Hometown

HOMETOWN

Over There

A wee bit of wonderful

By Bill Fields

Like many Americans, I first experienced the British Open — what most in the United States called that golf major championship during the 1970s — through television. ABC Sports broadcasts weren’t long by today’s dawn-to-dusk standards but were revealing: the rumpled landscape, khaki-colored turf if it had been dry, and shorter-than-usual flagsticks. Slacks billowed in the wind. Balls finished in precarious lies in steep-faced bunkers. I learned a new word: firth.

When I watched those Opens, the links seemed a faraway golf universe that were out of reach, places I would only ever see on TV.

Happily, I was wrong. If my addition of all the jet lag, stunning skies, spitting rain, lager shandies, breakfast beans, roundabouts, mysterious shower controls and BBC Radio news is correct, this month’s Open Championship at Royal Birkdale will be my 22nd time at golf’s oldest tournament.

Getting to see a lot of the U.S. and a little of the world is not something I was counting on as a child. An annual vacation to North Myrtle Beach this time of year was about the extent of my family’s travels. I didn’t fly until I was of voting age and certainly couldn’t have anticipated making a couple of dozen trips to the British Isles covering golf in one fashion or another across four decades, whether for an Open, Ryder Cup or Solheim Cup.

I’ve been to The Open in various roles: photographer, reporter and, more recently, television researcher for NBC Sports. For me, there haven’t been as many trips to The Open as to the three American-based men’s majors, but the trips abroad stand out, beginning with the first one in 1988, at Royal Lytham & St. Annes.

The wind was howling in what felt like gale force when I walked outside my bed and breakfast in Blackpool the first morning in England. I heard an elderly man on the sidewalk describe the wind to his companion as a “wee breeze.” I’m no stranger to pushing drives far to the right without meteorological influence, but while I was playing a local course later that day, the wind carried one of my tee shots farther offline than any before or since. That ball might still be on its errant journey.

By the weekend, rain was the story. It came down so hard on Saturday that multiple greens were flooded, the third round was abandoned, and a rare Monday finish was in the cards. That extra day turned out to be memorable, with Seve Ballesteros shooting 65 to win his fifth — and final — major over Nick Price and Nick Faldo.

An Open in St. Andrews stands out. I’ve been fortunate to work four at the Home of Golf. Faldo outdueled Greg Norman over the weekend in 1990. John Daly defeated Costantino Rocca in a playoff in 1995. Louis Oosthuizen got a favorable late-early draw and avoided a beastly Friday afternoon wind on his way to a seven-shot win in 2010. Cameron Smith prevailed in the 150th Open in 2022, when Rory McIlroy couldn’t buy a putt on Sunday.

On my 2010 visit to the “Auld Grey Toun,” I spent some pleasant idle hours, camera in hand, on the West Sands, the wide, 2-mile stretch of beach featured in the opening scene of the 1981 film Chariots of Fire. As at many Scottish locales, the sky there can change moods in minutes, going from angry to serene.

Whatever has transpired during the day while on assignment at an Open, après-work can soothe the soul when you’re with colleagues whose company you enjoy having a couple of pints or a good curry — or better still, a couple of pints with a good curry. Just remember, discretion is the better part of valor over there when a server in an Indian restaurant asks you how spicy you want your meal. Years ago, I witnessed a vindaloo in Troon cause more pain than a pot bunker ever could.

I’ve held on to plenty of tournament press badges issued to me over the years — the collection maps where I’ve been and what I’ve done — but my favorites are ones from my first decade going to The Open. They’re simple paperboard credentials with a short loop of string — a style long since replaced by larger ones with a head shot, bar code and lanyard — and they have stories to tell.

Bookshelf

BOOKSHELF

July Books

By Kimberly Daniels Taws

FICTION

Man Overboard! by Kathleen Rooney

Patrick “Kick” Kilpatrick, a former college swimmer, hates the ocean. Has always been terrified of it. And now he’s in a real pickle. Drifting alone in the sea after falling (or jumping?), Kick must survive. Breath by breath, hour by hour in the lonely sea. As the waves crash over him, so do the thoughts and memories of just how he got there. A Thanksgiving cruise with an obnoxious brother-in-law; a father who gives the Great Santini a run for his money; and a mother who already left the family boat, so to speak, a long time ago. His family may be complicated, and the pains of life may seem unbearable — infuriating enough to leap from the deck — but maybe the will to survive is stronger. Inventive and slyly hilarious Man Overboard! is about what keeps us going no matter how choppy the waves of our journey become.

