Simple Life

SIMPLE LIFE

My Miss American Pie

And our slice of heaven together

By Jim Dodson

Illustration by Gerry O’Neill

She has a birthday this month. It’s one of the biggies.

It’s not every day you reach an age when you’re permitted — even expected — to kick back and reflect on a long journey that has shaped so many lives for the better.

Her kindness is exemplary, guided by a heart that is as compassionate as it is brave. Over the years, I’ve seen her take on tasks that seemed almost hopeless, inspiring significant change in others around her. That’s just her nature.

No wonder her birthday is a national holiday — at least in France.

It’s hard to believe that my wife, Wendy, born on Bastille Day, is 65. She’s never looked more youthful and beautiful.

Yes, I know. America also has a big birthday this month. So, roll out the bunting, strike up the band, hand out the confetti poppers and light the fireworks. Even in times that try men’s souls, it’s good to pause and reflect on how our beloved nation got here — and where it may be headed, for better or worse.

My birthday gal, Wendy, is as all-American as apple pie and just gets better with age, an infectious optimist and embodiment of what it means to be a fully engaged citizen, a wise counselor and the most capable human being I’ve ever known.

Because she’s also a gifted baker, I call her my Miss American Pie.

I’ve said for years that she’d make a great president. But please don’t spread that notion around. I’d hate to give up her enlightened leadership skills to a struggling nation and lose her famous roasted apple-crumb pie in the deal.

Meeting her almost 30 years ago was the luckiest day of my life — an encounter in retrospect that seems providential, if not presidential. It’s a story I’ve told only once in a book many years ago. This is as good a moment to share it with you as any.

On the heels of a wearying, month-long, national book tour for Final Rounds, I was invited to give the keynote speech during the American Lung Association of New York’s three-day golf event and fundraiser in Syracuse.

I’d been amicably divorced for a couple years and shared custody of our two goslings with my former wife. The last thing I wanted to do, however, was trek to Syracuse for yet another golf event and rubber-chicken speech.

But my host was relentless. He not only talked me into coming but set me up with dinner “companions” for the three nights of the event. I don’t know why I said yes.

But I’m glad I did.

The first night’s blind date met me, my host and his wife at the stately Onondaga Country Club where Walter Hagen once belonged. My date was a local poet who showed up late to the table and said nothing until I was asked by my host’s sunny wife if it was true that I received (and replied to) hundreds of letters from fans of my new book. I confirmed that I did.

“That’s nothing,” piped up the poet. “I get pictures from prisoners. They send me photos of their [use your imagination].”

The formal dining room around us was full of elderly diners. Audible gasps and crashing crystal sounded throughout the room. As I walked her to her car, the poet laughed merrily and declared, “I love making rich Republicans uncomfortable!”

“Everybody needs a hobby,” I told her.

The next night’s match was worse. She was the town’s historian. I borrowed my host’s car to take her to a lovely restaurant in the Finger Lakes. She wasn’t planted on the seat beside me for two full seconds before she exclaimed, “I hear you wrote some beloved book about golf. I hate golf. It’s a fascist sport. Golfers are fascist doughboys.”

“So, I guess hitting a bucket of balls before dinner is out of the question,” I remarked.

“You’re &%$#@! right,” she declared. Please use your imagination again. Every other word was a charming expletive. I guess she hated history as well. I got her home in record time.

I asked my host for Number Three’s phone number to cancel the final date. He refused. I demanded her phone number. He wouldn’t budge.

“Her name is Wendy. She’s an incredible baker and mother of two young boys. Everyone in the neighborhood adores her. If you break this date, Sparky, I’ll be as lonely as you are and sleeping on the couch for a month.”

The final dinner was held at the home of our hosts with two additional couples. At the appointed hour, I forgot to go down the block to meet Wendy Ann Buynak at her house. She walked up by herself bearing a plate of homemade chocolate chip shortbread cookies in the shape of acorns. They looked too good to eat and tasted even better.

The minute I saw her standing in the open doorway with that plate of cookies, I realized there was a God (who probably played golf) after all. Third time was the charm. We sat at the end of the table talking only to each other for three solid hours. Then I walked her home.

The next afternoon, we went for a drive and wound up at a local golf course, where I kissed her. She smiled and kissed me back.

Two weeks later, I drove seven hours for our first date. She put me to work helping to box up 75 beautifully made miniature wedding cakes for a Syracuse bride. I got to eat the 76th cake. It was love at first bite. She also made me a roasted apple-crumb pie to take home to my kids.

