-throated sparrows do not walk or run but hop when on the ground. As they forage, they will forcefully scratch backward in leaf litter using both feet and pouncing on tasty bits that they uncover. And if you happen to look out of your window and see leaves taking flight, it is probably white-throated sparrows forcefully flicking aside dead leaves using their bills. In the winter months, pecking orders form within flocks with the more aggressive males dominating.

If you want to attract white-throated sparrows this winter, it is easy and inexpensive. Since they tend to stay low, scattering a seed mix in a cleared spot near shrubs or other thick vegetation is all it may take. White-throats will hop up onto a stump or low platform feeder as well. Easier yet, simply leave a portion of your yard unmowed until Spring and these predictable visitors may well turn up to take advantage of the resulting seeds that remain as the growing season winds down.  PS

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

Laid-back Libra

Don’t let October become “Rocktober” under the sign of the scales

By Astrid Stellanova

There just ain’t no pigeon-holing a Libran. Bridgette Bardot is a Libran. So is Simon Cowell, Julie Andrews. Sting. And Jesse Jackson. The Libran likes the better things in life, likes taking to a public stage, likes being given lots of room to develop their fine talents, but doesn’t much care for grunt work. The Librans I know also don’t like for people around them to kick up a lot of dust and make a fuss.  Ad Astra — Astrid

Libra (September 23–October 22)

You got a hand stuck out, being friendly, wanting to make nice with someone who has tested your last nerve — and they think you stuck your hand out for a gimme. They don’t have the class you do, my well-balanced friend, so the first order of business is to keep your hand to yourself and enjoy the jingling of all that silver that is filling your pocket. You have got a lot of prosperity in the stars waiting for you this year.  And you also have more friends than a body could ever need, so square your shoulders and go enjoy a big ole slice of birthday cake.

Scorpio (October 23–November 21)

There was a time when keeping secrets worked for you. This, however, is not that time. You need a strong shoulder to cry on, and given your natural magnetism, plenty will offer one. The pleasure of a kind word can go further than the deep pleasure you take from maintaining personal mystery—so purge, Honey, and let somebody be a good pal to you.

Sagittarius (November 22–December 21)

A big idea you incubated some time ago is ripe and ready. Don’t hesitate to share it and find the support and dollars you need.  Also, this is a good time to look at all your investments (I call this rooting and hunting under the sofa cushions) and see how much you have on hand to back yourself. Your idea is a good one; you weren’t crazy when you claimed you are this close to Making Good, as Grandpa Hornblower says.

Capricorn (December 22–January 19)

Summer was discombobulating for you, wasn’t it Sugar?  And the fall is looking a little dicey.  But cheer up; you are just going to love the year end. But first, there are two matters that need to be addressed before you have the personal freedom to move on from something that keeps tripping you up. Darling, they are not going away without you putting down the Fritos bag (and getting up off the sofa) in order to show these two matters the door.

Aquarius (January 20–February 18)

Whaa-whaa-whaa . . . That, whaa-whaa sound, Honey Child, is your disillusionment when the happy went right out of your red balloon. You have been killing yourself trying to make someone you care for care for you in the same way. There is nothing more you can do. This person is not as giving, generous, nor nearly as much fun as you are.  And they are never going to be as demonstrative. You got invested, for sure, but do you love them?

Pisces (February 19–March 20)

There, there, there. Feel better?  Did you take to your bed after Sugar Booger left your heart busted into two big pieces?  Well, nobody would have blamed you one bit if you had. They seem to have a contractual obligation to darken your world while you are playing Mary Poppins and trying for sweetness and light. Sweet Thing, shake it off and look for a different type.

Aries (March 21–April 19)

You are about two Alka-Seltzers away from driving your friends and families crazy as a bat in the basement. It is true that you can be entertaining and the life of the party, but right now everybody who knows you wishes you could spend at least one day a week boring the crap out of them. Quiet is not a four-letter word. It’s five, Darling.

Taurus (April 20–May 20)

Someone close to you is convinced you are having a breakthrough just at the very time you feel you are having a breakdown. The other person is right. You have developed a creative genius for seeing a new way to approach a very old problem. It could bring you closer to a dream if you don’t back away. See it through.

