Hometown

Golf’s Front Porch

The little magazine that could

By Bill Fields

 

Seventy-five years ago this month, Pinehurst resident Robert Harlow gave golf something, a present that provided pleasure for decades. His creation was Golf World, a weekly publication that would become an important square in the quilt of the game.

Remembering Golf World is personal for me because the magazine was my professional home for nearly a quarter-century.

I wasn’t around for the debut edition — June 18, 1947, which covered Lew Worsham’s U.S. Open victory over Sam Snead — but in two stints I worked in various capacities on more than 800 Golf World issues and was a senior editor when subscribers received their last print copy eight years ago. Current PineStraw editor Jim Moriarty, who like me had a long history with Golf World, wrote the final cover story on Rory McIlroy winning the Open Championship at Royal Liverpool (where, coincidentally, Fred Daly took the Claret Jug during Golf World’s first year).

A couple of days after we put that print edition to bed on a Monday night, positions were eliminated and so was a meaningful chapter of golf history. Those of us who worked there lamented the loss. So did thousands of Golf World readers, many of them avid players or part of the industry, for whom the publication was a pillar in their golf lives.

Harlow called his creation a newspaper when it launched, but soon enough it was seen as a magazine. By any name the publication was golf’s front porch and party line, where people found out what was going on in the game they loved. E. Harvie Ward Jr. of Tarboro was a subscriber. So was a young bank teller and budding golfer in New Zealand, Bob Charles, who discovered the world he one day would join despite the news being weeks late when he received his copy.

You could find Pete Dye in the results of elite amateur events and in tiny advertisements for his services as a golf architect. Philadelphia restaurateur Helen Sigel plugged her establishment and clubmaker Bert Dargie his 7-woods in the one-inch ads. Golf World also got local businesses to advertise, with The Dunes Club promoting “floor shows, excellent cuisine and dancing.” (It couldn’t come out and say it was a little Las Vegas in the longleaf.)

Golf World started small — Harlow, instrumental in the nascent days of the professional circuit in the United States, and his wife, Lillian, formed the early core — and never got very large. Over its first four decades, when it was located in Pinehurst and later Southern Pines, a skeleton staff put out the stories and the scores with help from a network of correspondents around the globe, scribes who made less for their contributions than the pros who tied for 37th in the tournaments they were covering.

Reporters doubled as photographers, and a few of us got competent with a camera. But our skills weren’t always evident, sabotaged as they were by limitations in color separations and printing that could make images appear as murky as Drowning Creek.

Before Golf World got big-time owners — The New York Times Company and later Condé Nast — it didn’t do much live photography. This meant that when someone won in Dallas in the spring, the shot of the victor on the cover was most likely taken a couple of months earlier on a tee with good light and a clean background in Los Angeles. The use of stock pictures was largely harmless, with one notable exception. When T.C. Chen won at Riviera Country Club in 1987, the photograph used on Golf World’s cover was of his older brother, T.M., taken the previous year at the Masters’ par-3 contest.

Given that I took that Kodachrome of T.M. Chen — correctly identified on the slide mount, by the way — I thought of the publishing blunder when the curtain was closed on Golf World in 2014. It made me laugh when I felt like crying. I also considered how much the magazine got right over nearly seven decades and how many readers renewed their subscriptions year after year, grateful that Bob Harlow’s idea was in the mail, with news of the game, of their game. PS

Southern Pines native Bill Fields, who writes about golf and other things, moved north in 1986 but hasn’t lost his accent.

Out of the Blue

You Can’t Eat Just One

Never underestimate the power of cookies

By Deborah Salomon

Today I will explore a subject rarely attempted by essayists, columnists, commentators. They are too busy solving (or fomenting) world problems to bother with cookies.

Pity. We’d be better off if Freud had spent more time on cookies, less on phantasmagorical dreams.

My only memory of kindergarten is the tiny choco-chip cookies shaped by a cookie press, served at snacktime with a paper cup of milk. They weren’t even good but they were cookies, and I loved them.