Is this an All-American love story or what?

Three months later, I introduced Wendy Ann to my two little ones, who instantly fell in love with her and her key lime pie. Two summers later, she and her two young boys joined our family, doubling our size in a lovely backyard marriage ceremony in Maine. I saw the spectacular cake she made but never got a taste. It vanished without a trace before I could get a piece.

This summer marks our 25th wedding anniversary. Miss American Pie and I plan to slip away to our favorite inn for a few days of golf, relaxation, and — use your imagination again.

Later this summer, we plan to renew our vows.

I’m reliably informed there will be pie.

Sporting Life

SPORTING LIFE

Down at the Pond

Not all those who wander are lost

By Tom Bryant

“Fishing gives a man some time to think. It gives him some time to collect his thoughts and rearrange them kind of neat, in an orderly fashion.”
—Robert Ruark, The Old Man and the Boy

It had been one of those days when all the good intentions go astray. I had planned to do a bunch of yard work that had been delayed by one thing, then another, but I was diverted to the little Airstream when I started thinking about an upcoming trip to the beach. We weren’t going to take the travel trailer, but I wanted to get it in shape to travel when we got home. After the winter, the small unit needed some real TLC. But just as I got the hose ready to mix soap to wash her with, Linda came to the arbor door with my phone.

“Hey, Hon, your phone has been ringing off the hook, if it had a hook.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know. Call ’em back. This is their third try.”

“OK. OK.”

I put the hose down and checked the number. Not recognizing it, I thought it was probably somebody wanting to sell me something.

“Cooter!” It was Bubba. “Where ya been? Why don’t you keep your phone with you?” He had bestowed the nickname Cooter on me when we first started hanging together, and it stuck.

“So I don’t have to talk to reprobates like you.”

Bubba and I go way back, having been hunting and fishing partners for years.

“I thought you were in Costa Rica fishing.”

“I was, but I caught some kind of bug and had to come home so the docs could fix it. The reason I’m calling, if you’ve got the time, I want you to ride up and check out the old store for me.”

Bubba had bought an ancient country store from a mutual friend, but it didn’t work out and now was closed. A farmhouse came with the deal and had been a fixture in the area for years.

“While you’re there, you can do some fishing in the pond behind the house. And if you catch a mess, bring ’em on over here and we’ll fry ’em up.”

“Bubba, I got tons to do around here and we’re getting ready to go to the beach. But I’ll try to get up there Wednesday. Your fishing idea sounds good.”

“Great, I owe you big time. Oh, by the way, I ran into Billy Flowers the other day and he was remembering when you guys started the newspaper. You remember him?”

“Nope, I sure don’t.”

“Never mind, we’ll talk about it when you get here.”

Wednesday came pretty fast, and I was on the road up to Bubba’s venerable old store early. I wanted to give the day enough time to catch some fish. It was a happy trip seeing a lot of things that I remembered from days past, and before I knew it, I pulled into the overgrown parking lot of the store, parked and walked around.

It was a depressing kind of stroll. The wraparound porch had random holes in the floor where animals had found places to live. An old rocker, with the rockers missing, was situated close to the side door, and a board was missing high up on the wall. Peering through the front window, I could see where the rest of the rockers were stored. The ancient potbelly stove still perched royally in the center of the back part of the building. Considering everything, the timeworn structure had held up well, but it was disheartening to see the old place closed and in disrepair.

As I drove the dirt road back to Slim’s home, which was about a quarter-mile from the store, I noticed the new houses across the main road on what had been Johnson’s cattle farm. The farmstead had been developed into 5- and 10-acre mini-farms, yet another move toward paving every spare acre available in the move toward progress.

The house was in good shape but on the decline. Slim’s nephew, Leroy, had lived there after he inherited it and the store from Slim. Bubba bought the whole kit and kaboodle when Leroy couldn’t make it work.

What Bubba had in mind, I had no idea. But it required an impromptu visit to check things out.

About a hundred yards behind the house, the farm pond sat silent and lonely. Grass had grown high, and alders were beginning to encroach on the banks. I had brought just a few pieces of fishing gear, not planning on a heavy day of fishing, and gingerly walked to the water, watching for snakes along the way.

I baited with a couple of juicy worms I had acquired from our local fishing tackle shop the day before, then kicked back in the old folding chair I take everywhere and cast out about 40 yards.