Habits of the Sea, by Shea Ernshaw

The night Clay Lockhart’s wife dies, a violent storm tears their home — and the eight hectares of land beneath it — away from the Scottish coast, sending it adrift into the Atlantic. Thirty years later, 12-year-old Ellie Mills discovers the fabled floating island off the coast of Nova Scotia and finds Clay still living in the weatherworn farmhouse perched on its highest hill. When the island vanishes overnight, Ellie is left questioning whether it ever existed at all. Decades later, the island resurfaces, and Ellie, now in her 30s, returns, determined to uncover the truth. What she finds is even stranger: Clay hasn’t aged a single day. Faced with the impossible, Ellie learns that some mysteries aren’t meant to be solved, and that a life shaped by wonder may hold more promise than one bound by certainty.

NONFICTION

All That’s Unseen: An Appalachian Memoir, by Emilee Hackney

Born and raised deep in the hollers of the Appalachian Mountains, Emilee Hackney knew little beyond the ridgelines and coalfields of southwest Virginia. As an eighth-generation Appalachian, her childhood was steeped in the stories of her grandparents — tales of the coal mines’ brutal grip and the way the land, both beautiful and unforgiving, never quite let anyone go. At 14, Emilee meets Sam, a senior at her high school, who offers her a glimpse at a promising future together. But as they begin attending services at Deliverance Christian Church as a couple, Emilee is thrust into the radical realm of Pentecostalism. In a culture where marriage at 19 isn’t uncommon, Emilee is engaged to Sam. Eager to make her relationship work, she embraces the extremist doctrines of the religion, submitting herself fully to God, to Sam, and to a life of repentance. But what she doesn’t yet know is the man she plans to marry is not who he claims to be. Years later, Emilee finds herself isolated from friends, family and her own sense of truth. Wracked with shame and self-doubt, she reaches a breaking point. On the verge of spiraling out of control, in a stunning act of defiance and hope, she applies to Harvard; against all odds, she is accepted. From the magisterial mountains of Tazewell to the halls of Cambridge, Emilee begins the arduous process of reinventing herself and her relationships with her home, faith and values.

Utopia for Our Century: A Manifesto of Hope, by David Albertson and Jason Blakely

In Thomas More’s Utopia, a traveler from the New World delivers a shocking message: On a lost island beyond the horizon, people live far better lives than in Europe. More, a leading intellectual of his day, was murdered by Henry VIII in 1535 for refusing to sign a loyalty oath, but his utopian vision inspired some of the most consequential movements in the modern world. In their provocative manifesto, Albertson and Blakely retrieve More’s insights and apply them to our moment.

Lost in Curiosity: Field Notes from Scientists’ Adventures into the Unknown,
by Roberta Kwok

The real story of science isn’t a triumphant breakthrough. It’s messy, mysterious and deeply human. Chronicling researchers’ struggles and hopes in the field and lab, Kwok documents it all: fending off relentless snowfall on a remote Greenland glacier; desperately searching for an elusive frog in the rainforests of Borneo; and scrambling to capture fleeting signals of a faraway moon outside our solar system. These are the untold stories of devoted young scientists and restless minds chasing nature’s riddles. From enigmatic fossils and mind-bending physics to the puzzling behavior of wild animals, Lost in Curiosity is a journey through the questions that keep scientists up at night.

The Secret World of Twilight: A Natural History of Dusk and Dawn, by Sally Coulthard

Every day, in the brief stretch of time just before sunrise and soon after sunset, magic happens. Twice a day the atmosphere is partially illuminated by a sun that’s hiding below the horizon, creating a sky that glows with soft, diffused light — opening the secret world of twilight. Circadian rhythms affect almost all living things, including animals, plants and even microbes. They, of course, profoundly affect us too. In a world when so many of us live according to rhythms defined by artificial light, or in spaces that remove any connection with the outside, the need to understand and celebrate twilight has never been greater. Coulthard celebrates 30 iconic and often surprising animals and plants that thrive in this liminal, otherworldly space.