Obviously, I suffered a cookie-deprived childhood. My mother (high school math teacher) never baked a cookie in her life. The only ones she bought were mushy with dried fruit. How I loved playing at my BFF’s house. Not only was her mother a retired Broadway chorus girl, she kept a stash of store-boughts (fancy, gooey, buttery, frosted) in the pantry. And you needn’t finish your spinach to get one.

No surprise, then, that I learned early on to bake cookies — just chocolate chip and oatmeal — usually on Friday when my kids’ pals hung around for handouts. Holidays meant shaped butter cookies: turkeys for Thanksgiving, hearts for Valentine’s Day. In the mid-’90s I arrived in Switzerland to write about the former Vermont governor, Madeleine Kunin, then U.S. Ambassador, carrying a tin box of state-shaped cookies frosted green. Even her Swiss pastry chef was impressed.

By then I realized that cookies are an acceptable carryover from childhood. Zabaglione and tiramisu for dessert, cookies at bedtime. Where a Supreme Court justice wouldn’t be caught dead drinking espresso from a sippy cup, nibbling a cookie is OK. In fact, this penchant affirms the jurist’s status as a smart cookie.

Long live Cookie Monster! Don’t get me started on the misnomer.

I know one man and three women who have been called Cookie for so long nobody remembers their real names. I also befriended a cat named Oreo (black on top, white tummy) and a figgy-hued poodle called Newton.

Another crumb on the cookie path: It was once my honor to attend a weekend house party hosted by a New York Times food writer/cookbook author. Everybody brought something for a potluck beyond lucky. I brought chocolate chip cookies which, although made from my usual recipe, spread out flat rather than rising. Even worse, they were chewy, not crisp.

The foodie’s husband went gaga over my disaster. She was miffed. The culprit, I assumed, was old baking soda. Imagine my horror when she swallowed her pride and requested my “secret.”

People wax emotional, even irrational over their choices. Duels have been fought over Whippets vs. Mallomars. A gentleman I know well, who grew up in the Northeast, insists Hydrox are far superior to Oreos, even before this bestseller went wack-o with seasonally flavored/colored fillings.

To me, Hydrox still sounds like a controlled substance.

Would it impress you to know that Lorna Doone shortbreads were named for the heroine of an inconsequential British romance novel published in 1869, in which Lorna is shot at her wedding . . . but survives?

It bothers me that spicy Biscoff monopolize in-flight airline refreshments. I don’t care if they are vegan and made in Belgium. They leave fingers greasy.

I save mine for the squirrels.

It also riles me that faced with worldwide cookie popularity (fortune cookies, Italian wedding cookies) the Brits insist on dipping “biscuits” in their tea, while calling real biscuits “scones.”

Alas, commercial cookies have deteriorated, except maybe Pepperidge Farm. Smaller packages, questionable quality, higher prices. I miss real vanilla in vanilla wafers. Most chocolate is diluted or outright fake.

Therefore, over the years I have committed several simple, foolproof cookie recipes to memory. The latest — a super-easy but divine almond mini-chocolate chip biscotti.

Because you never know when an ambassador or Supreme Court justice might ring the doorbell on a Friday afternoon.  PS

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

Southwords

The Evening Merriment

Getting a kick out of summertime

By Eileen Phelps

The deserted street was silent, punctuated only by the hum of mosquitoes searching for a tasty arm to nibble. Not a soul was visible, not even a hungry squirrel hunting for buried nuts. Dinnertime. All the children had been summoned to their family meals. Their absence created a vacuum of silence. Temporary. Fleeting. The calm before the storm.

In an instant, a cacophony of voices ignited the street. As if at once children burst from their homes, anxious to get on with the evening’s passion — the nightly neighborhood kickball game. Oh, I know it doesn’t sound like much, but it was the highlight of our summer evenings. From late spring when the days grew longer until early fall when school signified the return to schedules and early bedtimes, the kids loved their daily dose of excitement.