Gemini (May 21–June 20)

A mysterious person — somebody you’ve known for some time but never well — has a connection to you that will soon become clear.  This will require you to be open, gentle, pliant and honest in order to enjoy the full benefit of a special revelation. Honey, I know that’s a tall order, but for your own sake, try.

Cancer (June 21–July 22)

Thankfully, you took old Astrid’s advice about last month and stopped borrowing money and began making your own. Now, Sugar, I want you to stop thinking you can borrow time. This ain’t a dress rehearsal — it’s your life you have been blowing like you were on the easy credit life extension plan. Do. Not. Waste. One. More. Second. You aren’t about to die but you also won’t get endless chances to take care of business.

Leo (July 23–August 22)

You’ve had a funny feeling about a loved one that actually is your deepest intuition talking to you.  Trust it. Rely upon it. You have considerable intuitive abilities that have been building since early adulthood. This is not lottery winning-type information, and doesn’t require a Ouija board, but it sure is about expanding your world, happiness and friendships with others. That, Dearie, is the real jackpot.

Virgo (August 23–September 22)

Something started for you last month that you might not secretly trust but that you should.  It was an unusual gift — and you were deeply puzzled at first. This gift is going to change you, change your life and even change your mind about who you are. Honey, it is going to be a crazy ride for you but there is no question it is your destiny to follow the Yellow Brick Road. Get hopping.  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.

Party Line

Telephones have come a long way — even if our politics and sense of civility haven’t

By Clyde Edgerton

A red rotary phone recently ended up in our house. It had been used in an elementary school talent show. Some of you remember the pre-push button, dial telephone once in many homes. The phone itself, about the size of a brick, but a little taller, usually sat on a table or shelf and was plugged into the wall via a cord. My 13 -year-old son wondered if people used to walk around holding them when they talked — receiver in one hand, phone in the other. I said that early on the cord wasn’t long enough and then later very long cords became fashionable and people could walk around with them if they liked. A phone was about the weight of a laptop, but with significantly fewer functions.

For younger folks: On the front of the phone is a round disc — about the size of a CD (remember those?) with 10 holes in a circle — counting counter-clockwise. Inside each hole is a number, 1 – 9, and then the final number, 0.

A phone number is dialed, one number at a time, by sticking your finger into the correct hole on the dial and pulling around one number at a time until it reaches a little metal stop. The 1 is nearest the stop. Our number in Durham County, North Carolina, when I was a child, was 6-4558.

As I write, I realize that perhaps the 0 should have preceded the 1 rather than follow the 9. That’s off-topic, though.

But to continue off-topic: Back then when you called the operator to say the number of (and ask her to place) a long distance call, you had to dial 0 to get the operator — meaning the dial had to be cranked from the 0 spot all the way around to the stop and then released. The 0 took longer to finish dialing than any other number. An enormous amount of time was wasted over several decades while people waited for the 0 to finish dialing.

Sorry, I just did the math: Every billion long distance calls collectively wasted about 30 years.

The phone had a receiver which rested atop the phone. The receiver, about the size of a banana (actually a sender/receiver because you talked into one end and listened from the other), while resting on the phone, pressed down two buttons which did not work independently. When you pressed one button, they both went down. When you lifted the receiver from its cradle, the buttons came up together and the line was open for you to make a call. There was a dial tone that I’m sure I can’t describe to one who’s not heard it. To one who has: You are probably hearing it in your head now.

While explaining things to my son, I remembered this:

In the early 1950s, our phone was on a party line, shared with seven or eight households, not a private line; and there was a skillful way to secretly listen in on neighbors’ phone conversations. I probably learned the technique from watching my mother, though I can’t be sure.

Usually, if you were talking along and somebody on your party line lifted their receiver off their phone, you would hear a click and then you could hear breathing or whatever was going on in their house, and then they’d hang up since the line was in use. If they continued listening, you could say, “Sorry, I’m using the line.”

But if you wanted to listen in on another conversation, you lifted only one end of the receiver and pressed the exposed button (so that both buttons stayed down), and then kept holding them down as you lifted the receiver to your ear. Next, you slowly lifted the button that was depressed, stopping just before the click. Then you heard the talkers, but they couldn’t tell you were listening in. If you lifted that button too high, a click would sound and your presence would be known. Of course, you couldn’t do something like this in our day and age as you might get banned from the county park system or the courthouse or county school grounds by vigilant officials.