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

Weaver and the Web, by Chris Baker

A long night ahead means plenty of time for web-making and bug-catching for this meticulous orb-weaver spider in this non-fiction picture book that captures the spider’s point of view. With gentle text and arresting art, this read-aloud leads you through the ups and downs of one orb-weaver spider’s night. From making her web, re-making her web, and eventually ensnaring some succulent moths, this moonlit adventure encourages you to see the world from a spider’s perspective. (Ages 4-8.)

Yeti Is Not Ready for Game Over, by Leigh Anne Carter

It is time to take a break from screens, but Yeti is NOT ready. She is so close to winning this fun game on her tablet! She doesn’t have time for chores, lunch or even friends! Can Yeti put the tablet down? Or will she find a way to stay glued to her screen? With a little compassionate help from Dad, Yeti Is Not Ready shows just how hard it can be to get off the screen — and how good for our bodies, brains and ideas taking a break can be. (Ages 3-7.)

2026 Bookshelf Department

Pleasures of Life

PLEASURES OF LIFE

My Sunbeam

A boy and his car

By Ron Johnson

During my junior year of high school, my dad brought home a brand-new Carnival Red 1969 Sunbeam Alpine GT, manufactured by Rootes Motor Company of Coventry, England. The Alpine was assembled under the auspices of Chrysler UK at the Ryton-on-Dunsmore plant in Warwickshire, a former aircraft engine plant. The original beloved and much coveted Sunbeam Alpine roadster was also born and eventually died there.

Even though my dad grew up in a strict GM culture, he eventually became a devout Chrysler-Mopar guy. He was a bit like Henry Hill’s mother in Goodfellas. She didn’t care that Henry’s employers were mobsters; all that mattered was that they were from the same part of Sicily. There was not much information available on the ill-conceived 1969 Sunbeam, but all my dad needed to know was that it was a Chrysler product.

The deal was that I would pay him as much as I could toward the $2,535 price (plus tax and tags, of course) whenever I could, until he was satisfied that I was substantially paid up. Considering my menial and short-lived jobs at Burger Chef, Tony’s Hardware and the New Orleans riverfront, among other places, it would take some time.

This was not the Sunbeam Alpine roadster of James Bond, Arnold Schwarzenegger or even Grace Kelly. It never appeared in any movie. It was a car that was hastily conceived and designed to be sold by Dodge dealers in the U.S. as nothing more than a cute, entry-level economy car — a captive import aimed poorly at Japanese and German imports, like Nissan, Toyota and Volkswagen. It was actually a very attractive little fastback coupe — not accidentally reminiscent of the iconic Plymouth Barracuda — and the idea could have worked well for Chrysler Corporation but, for reasons that would soon become obvious, only a handful were sold in North America.

My bright red Sunbeam was an instant standout, mostly because it was flashy and unique. I doubt 20 were sold in my hometown of New Orleans, but it was an attention-grabber. Unfortunately, most of that attention was afforded by the service department at Gentilly Dodge. Before we got the car on semi-solid footing, many significant components had already failed and had been replaced. If I chose to operate the manual windows, I was likely to come away with the crank in my hand. The side windows would also fall out of their flimsy channels on their way up or down.

The build logic on the car was amazingly inept. It had obviously been rushed to market and possessed the worst traits of any English car ever built, which was a powerful statement. It was naturally air-conditioned by the hot and humid nights of South Louisiana, and there was no radio until I installed an aftermarket Telefunken. The car was full of devilment.

Many of the problems presented themselves before 12,000 miles, which was the extent of a new car warranty in those days. Common replacement parts were largely unavailable from the dealer, or anywhere else, and techs resorted to cannibalizing new car inventory to honor warranty commitments.