I thought back to my conversation with Bubba, again thinking about what he had in mind for the store and house. And who was that guy he met who asked about the newspaper we started so many years ago?

Cumulus clouds began to stack up on the tree line on the far side of the pond, and I could hear the distant rumble of thunder. Gonna rain later, I thought.

I watched the red and white bobber I had on the line and remembered the days when fishing, pond fishing that is, was so simple. A cane pole, some fishing line, a hook and float and a few worms or crickets, and you were ready.

Several purple martins began diving about the pond catching bugs, and a pair of buzzards lazily circled and went on south away from the area hoping to chomp on some roadkill, I reckoned.

I reeled in to check my bait, and sure enough, something had stripped the hook. I added more bait and cast out to the same spot.

I wondered again, who was that guy bringing up the long-ago past of the newspaper and remembering those days?

It all began at a cocktail and social club party at the country club. Three of us were standing around talking, naturally close to the bar. We were discussing the latest local news shortfall of our monopoly daily newspaper.

Included in the discussion were my good friend and lawyer, John; another good friend, Jim, the special features editor at the Durham Morning Herald; and me, the ad director at our local daily newspaper, the paper we felt had lost its direction.

The daily had new leadership in the publisher’s role, and right off the bat things began to change, and we didn’t think for the better. So out of our impromptu conversation at that party came the idea of our own local weekly newspaper and the four advertising tabloid papers designed for outlet shoppers that came along later.

The Outlet Outlook was based in three states: North Carolina, South Carolina and Tennessee. Later, an art and features magazine was created, along with almost 20 years of hard work for yours truly. What a ride! Sometimes almost broke, wondering how I was going to make payroll, and then sometimes flush with a good cash flow, almost more money than Davy Crockett. Ups and downs, highs and lows. Those random thoughts of history long gone flowed through my mind and, like an early morning mist, were gone.

Coming out of a doze, I watched a red-tailed hawk wheel over the pond and then head south toward the nearby river. I caught a bunch of bream, several small bass that I released, and two huge catfish. I field-cleaned the bream and catfish at the side of the lake, washed them in the cool clear water and put them in the cooler I had iced before leaving home.

It took no time to load up the little Cruiser. I was in a hurry. I wanted to get to Bubba’s, give him my report, and find out what was on his mind about the old store, house and pond.

Bubba never ceases to amaze me. Wonder what that rascal is up to? I thought as I took one more look at the old store, eased out in the traffic and headed toward his house.

2026 Department Sporting Life

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

Carolina Newcomer

A summer visitor from down south

By Susan Campbell

The limpkin is not a familiar bird to many in our area, but this good-sized wader isn’t a complete stranger to North Carolina. Over the years there have been plenty of sightings, and there is a good chance there will be plenty more — so much so that the species may be breeding here before much longer.

Although we hear a lot about birds that are in trouble — those disappearing from their usual haunts as a result of habitat loss, climate change, predation by invasive species, etc. — there are some that are actually becoming more widespread. Slowly but surely, the limpkin is one of these.

Limpkins, native to the subtropical region of the Americas, are wading birds that eat a variety of aquatic invertebrates. They are brown with white spangles and blotches, long legs and, most importantly, a relatively long decurved bill. Appearing a lot like a heron or ibis, they are actually more closely related to rails, those secretive smaller birds found lurking in marshy habitat. Their slightly offset bills are specialized for extracting the bodies of apple snails from their twisty shells, but they are equipped to get into a variety of mussels and clams as well. It is thought that the birds’ name originates from their halting gait as well as an odd running style when pursued.

Here in the U.S., limpkins were once confined to the wetter parts of Florida as well as the coastal marshes of the Gulf Coast states. Over the past few decades, however, they have been spotted farther north in Georgia and southern South Carolina. Given that they now even breed in a few locations “south of the border,” it’s no wonder that individuals have been spotted here in our state. The first was reported along the North Carolina coast (no surprise) in 1975, but in more recent years, they have been found in the Piedmont, too. There have also been a handful of sightings in our western counties. I saw my first N.C. limpkin during the summer of 1998 in a marshy water hazard at a golf course community close to New Bern.

The expansion of this species can be connected to multiple factors. First, invasive mollusks such as Asiatic clams and apple snails have become more abundant in freshwater systems across the Southeast in recent years. That spread of a ready food source, coupled with warmer winters, has provided additional habitat for limpkins. Furthermore, increasingly frequent and prolonged drought within their historic range has resulted in more birds roaming northward in search of the wet habitat they require.