Thinking back on all this led me to what may be a naive realization:

Let’s assume we are in the 1950s and that today’s political climate exists: many people despising fellow citizens because of “political beliefs.”

Let’s assume further that because of your new neighbor’s bumper sticker, you’ve never spoken to her/him. But, you happen to overhear a phone conversation that neighbor is having with a friend on a neighborhood party line.

You hear no political talk, but you learn that your neighbor likes dark roast coffee like you do. I mean, really likes it. His mother has dementia, like your mother. He likes Dr. John’s music, like you do.

When you next see that neighbor in person, the chance for friendship is greater than before. The possibility of being civil, of seeing beyond the spirit of bumper-sticker-like cable news, of showing some Southern hospitality — is not so far-flung.  PS

Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels, a memoir and a new work, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW.

Memories on Wheels

Sometimes there’s nothing basic about transportation

By Bill Fields

I never paid too much attention to four-leaf clovers or cracks in the sidewalk, but once, playing Kreskin’s ESP at a neighbor’s house in 1969, the “mystery pendulum” made a prediction the famous mentalist would have been proud of.

Many years later I’m not sure what I really think about “extra sensitive perception,” as Barney Fife called it. That particular Sunday afternoon, though, gave me a reason to believe.

With a notable exception of stranding us in Tabor City when it broke down returning from the beach one time, our well-traveled Plymouth station wagon — which took my parents to their jobs and my sisters to college — remained reliable transportation. There had been no talk around our kitchen table about getting a new car, no inkling of the possibility. When the board game said otherwise, it seemed as outlandish as forecasting I would be one of the tallest, fastest boys in fifth grade.

In less than two weeks, I was getting into a ’69 Ford Fairlane 500 with my dad as he drove it off the lot at Jackson Motors in Pinedene. At that point, if Kreskin had said Brooks Robinson was going to come to town and spend a week teaching me how to play third base, I would have believed him.

It was a beautiful automatic transmission (Cruise-O-Matic) automobile, a four-door sedan the lightest of blue, the color of the Tar Heels before television demanded a bit darker hue so the uniform numbers would stand out. It had comfortable and roomy bench seats. It had a large trunk. It had seat belts!

The Fairlane carried us to Florida for the first time, and on the way back stopped at Six Flags Over Georgia. It idled in heavy traffic in Atlanta and pulled over for a scenic vista on the Blue Ridge Parkway.

At different times, the Fairlane smelled like Salems, chili dogs, Brut 33, a stringer full of farm-pond bream, Juicy Fruit and the sweat of 36 holes on a July day.

I got my driver’s license in that car in 1975. I picked my mother up at her bank job, in the winter, when the sun set early, tuning in WABC New York while I waited for her in a parking space on Broad Street. I drove it to junior golf tournaments in Henderson and Myrtle Beach, to my senior prom via the JFR Barn, when gas was 69 cents a gallon.

Mom and Dad loaded me and my belongings in August of 1977 and took me to college in Chapel Hill, to my room in Old West. Less than three years later, I was behind the wheel driving south toward home with my tears and my sport coat for Dad’s end game with cancer.

The Fairlane went to Stoneybrook, Carolina Cougars’ games, a Supertramp concert, the GGO, North Carolina Motor Speedway and to Atlantic Beach in the wee hours, when that seemed like the perfect call one spring night senior year in college.

I never got a ticket in the Fairlane, but once, exiting Pinecrest High School in a long line of cars, I had to be at my most persuasive to convince a highway patrolman I was not the idiot tossing firecrackers out the window.

In the summer of 1981, after graduating from Carolina and setting out into the real world, it seemed like the time was right to move on from the Fairlane that had served so well. It was a dozen years old and had about 115,000 miles on it. There were nicks on the back bumper from changing into golf spikes in parking lots. The paint was corroded at the driver-side window, so often did my father rest his arm there.

From the same lot that had been home to the Fairlane before our very unexpected purchase, in what had become Bill Smith Ford, I bought a white Escort that would be mine for a decade. After spritzing the Fairlane and vacuuming the interior at the self-serve car wash, I drove it to the house of man near West End who had answered my classified.

I got $300 from the sale but still felt kind of empty getting rid of a car that had grown old as I grew up.  PS

Southern Pines native Bill Fields, who writes about golf and other things, moved north 30 years ago but hasn’t lost his accent.