The bases weren’t fancy. The mailbox post was transformed into home plate. Rocks, frisbees, and an occasional log served as stepping stones to scoring runs. There wasn’t time for arguments or rock, paper, scissors; everyone wanted to play every minute they could squeeze in before dark. Disputes were settled with a nod in order to keep the game going. Cooperation was the unwritten rule as the competition, no matter how frenzied, required no adult intervention. No one was left out of the festivities. If you didn’t kick well, maybe you were a speedy runner or a superb pitcher. Everyone was good at something. Age wasn’t an issue. Holding hands with older players, little tykes were escorted to shortened bases where they enthusiastically cheered for themselves, as the older kids laughed at their silliness and applauded their successes. The commotion of joyful voices, mixed with shouted directions to teammates and scurrying children, led to sheer exhaustion by dusk.

As quickly as it began, it stopped. Adult voices beckoned the players home to the comfort of their beds as darkness blanketed the concrete field. The shadows disappeared into the night. The street returned to its hushed self, awaiting the next day’s contest. Only the drone of mosquito wings pierced the silence. PS

Eileen Phelps is a retired Pinehurst Elementary teacher who loves reading, writing and spending time with her 10 grandchildren.

Bookshelf

June Books

FICTION

It All Comes Down to This, by Therese Anne Fowler

The Geller sisters — Beck, Claire and Sophie — are a trio of strong-minded women whose pragmatic, widowed mother, Marti, will die soon and take her secrets with her. Marti has ensured that her modest estate is easy for her family to deal with once she’s gone — including a provision that the family’s summer cottage on Mount Desert Island, Maine, must be sold. Beck, the eldest, is a freelance journalist whose marriage looks more like a sibling bond than a passionate partnership. The Maine cottage has been essential to her secret wish to write a novel. Despite her accomplishments as a pediatric cardiologist, Claire, the middle daughter, has always felt like the Geller misfit. Her secret, unrequited love for the wrong man, is slowly destroying her. Youngest daughter Sophie appears to live an Instagram-ready life, filled with glamorous work and travel. In reality, her existence is a cash-strapped house of cards that may crash at any moment. Enter C.J. Reynolds, an enigmatic Southerner and ex-con with his own hidden past who complicates the situation. All is not what it seems, and everything is about to change.

 

Jackie & Me, by Louis Bayard

In the spring of 1951, débutante Jacqueline Bouvier, working for the Washington Times-Herald, meets Jack Kennedy, a charming congressman from a notorious and powerful family, at a party in Washington, D.C. Young, rebellious, eager to break free from her mother, Jackie is drawn to the elusive young politician. Jack, busy with House duties during the week and Senate campaigning on the weekend (as well as his other now-well-known extracurricular activities) convinces his best friend and fixer, Lem Billings, to court Jackie on his behalf. Only gradually does Jackie begin to realize that she is being groomed to be the perfect political wife. Sharply written by the bestselling author of Courting Mr. Lincoln, this historical novel draws a picture of Jackie as never before seen, in a story about love, sacrifice, friendship and betrayal.

 

Woman of Light, by Kali Fajardo-Anstine

Luz “Little Light” Lopez, a tea leaf reader and laundress, is left to fend for herself after her older brother, Diego, a snake charmer and factory worker, is run out of town by a violent mob. As Luz navigates 1930s Denver on her own, she begins to have visions that transport her to her Indigenous homeland in the nearby Lost Territory. In the end, it is up to Luz to save her family stories from disappearing into oblivion. Woman of Light is a transfixing novel about survival, family secrets and love, filled with an unforgettable cast of characters.

 

Horse, by Geraldine Brooks

The Pulitzer Prize-winning Brooks braids a story that sweeps from antebellum racetracks to the vibrant post-World War II art scene in Manhattan, all the way to the Smithsonian’s high-tech osteology labs. Kentucky, 1850 — A bright bay foal, Lexington, and his enslaved groom forge a bond of understanding that will carry the horse to record-setting victories across the South. An itinerant young artist who makes his name from paintings of the horse takes up arms for the Union and reconnects with the stallion and his groom on a dangerous night far from the glamour of any racetrack. New York City, 1954 — Martha Jackson, a gallery owner celebrated for taking risks on edgy contemporary painters, becomes obsessed with a 19th century equestrian oil painting of mysterious provenance. Washington, D.C., 2019 — As a Smithsonian scientist studies the stallion’s bones for clues to his power and endurance, an art historian seeks the lost history of the Black trainers and grooms often depicted with the horse. Leaning heavily on Lexington’s remarkable true story, both on the track and during the Civil War, Brooks highlights the unsung contribution of the Black horsemen on whose expertise vast fortunes relied.