The pillarless coupe was vastly different from the typical car produced in the U.K. It was said to replicate a cabriolet with a hardtop attached. If anyone had been honest, they would have admitted the two-door “fastback” design was just another way to save costs. It was neither water- nor airtight. The Lucas electrical system was quirky and inept. In fact, Lucas was said to be part of the reason English cars once had a reputation for poor reliability. Amusingly, car enthusiasts referred to Lucas as “the Prince of Darkness” for its alleged propensity to leave drivers stranded in the dark. Rocker Ozzy Osbourne, another “Prince of Darkness,” once worked for Lucas and was believed by some to have stolen his famous nickname from his infamous employer.

The Alpine GT was not without beauty and character, however. It was much like an attractive and temperamental actress, with excellent makeup and great hair color, but was flawed in almost every other way, often requiring a high level of maintenance. All the misery was transpiring while the outside world was saying, “Isn’t that a pretty little car.”

On one Saturday afternoon just before our high school graduation, the late David Peralta and I decided to take two of our more adventurous female friends on a 300-mile road trip to visit a college that had a reputation for being a party school. The plan was to party into the evening with older kids we knew, and then drive back home, getting the girls safely back into their front vestibules in time to honor their strict 1 a.m. curfews.

On our way back to New Orleans, along highway 190 near Krotz Springs, Louisiana, I heard a loud thumping sound coming from the engine compartment. Upon inspection, we saw a broken and frayed fan belt lodged near the water pump pulley. Naturally, it was a Lucas-supplied part. Help was unavailable. After sitting in the driver’s seat for 30 minutes, on a shoulder made of oyster shells, pondering how we were going to explain being stranded in the middle of Cajun nowhere, I had an idea. Could we fashion a pair of pantyhose into a makeshift fan belt?

Fortunately, both girls were wearing replacement parts. I did my best to replicate the belt in terms of length, doubling the nylons for strength. The first pair lasted about 30 miles. The second and stronger pair got us into Baton Rouge, where we were able to find an Esso station (before it was rebranded Exxon) on Airline Highway that had some belts hanging in the back of their service bay. The young attendant let us do some experimenting until we found a $6 Atlas V-belt that did well enough to get us back to New Orleans. While the two fathers were not happy we busted curfew, my dad praised me for my out-of-the-box thinking.

A lot happened in and around that little coupe. Money was exchanged when a good friend, Jay Whittington, was able to lift the rear end of the car clear off the ground. On another occasion, my 18 year-old girlfriend learned the basics of driving a stick shift in the Alpine while I pushed her out of the sand along Lake Pontchartrain in Slidell. It got me to Superbowl IV, where a $7 ticket allowed me admittance into the North End of Tulane Stadium to watch the Chiefs beat the Vikings 23-7, before 80,000 fans.

The car could frequently be seen in the parking lot of the Rockery Inn, where bellhops would deliver, without the presentation of an ID, cocktails or beer to a tray hanging on the driver’s side window, regardless of whether food had been ordered. And, amazingly, it also got me back and forth to college without incident, more times than not.

The car also gave life and was perfectly capable when it was most needed. Early in my freshman year of college, it reliably transported my roommate and his girlfriend, who had hidden her pregnancy, to the hospital an hour before she delivered a beautiful baby girl. Their plan was to give the baby up for adoption and never tell their parents. They had everything carefully mapped out. And they would have gotten away with the ill-fated plan had the hospital not hunted the new mother down through the university for a $29 payment and mailed the bill to her parents’ home. I don’t know what happened to either of them, or the baby, who would be in her mid-50s now, but I am grateful the fickle Sunbeam started that night.

In 2009, I visited Birmingham in the U.K. for a conference. Driving back to Heathrow, I took a detour and stopped in Coventry to gaze at where that old Sunbeam had been produced some 40 years earlier. The vintage Rootes factory had been demolished. Adjacent buildings were in ill repair. There was nothing romantic about it. I didn’t know what to think or how to react. Should I pray, shake my fist, or just quietly walk away? After all, an important piece of my personal history started there. I simply bowed, smiled, and got back into a comfortable rental car, built by Rover.

I once told my dad, not long before he died, that I was inclined to find another Sunbeam like the one we had and restore it. He just looked down at me over his reading glasses, in a way only he could, and simply said with a half-smile, in his clear trademark baritone, “Are you crazy?”

2026 Department Pleasures of Life

State of Mind

STATE OF MIND

Doing the Wave

From Ocracoke to Rockingham

By Tommy Tomlinson

Illustration by Gary Palmer

Summer comes in waves.