With the summer of 2026 likely to be a dry one in the Southeast, it is very likely some limpkins will arrive here in the weeks ahead. A number of individuals showed up late in the summer of 2023 and persisted well into the fall. If you happen to be out at any of the larger reservoirs, or even along a creek or near a retention pond, keep an eye out — you just might spot one of these unusual creatures on the prowl for a meal or a new summer hangout.

2026 Birdwatch Department

Tea Leaf Astrologer

TEA LEAF ASTROLOGER

Cancer

(June 21- July 22)

It wouldn’t be Cancer season without a few tears, your basic mood swings, and a new pair of house slippers. That said, with Mercury retrograde in your sign until July 23, expect more introspection and — you know you love it — a bit more time at home. Pick up a bodice ripper that you can’t put down. Make a playlist of hits from the year you were born. In other words: Distract yourself from making rash decisions until month’s end. And even then, try not to get swept up by your own swell.

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

Listen to your gurgling gut.

Virgo (August 23 – September 22)

Clean the baseboards.

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

Pass on the potato salad.

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

Look for the silver lining.

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Just let things steep.

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

Trust what you already know.

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

Stop at the farmstand.

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Try firefly therapy.

Aries (March 21 – April 19)

Bring something to the potluck.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

Three words: homemade ice cream.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

Hit refresh.

2026 Department Tea Leaf Astrologer

PinePitch July 2026

PINEPITCH

PinePitch

July 2026

Don’t Rain on Our Parade

The annual Independence Day Parade smack in the middle of the village of Pinehurst begins with the pet parade at 9:45 a.m. on Saturday, July 4. If you see someone walking a pet cobra, alert the proper authorities. In the meantime, go deep on the sunscreen because the dignitaries, bands and such march, ride and walk on by until noon. For more information go to
www.vopnc.org. or call (910) 295-3642.

Dig This

The young and old can catch Dr. Ashley Oliphant, author of The Ultimate Shell Seeker’s Guide, on Saturday, July 11, at the Southern Pines Public Library, 170 W. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines. At 10:30 a.m. the library’s multipurpose room will be converted into an archeological dig for all those Indiana Joneses out there between the ages of 3 and 12. Then, at 1 p.m., Dr. Oliphant will dispense tips to the adults on how to read the tides, moon phases, wind directions, etc., etc. to make your beachcombing experience a success. For more info go to www.sppl.net.

Days

In a tale of courage and sacrifice, one actor portrays more than 20 characters to tell the story of the U.S. withdrawal from Afghanistan and a group of veterans who launch a daring rescue mission to save the Afghans who stood beside them in combat. The show begins at 7 p.m. on Friday, July 24, at the Sunrise Theater, 250 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines. For more information go to www.sunrisetheater.com.

Jazz Age

The Sandhills Community College Jazz Band will present the second show in its summer series, “Swingin’ Come Rain or Shine,” at 6:30 p.m. on Monday, July 13, in BPAC’s Owens Auditorium, 3395 Airport Road, Pinehurst. Admission is free, but a ticket is required. For more information go to www.ticketmesandhills.com.

Kaboomshakalaka, Boom!

What could be better than explosive devices and powerfully good music? Begin the celebration of America’s 250th on Friday, July 3, from 6 – 9 p.m., at the Harness Track, 200 Beulah Hill Road S., Pinehurst. There will be music courtesy of The Soul Psychedelique Orchestra, kids’ stuff, dancing, food and beverages for sale . . . and fireworks after 9! For additional info you can call (910) 295-3642 or visit www.vopnc.org.

It’s Just Peachy

Make a pit stop — see what we did there? — at the PeachGrass Festival on the grounds at the Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities, 555 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines, on Saturday, July 26, at 6 p.m. The evening of music features local favorite The Orange Markers with Stehen E. Smith, followed by the Grassomatics from Raleigh, and headliner, Appalachian Smoke with Cooper Marona. Gates open at 5 p.m. There will be a cash/card bar by The Gentleman Mobile Bar and grilled favorites by On Demand Chefs. For more information go to www.weymouthcenter.org.

Up and Over

Sanctioned by the United States Equestrian Federation and the United States Hunter Jumper Association, the Sedgefield at the Park Hunter Jumper Series featuring 250 or so riders continues all day long — we’re talking all day long — July 10-12 at the Carolina Horse Park, 2814 Montrose Road, Raeford. In addition to horses and riders there will be food trucks and vendors on-site. For more information go to www.carolinahorsepark.com.