 

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

Bearnard Writes a Book, by Deborah Underwood

Bearnard the bear wants Gertie the goose to have her very own book. Their adventure in writing comes complete with dragons, volcanoes and rampaging monsters. This adorable adventure story even has a literary surprise ending. (Ages 4-7.)

 

Pineapple Princess, by Sabina Hahn

Any old princess can have a sparkly, bedazzled crown but it takes a warrior queen to fully embrace a more . . . natural option. Move over Fancy Nancy, there’s a new girl in town, and she’s, well, a little bit sticky. (Ages 3-7).

 

Gardens Are For Growing, by Chelsea Tornetto

There’s a special bond between daddies and daughters, and this adorable picture book celebrates that together time through the seasons in a family’s garden. Perfect for Earth Day, Father’s Day or graduations. Fans of Love You Forever will declare this a must have. (Ages 3-6).

 

The Curious Book of Lists, by Tracy Turner

What’s the world’s slimiest creature? Which are the deadliest snakes? How many countries exist with no coastline? Find out all this and more in The Curious Book of Lists. This would be a fun one to keep on the dinner table. (Ages 8-12).   PS

Compiled by Kimberly Daniels Taws and Angie Tally.

Crossroads

Lit Up like NEON

Nashville comes to Aberdeen

By Jenna Biter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tea Leaf Astrologer

Gemini

(May 21 – June 20)

You’ve heard the boiling frog myth. Stick a frog in a pot of boiling water and it will jump out; but stick one in cool water that is gradually heated and, yep, it cooks. Don’t go meddling in the wrong pot, Gemini. And, certainly, don’t get complacent there. Known for their clever and charming nature, this ever-babbling air sign has a knack for nosing their way into other people’s business. Consider turning that devotion inward before things get slimy.

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

Give it time. The wound becomes the medicine. 

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

It was never about the honey.

Virgo (August 23 – September 22) 

Ditch the training wheels.

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

You’ve mastered subtlety. Don’t be surprised that no one’s noticed.

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

Let the patterns clash.

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Maybe take it down a notch. 

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

Reply hazy. Try again.

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

Does the phrase “dirty laundry” mean anything to you? 

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

More porch swings, less mood swings.

Aries (March 21 – April 19)

You’re cutting against the grain again.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

You are what you eat. Try adding some flavor.  PS

Zora Stellanova has been divining with tea leaves since Game of Thrones’ Starbucks cup mishap of 2019. While she’s not exactly a medium, she’s far from average. She lives in the N.C. foothills with her Sphynx cat, Lyla. 

The Naturalist

Of Golden Mice and Men

And the quest to see all the world’s mammals

Story and Photographs by Todd Pusser

“I have something here,” Jon Hall proclaims with an obvious air of excitement. “Can you see it?”

Nearby, another voice responds. “Yeah, I see it,” remarks Charles Foley, “but I can’t tell if it is a mouse or a bird.”

Despite standing just a few feet away, I cannot see either man, much less a tiny critter, in the deep dark of the moonless night. Both men have traveled hundreds of miles just for this opportunity and I dare not move for fear of spooking their quarry.

I hear the rustle of leaves as Jon slowly repositions himself, angling for a better view. Raising a high-tech thermal imaging scope to his eye, Jon focuses his attention on a dense thicket of briers a few yards in front of him.

The scope, as its name suggests, is able to detect heat emitted from a target, such as a warm-blooded mammal or bird, and generates an image allowing the viewer to see in the dark. Long used by the military to detect enemy soldiers on the battlefield, the technology has become more widely available in recent years and is now regularly used by police, search and rescue units, hunters, and in this case, mammal watchers.