Many years ago I went through a rough stretch, mostly of my own making, and ended up needing to clear my head for a while. I drove to the Outer Banks, traveling alone. I took the ferry from Swan Quarter to Ocracoke, piddled around in the village for a couple of hours, then aimed the car for Hatteras.

Ocracoke tapers to a thin strand that can be secluded even in high season. I found a spot to pull over and stepped between dunes onto an empty beach. Not a soul in either direction. The only sounds were the wind and the waves. Those waves: calm and steady, a wet metronome. I got in and rolled in the warm ocean like an otter. Every so often a wave would give me a gentle slap. Snap out of it, son. Everything’s going to be fine.

The waves are even milder on rivers and lakes, at least usually. When you see whitecaps on fresh water you know a storm is coming. That’s when you pull up anchor and gun the outboard and hope you get back to the landing before the sky breaks open. Waves can be a warning, too.

They can also be a mirage. When I was a kid I was mesmerized every summer by the shining puddles that always appeared up ahead on the road, only to disappear when we got close. Much later I found out it’s called heat shimmer, and it happens when a surface like asphalt gets much hotter than the air just above it, refracting the light in between. The same thing on sand creates a false oasis — the thing that drives desert wanderers crazy in the movies.

That road shimmer was my introduction to the idea that some things in life are always dancing just out of your reach, and that maybe they were never really there in the first place.

It takes time to learn some lessons. For example, when waves of heat are rising from a car, it’s not a good time to sit on the hood wearing shorts. The backs of my thighs learned that one the hard way.

It also took time to learn that people in other places don’t wave the way we do in the South. This especially applies to what I think of as the two-lane wave — the wave you give somebody when you’re slowly passing them in a car. To me, there are a couple of times when that wave is mandatory. One, if you’re out in the country and drive by somebody on the side of the road. Two, if you’re on a narrow street or at a four-way stop and somebody lets you through. I live in a neighborhood with a lot of narrow streets, and my experience is that you get the wave about half the time. Every time I don’t get the wave, I always wonder where up North the driver came from. This is not fair. But barring any proper research I’m gonna roll with it.

You might know about the debate over exactly what Bruce Springsteen sings in the first line of “Thunder Road.” The screen door slams / Mary’s dress . . . What’s the next word? On the record it’s hard to tell. I have always heard it as Mary’s dress sways. Springsteen’s manager has said that it’s definitely “sways.” It feels to me like the most poetic word, the most evocative. But many other Springsteen fans — including my dear friend Joe Posnanski, a fellow Charlottean — swear that the line is, or at least should be, Mary’s dress waves. Joe has written thousands of words about this over the years. It is one of those debates that means everything and nothing, much the same way that it means everything and nothing to argue about the greatest baseball player of all time. (Joe, who wrote an entire book called The Baseball 100, says Willie Mays; the correct answer is Henry Aaron.) Joe has not convinced me on “waves” and probably never will. But when I play “Thunder Road,” I always listen close to that first line. I kind of want to hear “waves,” at least one time. Not because I want Joe to be right, but because you should try, when you can, to feel what someone else feels.

I had a neighbor one time who loved to listen to NASCAR on the radio. Every Sunday afternoon in the summer he would take his old AM/FM portable out to the patio behind his trailer and turn on the race from Rockingham or Martinsville or wherever. This was back in the ’70s, when Richard Petty won most of the time, Cale Yarborough and Bobby Allison occasionally gave him hell, and David Pearson lingered at the back of the pack, waiting to strike. I wasn’t much of a fan of racing, but I was a fan of my neighbor. So sometimes I’d go over there and we’d drink cold Cokes and listen to the howling engines, those sound waves traveling from the track through the radio to our ears in ways that I still do not fully understand.

The one thing waves have in common is that they carry energy. Something desires to get from one place to another and a wave is the vehicle. That can be a pulse from somewhere deep in the ocean or the attraction from someone who caught your eye across the room. We are out more this time of year, exposed to the energies of the universe, and open to the waves that life brings our way.

Sometimes they are so powerful they can knock you sideways. But most of the time they’re just a pleasant ride, carrying us through the shimmer of a summer day and the promise of a summer night.