I Coulda Sworn It Was . . .

The Sunrise Theater, 250 N.W. Broad St., Southern Pines, goes deep on tributes in July beginning with “Bring Out Yer Dead,” the Grateful Dead tribute band, on Saturday, July 18, at 6:30 p.m. When they’re done Truckin’ you can listen to “Mamma Mania!” on Thursday, July 23, at 7 p.m., for the full ABBA experience. For info, Fernando, go to
www.sunrisetheater.com.

2026 Department PinePitch

Hometown

HOMETOWN

Movin' on Up

Taking on the big city

By Bill Fields

By Bill Fields I met a friend for breakfast one Sunday morning this spring at a Connecticut diner. With its bustling vibe, vinyl-covered booths, menu the size of a novella and servers with a sixth sense for a coffee cup in need of topping off, the restaurant could have been anywhere in the Northeast.

In between bites and conversation, my mind wandered to a time when eating at such a place was new, not routine, when I was young and eager and, like so many people before and after me, ready to take on New York.

Forty years ago, ostensibly for a magazine job but more accurately to experience a city I had known from books and magazines, movies and television, I moved north. Before relocating from the first floor of a house on East Maine Avenue in Southern Pines to an apartment in Brooklyn’s Carroll Gardens neighborhood, my exposure to the Big Apple was limited to two brief visits a handful of years earlier, during and soon after college. I truly didn’t know what I was getting myself into, but America’s largest city attracted me like a paper clip to a magnet.

The inexorable pull was expensive. The $175 monthly rent for a one-bedroom in North Carolina became $775 in New York, and there wasn’t a fireplace or a yard at my new residence. What I believed was a huge bump in salary nearly disappeared in housing alone.

After signing the lease on my exorbitant digs, I motored up Interstate 95 as filled with anxiety as the U-Haul truck (pulling my Ford Escort) was with my belongings. Upon recovering from the stress of the back-rattling drive and settling in, the fretting was replaced by the excitement of where I now was and what I was doing, although my newly purchased twin-sized futon in no way mimicked the pillow-top mattresses in the very few fancy hotels I’d experienced.

New York’s subway fare had gone up to a dollar per ride earlier in 1986. On the morning of my first 25-minute (assuming no delays) commute from Carroll Street station to 34th Street-Herald Square on the F train, I shelled out a $10 bill to fill my pocket with enough penny-sized, bi-metal tokens — “Good For One Fare” on one side, “New York Transit Authority” on the other — to get through the work week. The train made 10 stops before my destination, the stations familiar still: Bergen, Jay, York, East Broadway, Delancey, Second Avenue, Broadway-Lafayette, West Fourth, 14th and 23rd.

After coming above ground at my stop, I walked several blocks east along 34th Street, going right past the Empire State Building, to the Golf Illustrated offices at 3 Park Avenue. There was a pinch-me period when I realized that, yes, I indeed was working in the metropolis that I had seen so many Novembers on TV as a backdrop to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

My mother, then slightly younger than I am now, was able to take Amtrak’s Silver Star north for a visit on my first Thanksgiving in New York, where, bundled up on a sunny but cold morning, she saw the floats and bands in person. Mom would be back in a couple of years, taking in the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall and paintings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a long, long way from her roots in sleepy Jackson Springs.

I made that daily subway trip from Brooklyn to Manhattan for two years and rode a commuter train from Connecticut to the city for three more. Then Golf Illustrated, along with the other magazines owned by its parent company, went belly up, and I left New York with more doubts than the ones that had accompanied me there. But life would play out just one state away. Golf World magazine, born in Moore County, had relocated under new ownership to Connecticut very shortly after I moved there from Brooklyn. The publication — from which I had departed to go to Golf Illustrated — and I reunited in short order. We stayed together for more than two decades, until Golf World ran its course, too, a victim of changing habits in a changing world. You tap your phone to ride the subway these days; tokens have gone the way of the typewriter.

If I’m in the mood to glimpse personal history, I’m a 90-minute train ride and eight-block walk from 3 Park Avenue. I take that trip a couple of times a year, find a diner, and have one of those turkey club sandwiches that rises high off the plate, looking like a skyscraper tall with dreams.