“It is a mouse!” Jon’s voice rises an octave.

Charles, standing to my right, moves closer to Jon with his own thermal scope in hand. “Ah, but what kind of mouse?” he asks.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Jon responds. Taking his eye from the thermal scope, he raises a pair of binoculars and a flashlight with his spare hand. Bright light suddenly floods the forest, illuminating the thick tangle of vegetation, temporarily stunning the rodent who freezes in place. Staring through the binoculars, Jon proclaims, “It’s a golden mouse!”

From my vantage point, I raise my own pair of binoculars to my eyes, but all I can see is a hind leg and tail of the small mouse through the dense vegetation. I am unable to see enough detail to determine exactly what type of mouse it is. Charles, too, only catches a glimpse of the animal before it darts out of sight.

I should pause here. Perhaps by now, you might be wondering why three grown men would be standing in the middle of a brier-laden Carolina forest in the dead of night, each with thousands of dollars worth of specialized equipment in hand, trying to spot a mouse. A mouse, for Pete’s sake?

Ahhh, but not just any mouse. With a prehensile tail built for a semi-arboreal lifestyle, the enigmatic rodent is the only member of its genus. Active mainly at night and rarely observed in the wild, its lustrous golden-brown coat has captured the imagination of naturalists for generations. Famed 19th century painter John James Audubon was so enamored with the golden mouse that he once remarked, “In symmetry of form and brightness of color, this is the prettiest species of Mus (mouse) inhabiting our country.” 

More importantly for Jon and Charles, who have dedicated their lives to seeing every one of the approximately 6,500 species of mammal on the planet, it was a mouse neither had observed alive in the wild. 

Jon, currently based in New York, works as a statistician for the United Nations measuring the happiness and well-being of human populations. In his spare time, he maintains the internet’s premiere mammal watching website (www.mammalwatching.com). Much like more familiar bird-watching websites, Jon’s webpage regularly provides updates on interesting sightings and trip reports of mammal encounters from Borneo to Mexico. It was through the website that Charles (a researcher who has studied elephants in Tanzania for three decades) came to know Jon. The two men travel frequently together and currently host a podcast dedicated to the ever-growing pastime of mammal watching.

Last fall, I reached out to the men suggesting that they interview a friend of mine who has seen most of the world’s species of whales and dolphins. Through our conversations, I casually mentioned that they should come and visit me in North Carolina and perhaps I could show them a red wolf, the world’s rarest canid. With interest thoroughly piqued, Jon asked about other potential mammal species in the area, and that is how the subject of the golden mouse came up.

I confessed to not knowing much about golden mice, so I started asking around my social network of nature nerds and biologists if they knew of anyone who has encountered the species in the Carolina wilds. Before long, I was directed to Floyd and Signa Williams, two retired state park rangers, who had seen and photographed the mice on their rural Gates County property in years past.

Readily agreeing to help, Floyd and Signa soon located a dozen golden mice nests along the edge of a beaver swamp behind their house. The nests, unlike those of other mouse species in the state, are spherical in shape, much like a small soccer ball, and constructed of leaves, small twigs, and bark. On their property, the nests were located between one and eight feet off the ground in dense tangles of greenbriers and holly trees. 

L-r: Jon Hall, Charles Foley, Floyd & Signa Williams

After the brief encounter with the mouse in the brier thicket, we struck out finding any more the rest of the night, despite using the high-tech thermal scopes. Somewhat disappointed, we left Floyd and Signa for the evening and returned to our Airbnb rental over an hour and a half away.

The next morning, Signa texted to inform us we had caught a pair of golden mice in some of the Sherman Live Traps that we had placed along the edge of the swamp the day before. Ecstatic, we raced the 70 miles back to their house. 

On our way, Jon mentioned that a golden mouse is worth seeing up close. Peering into the aluminum trap, I could see what all the fuss was about. A golden mouse is an exquisite small mammal with large, curious eyes and a luxuriant golden pelage, unlike the muted greys of more familiar mice found inside homes and gardens. Simply put, the small, golden fluff ball staring back at me was the most beautiful mouse I had ever seen.