2026 Department State of Mind

Focus on Food

FOCUS ON FOOD

Bitter, Meet Sweet

Grapefruit and strawberry popsicles

By Rose Shewey

In my younger years not even a generous sprinkling of sugar would have gotten me excited about eating grapefruit. Now I can’t get enough of it — sans sugar, of course — which makes for a textbook example of an “acquired taste.”

So, how exactly do we grow fond of things we may not have liked at the get-go? How on earth did we come to enjoy black coffee, blue cheese or sauerkraut? I still haven’t figured out how single malt whiskey goes down the hatch without retching — and it may not be for me to find out in this lifetime.

But the answer is, of course: habit. Repeated exposure to certain foods, with some initial modifications perhaps, will gradually get us accustomed to strange flavors and textures. Add sentimental attachment, or “associative learning,” to the experience — as in social bonding over a round of IPAs with friends, or escargots with family as a special holiday tradition — and you’re well on your way to acquiring a taste.

Back to the grapefruit: Thanks to Mother Nature, we are hard-wired to be wary of bitterness as a survival mechanism. Many toxic compounds are bitter, though of course not all bitter compounds are harmful. On top of that, grapefruits are sour and astringent. The hardest part may be that, unlike coffee or booze, there is no immediate functional reward in eating grapefruit. Enjoying it is entirely based on accomplishing the process of learning to love it.

Although bitter is my jam this summer, even I like my popsicles on the sweeter side and fortunately, I can have my cake and eat it too. Grapefruit, with the addition of strawberries, gets you the best of both worlds. Blending grapefruit with strawberries creates a harmony where the sharp, astringent bite of the citrus cuts through the sweetness of the berries, creating a complex flavor profile.

I can’t say for sure that there is a kid-friendly version of these popsicles, but omitting ginger and dialing up the sweetness might get your young ones to enjoy them too. Who knows, maybe that’s where their love of bitter things begins.

Grapefruit Strawberry Popsicles

(Makes 4-6 popsicles)

Ingredients

1 grapefruit, peeled, seeded and chopped

1 apple, cored and sliced

2 cups strawberries, fresh or frozen

1/2 inch knob fresh ginger, peeled and chopped

3/4 cup filtered water

1-3 tablespoons sweetener (such as honey, maple syrup — optional)

Directions

Combine all ingredients in a blender and process until smooth. Taste for sweetness; if required, add sweetener, one tablespoon at a time (such as honey or maple syrup) and blend again. Pour juice into popsicle molds and freeze for 4-6 hours, or until frozen solid.

2026 Department Focus on Food

Southwords

SOUTHWORDS

Summer Swarms

The worst kind of fan club

By Emilee Phillips

Illustration By Campbell Pringle

“Get them off me!” I yelled, sprinting for safety, flailing my arms like I was trying to take flight. I slapped at my legs, my arms, the back of my neck as I ran, the house looming ahead like a sanctuary. I burst inside with the urgency of someone being chased by bloodthirsty animals — which, in a way, I was.

This didn’t happen just once. To be honest, it’s less of an isolated incident and more of a seasonal tradition.

Don’t get me wrong, I love summer. I love the long, golden evenings that stretch on forever, the kind where the sun takes its sweet time setting and ice cream is accepted as a daily treat. I love the heat, the way it settles into your bones and relaxes you like a sauna. I love that you can wear a sundress almost daily. I’ve even made peace with the humidity — we have an understanding, a truce of sorts, where I tolerate it in exchange for everything else summer brings me.

But the mosquitoes. Ugh! The pesky little insects may as well be my own personal groupies because they flock to me the second I step outside. They’re buzzing around as if they want to join my inner circle and clinging to me like I’m their ticket to fame and fortune. It’s not even flattering. If they’re my groupies, they’re the kind that show up uninvited, scream in my ear like banshees and take a piece of me home as a souvenir.

I can’t even vent about it properly because no one else in my family is part of the all-you-can-eat buffet the way I am. It’s like they’re behind some kind of a forcefield while I’m out there taking hits for the entire bloodline. You’re welcome, by the way.