2026 Department Hometown

Golftown Journal

GOLFTOWN JOURNAL

The Happy Plodder

Getting a feel for the land

By Lee Pace

Bill Coore arrived at the site of the new No. 11 course at Pinehurst early one Saturday morning in April. He parked his rental car near the abandoned clubhouse of The Pit Golf Links, the course that existed from 1985 to 2010 before going under due to financial duress. Its demise allowed Pinehurst Resort owner Bob Dedman to later purchase and repurpose the land for two new courses pegged The Sandmines, a salute to the tract’s purpose a century ago as a source for sand in highway construction.

First came Pinehurst No. 10 opening in the spring of 2024 with 18 holes designed by Tom Doak. Now in the works are 18 more to be known as No. 11 from the architectural wizardry of Coore and partner Ben Crenshaw.

Coore had been in Pinehurst all week working with chief design associate Ryan Farrow and the construction crew in finishing shaping the greens and taking a final inspection tour before heading to South Carolina and the grand opening of the new Coore & Crenshaw course called Anson Point in Bluffton.

That there was no golf cart left by Pinehurst staff for Coore’s use was no surprise. There was no need. He applied some sunscreen, grabbed a bottle of water and set off as he always does on his golf course design projects — on foot.

“I try not to get into a golf cart,” he says. “I like to walk and feel the land with my feet. You can see things and sense things going slowly and walking that you might otherwise miss. You see and feel the details better. Someone once said that I’m a plodder. That’s probably right. On a great piece of land, you can do it more justice on foot.”

Coore spent considerable time walking this same ground 15 years ago when he was in town working on the restoration of Pinehurst No. 2. He was looking for 18 new holes on this Aberdeen site that at the time Dedman was considering for what would be designated Pinehurst No. 9. But, in the spring of 2012, Dedman pivoted and bought Pinehurst National, weaving it into the resort and club fabric as the new No. 9. He sat for a decade on the Aberdeen site until the demand for more golf in 2022 prompted him to the pull the trigger. Coore & Crenshaw would have designed that course, but they were too busy with other projects, ergo the pivot to Doak.

“I have high hopes for this course,” Coore says. “That we didn’t build that original course and now are building this one has worked out great. Hindsight is 20-20, but it’s worked out better for all parties involved. The course we laid out in 2011 would have been interesting, but the course we have out here now is far better. The routing is better.”

Over four hours, Coore dissected the flow of the course and its many nuances.

Most notable was the ruggedness of the ground. The course that Pinehurst native Dan Maples designed in the 1980s was called The Pit because the land had been mined for sand in the early 1900s, and it was never touched. The furrows and burrows from long-ago excavation machinery were left intact, with years of wild plant and tree growth adding to the texture.

“This site was totally manufactured years ago, with the piles and mounds of material they didn’t want,” Coore says. “It sat there for decades, and trees grew up through them. You’re left with a site that looks totally natural for golf.”

Because the land was so untamed, Coore & Crenshaw designed a course with relatively benign putting surfaces. And there is only one water hazard, a lake behind the seventh green that is largely out of play. There is enough drama in the ground itself that multi-tiered greens and water to suck up poorly struck shots are simply not needed to make the course interesting and testing.

“The greens on this course are almost the supporting cast,” Coore says. “There are not a lot of contours and movement. They are pretty subtle because everything around them is so wild. It felt like if the greens had a lot of contouring, it would be way too much. The land is up and down and twisting and turning. If you get to the greens and have the same thing, it would be too much.”

Construction crews began clearing in November 2024, with the machines moving dirt and shaping fairways in October 2025. As of April 2026, the holes had been largely designed and sculpted, and the greens all “floated out” in the parlance of golf construction. The course will be sodded in the summer and open at some point in mid-2027.

During the 2010-11 restoration of No. 2 — in which he and Crenshaw removed hundreds of acres of Bermuda rough, reshaped the fairways and bunkers, and restored the perimeters of hardpan sand and wiregrass — Coore would stop to speak at length to the workers on the art of installing irrigation heads so that the water didn’t leave green grass in uniform lines, and of planting wiregrass so it looked random and unplanned.

Similarly on No. 11, he conferred often with the tree removal crew and Pinehurst superintendent Kevin Robinson on which trees to remove and which ones to leave alongside the fairways.

“We did that slowly and deliberately in artistic fashion, intuitive fashion,” Coore says. “It’s not like having a highway crew coming in here and clear-cutting. There are some nice rolls to the edges of the holes; they meander.”

As Coore walked the course, he talked of the process of finding the holes, applying the brush strokes and supervising the shapers and diggers.

“It’s like putting a puzzle together,” he says. “You see these interesting landforms and say, ‘OK, that’s a great spot for a green here.’”