My mother used to say it’s because I’m sweet, but I doubt their microscopic brains are thinking logically. And even if they were, what would they say? “You have notes of jasmine and poor decision-making?”

I’ve tried everything to get rid of them. I’ve tried eating copious amounts of garlic, which only seemed to work on other humans. I’ve kept citronella close by, which I’m convinced is just an old wives’ tale. It’s really aromatherapy in bug form. I’ve tried wearing long sleeves, which only made me sweatier and impaired my ability to scratch the itch. Even DEET, which should have acted as my personal security detail, has failed me on more than one occasion.

I’ve tried tackling the source. I’ve ensured my yard is free of standing water. I’ve planted all the usual pest-repelling plants. At this point, I’m convinced pine straw is some kind of breeding ground for genetically-engineered super mosquitoes, which basically means as long as I live here, I’m screwed.

They say scratching makes it worse, but I don’t have the self-control to just sit there with the itch taunting me. Sometimes the bites swell up so big it looks like I’ve contracted an old-timey illness frontier doctors used to treat with a salve made out of lard and “healing leaves.”

Years of my life have been occupied by scratching. It adds up, you know. All I ask is a little peace out of doors without feeling like my fan club is sucking enough of my blood to make a clone.

I love summer, I just wish it didn’t love me back quite so much.

2026 Department Southwords

Almanac July 2026

ALMANAC

Almanac

July 2026

By Ashley Walshe

July is a carnival of butterflies.

As sunlight saturates the riotous garden, yellow and black visions float from Joe-pye weed to purple coneflower, pausing at each blossom like boats anchoring at tiny, teetering berths.

Seconds pass. Nectar passes through proboscis. Yet, time stands still.

Imagine breaking out of chrysalis to emerge here, in the lushness of summer. Kissing each flower. Delighting in an endless banquet. Relishing a lifetime in 10 ambrosial days.

These wonders leave us awestruck.

In sweeping fields, where grass cicadas and katydids broadcast themselves, buckeyes startle wrens and warblers with their wild, wide-eyed wingspots.

Life drifts blissfully along.

Silver-spotted skippers wish upon electric purple blazing star. Painted ladies worship cosmos flowers. Fritillaries flit among zinnia and thistle.

Walk through the forest, where summer azures appear as paper crafts, moonlit fairies, dainty apparitions. Dip your feet into the creek’s cool waters. Feel time slow when a winged one lights upon your salt-laced finger.

Embody the transmission. Move at the speed of summer. Taste the earth through your feet as you walk upon it. Let the flowers guide you.

Here, where milkweed and monarch embrace, sip the nectar of the ephemeral. Slower. Slower. Slower, still.

Anchor yourself in this moment. Delight in the banquet. Relish in the wonder of these timeless days, this fluttering carnival of a lifetime.

What’s Poppin’

The summer garden spills.

Tomatoes swell on the vine. The corn silks tell of peak sweetness. The berries grow fat in the life-giving sun. The peaches are popping, too.

The annual N.C. Peach Festival takes place in Candor (Peach Capital of N.C.) July 16–18. Among the festivities: a hot wing competition, live music in the park, family fun and homemade peach ice cream. Get the sweet-and-juicy scoop at ncpeachfestival.com.

The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.

— Rabindranath Tagore

Folk Medicine

It wouldn’t be summer without fresh watermelon, the nasal cries of nighthawks and — oh, yes — poison ivy.

You know the rhyme: Leaves of three, let it be. But what of the antidote?

Enter jewelweed, the tall, native beauty thriving along stream banks and moist woodland edges. Also called orange balsam, orange jewelweed, spotted jewelweed and spotted touch-me-not, this self-seeding summer annual is known by its orange, trumpet-shaped blossoms, which dangle from the plant like fiery pendants.

Native Americans used jewelweed as medicine, applying sap from its stem and leaves to relieve skin irritations, including rashes from poison ivy and stinging nettle.

Thanks to nature’s endless brilliance, it’s common to find jewelweed growing wherever poison ivy runs wild. And guess who adores hose tubular flowers? Hummingbirds love its sugary nectar, making them a primary pollinator for this summer-blooming plant ally.

2026 Almanac Department

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.

2026 Department Simple Life

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

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