Among the interesting puzzle pieces is the par-3 sixth hole that runs downhill and back up to the green, inspired when Crenshaw suggested that a hole similar to Harry Colt’s eighth at St. George’s Hill in Surrey, England, might fit nicely.

“Inspiration? It comes from anywhere and everywhere,” Coore says.

One feature prompted him to say, “Hang on to your hat.”

Another elicited a smile and a shake of the head. “Who could imagine some of this stuff?”

There are old mounds in fairways with pot bunkers cobbled out, leaving Coore to make another comparison to U.K.-style golf.

“This is just a punch-wedge out to safety. You go, ‘OK, I’ve gotta get out of here and not worry about aiming for the green.”

There are vestiges of the ancient mining operation, including a piece of railroad track on the 13th that Coore moved to the periphery of the hole — out of the line of a bouncing golf ball but within eyesight.

“This will be an eccentric golf course. I call it ‘wildly wonderful.’ It’s different. I have very high hopes for it,” he says.

Coore turned 80 in December 2025, and Crenshaw is 74. But they’re still active, with current projects in the Bahamas, Montana, Colorado and Northern Michigan.

“As long as I’m physically able and people want you to do their work, I’ll keep doing it,” Coore says. “Fortunately, we’re still in demand. If you have interesting sites, you are constantly motivated and excited to work them. I feel like a kid out here playing in the dirt.”

2026 Department Golftown Journal

Almanac June 2026

ALMANAC

Almanac

June 2026

By Ashley Walshe

June is a blueberry banquet, a living shrine, a procession of sun-loving pilgrims.

Here they come, with their sun hats and baskets. Wonderstruck and reverent; wide-eyed and ravenous.

There’s no wrong way to worship.

Aging fingers work methodically, rolling over ripe berries as if they were prayer beads on an endless mala. Mothers guide tiny hands from fruits of red to deepest blue. Kitchen mystics pluck to the mantra of blueberry ice cream, blueberry cobbler, blueberries all summer through.

Life buzzes in all directions.

Cat stalks field crickets. Puppy chases swallowtails. Children sneak plump berries from brimming buckets by the handful.

The seekers come and go, each with their simple offerings: bliss, open palms, purple-stained prayers.

At blueberry church, Mmmmmmm is a sacred hymn. A pop of sweetness spells amen.

As balmy morning melts into sun-drenched afternoon, the hum of bees could bring one to their dirt-smudged knees.

Thank you, a berry pilgrim sings, praising the miracle of all creation.

Between the spike of mosquitos and the early fireflies, the birds blurt Glory! Glory!, same as they did at sunrise.

And so it goes, summer day after summer day. Baskets runneth over. Bellies fill with sweetness. All who seek shall find magic at the blueberry jubilee.

Midsummer Nights

What could be dreamier than a day in June? A midsummer night.

The field crickets crackle like warm vinyl. Moonflower and night-blooming jasmine perfume the balmy air. Drink it in. And don’t forget to look up.

According to NASA, the Venus and Jupiter conjunction on June 8 and 9 is one of the most notable astronomical events of the year. Look low in the western sky a half-hour after sunset to see these two luminous planets seemingly close enough to touch, no telescope required.

The strawberry moon — first full moon of summer — will rise on June 29, one week after the solstice (June 21). The Old Farmer’s Almanac notes that Native American Algonquian tribes, and the Ojibwe, Dakota and Lakota peoples, marked this month’s moon by the “ripening of June-bearing strawberries” across the fertile land. Other names for this month’s moon include the berries ripen moon (Haida), the hatching moon (Cree), the honey moon and the mead moon. One could also call it dreamy.

And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days.

— John Keats

All Warmed Up

It’s not too late to sow some garden magic. Cucumbers, squash, pumpkins and melons. Beets, carrots, chard and scallions. Beans, basil, marigolds and sunflowers. The soil is warm and ready. Plant the seeds. Woo the pollinators. Behold miracles.

2026 Almanac Department

Out of the Blue

OUT OF THE BLUE

Hang 'em High

And to their best advantage

By Deborah Salomon

My reputation as an anti-tech — or at least a suspicious subscriber — is well-documented. My computer, a desktop, has a tower, a monitor, a printer and a big-button keyboard. The buttons are yellow. I adore it. My new TV streams but I don’t, although I have listened to a few podcasts, previously known as radio. The horror on colleagues’/friends’ faces when they learn the only apps on my simple cellphone are for airlines is almost comical. Like, if I want to watch Duke basketball, it won’t be from the dentist’s waiting room or a park bench. Ditto a movie.

I’d look silly laughing at Robin Williams as Mrs. Doubtfire on a 3-inch screen. Marlon Brando doesn’t shrink well either. Nor does Kindle own the right heft.

Cellphones are magical inventions that have revolutionized communication. Their tendency, however, to fill every minute of our waking hours with some fact or sound or image leaves me exhausted. Several years ago, I encountered the ultimate: “fine art” channels that stream paintings into and out of a TV hanging over the mantelpiece. They appear, pause, then march off.

That reminded me of how important backgrounds are when “hanging pictures.” Also, the subjects of wall art whether paintings, photos, collections, artifacts. After 17 years of profiling Moore County’s most stunning homes, let me pass along display methods shared by interior designers and homeowners:

Don’t crowd. Give a big piece its own wall, which can be small, to accentuate the painting’s bigness.

Try leaning small frames against the wall, from a narrow shelf.

In a grouping, vary the size of individual pieces.

Think twice before displaying nudes or dead animals, especially with children in residence.

Go 3-D with baby dresses, costumes, dolls enclosed in a deep frame or shadowbox. No better place for a Japanese kimono than a living room wall.

Save family photos for a hallway, to encourage up-close viewing. Number the photos and post identification at the end: “Mom and Dad do a London pub, circa 1985.”

A bathroom is perfect for cartoons or old magazine covers. One homeowner plastered her entire guest powder room with New Yorker covers, which she had saved for the purpose. Another had a life-sized cardboard President George W. Bush welcoming guests. The replica of a dear departed cocker spaniel curled up in his wire crate seemed a bit much.

Before selecting a wall, sit down on nearby chairs and sofas to check line of sight. Same for shafts of sunlight.

Art in the kitchen is uber-trendy, especially flowers and vegetables, like a basket of shiny purple eggplants or a sliced tomato oozing juice. You can’t go wrong with grazing Holsteins. Antique kitchen implements suspended from pegs work. Use metal or glass pitchers, a blue enamel campfire percolator for vases. I have seen a pizza-shaped clock.

Frame or dry-mount a favorite recipe in Granny’s handwriting. Hang a small blackboard near the back door for messages that won’t fit into a text.

But back to the fine art slide show continuing its march over the mantel, the paintings colorful as pastries in a cafeteria line — I’ll take the apple crumb pie, please, with a scoop of vanilla.

2026 Department Out of the Blue

Dissecting a Cocktail

DISSECTING A COCKTAIL

One Way Trigger

By Tony Cross

Almost all the cocktails you see on bar menus and in social media and books are either classics or a spin on a classic.

The caipirinha is a South American cocktail, almost like a daiquiri on the rocks, but different, and there’s a reason why it’s the national drink of Brazil. I wanted to use the traditional recipe as a template and hopefully create a drink that would keep the integrity of the original while adding the nuanced flavors of a favorite fruit and spice: pineapple and ginger. At the time, I had just started making a rich ginger syrup, so the idea seemed like a no-brainer. Muddling pineapple chunks in caipirinhas was nothing new, so I decided to go another route: pineapple-infused cachaça, a sugar cane-based rum indigenous to Brazil. This, with muddled limes and the rich ginger syrup, would do it. Super simple, incredibly tasty. The One Way Trigger was one of my most popular cocktails and, to this day, it’s still one of the best cocktails I’ve ever made. Don’t take my word for it, build one yourself and let me know what you think.

Specifications

2 ounces pineapple-infused cachaça*

1/2 ounce rich ginger syrup**

3/4-1 lime, quartered

Execution

Combine quartered limes and ginger syrup in a rocks glass. Muddle to extract juice and release oils. Add pineapple-infused cachaça and cracked ice. Stir to incorporate ingredients.

* Core and dice one pineapple. Put in a glass container and add 750 milliliters of cachaça. Store at room temperature for 2-3 days, agitating container once daily. Strain through nut milk bag, rebottle and refrigerate. Good for one month before flavors begin to dissipate.

** Place 1 cup of chopped unpeeled and washed ginger in food processor or blender and process until finely chopped. Combine ginger, 1 cup of sugar and 3 cups of water in a pot. Bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer and cook until a rich syrup is created. Let cool and strain through a nut milk bag. Bottle and refrigerate.

2026 Department Dissecting a Cocktail

Tag: Department