I placed the mouse inside a large photo tent where we spent the better part of an hour taking photographs and admiring its cuteness. All the while, the mouse remained surprisingly calm and docile. After its glamour shots, we returned the mouse, unharmed and no worse for the wear, back where we found it. 

A round of high fives and congratulations ensued. For Jon, it was his 1,999th species, an extraordinary accomplishment and a testimony to his lifelong obsession.

Despite having traveled the world and seeing many of its most charismatic mammals — everything from snow leopards in Asia, gorillas in Africa, and jaguars in Brazil — both Jon and Charles were all smiles and completely over the moon with their golden mouse encounter here in rural North Carolina.

I admire that about them. PS

Naturalist and photographer Todd Pusser grew up in Eagle Springs. He works to document the extraordinary diversity of life both near and far. His images can be found at www.ToddPusser.com.

Almanac

June holds nothing back. Dripping with decadence, she drapes her frills and trimmings across limbs, stems and wild earth. She isn’t afraid to take up space, nor is she afraid to ask for more.

More beauty. More bramble. More texture. More color.

And nothing shy of the full spectrum.

Red poppies speckle sunny meadows. Orange tiger lilies brighten the foreground. Yellow swallowtail flit hither and yon.

Green — as in every sumptuous shade of it — shoots and sweeps across the landscape.

Blue chicory dances along roadsides. Indigo buntings flicker among the woodland fringe. Violet hydrangeas sweeten the lawn. 

“More is more is more,” she says, weaving among peach and coral roses; the first stunning wave of star-shaped clematis; a swell of multicolor zinnia.

The air is an amalgam of honeysuckle, lemon balm, basil and gardenia.

More fragrance? If it’s good enough for the hummingbirds, bring it on: Rivers of feathery bee balm, cascades of trumpet creeper, explosions of flowering salvia.

Bring on the music-makers, too. The buzzers and screamers. All who twitter, chirp and croon. Listen for the rattle call of the northern flicker. The coo of the pigeon. The lusty moan of the lonely bullfrog.

In the garden, the squash plants runneth over. Green tomatoes fatten on the vine. Salad greens reach for the rising sun.

Bring on your glorious wildness, June. Your luscious too-muchness. Your sultry, voluptuous summer.

No need to hold back.

 

June is bustin’ out all over.    — Oscar Hammerstein II

 

All That Glitters

According to Smithsonian Magazine, two of this year’s most “dazzling celestial events” happen this month, beginning with the first supermoon of the year on Tuesday, June 14.

What, you ask, is a supermoon? It’s when the moon is full at its perigee (aka, closest proximity to Earth). According to NASA, a supermoon can appear up to 14 percent larger and 30 percent more luminous than a full moon at its apogee (farthest point from Earth). As if June needed one more reason for us to swoon.

Next on the don’t-miss-it docket: five planets in rare alignment from June 19–27. Make that six if you’ve got a telescope and minimal light pollution. Just before sunrise, gaze toward the eastern sky for a chance to spot Mercury low on the horizon, then Venus (always the brightest planet), Mars, Jupiter (second brightest) and Saturn (high in the south) in a diagonal line visible to the naked eye. Those with proper optics may also spot Uranus — yep, that bright green speck — just above Venus.

Do look up. At the very least, you might catch some fireflies.

 

 

The Color Purple(ish)

It’s beet season. If their vibrant magenta color wasn’t reason enough to love them, consider that these earthy roots are loaded with antioxidants, fiber, folic acid and potassium. Even their greens are a superfood. And nothing says summer like a cold beetroot salad.

Boil them until tender. Once cool, peel them under cold running water, then cut into 2-inch cubes.

Toss them with olive oil, orange juice, cumin, salt, fresh mint and cilantro.

Admire your stained fingers . . . and enjoy.  PS

The Creators of N.C.

Imprinting the Land

The artistry of printmaker Katie Hayes

By Wiley Cash

Photographs by Mallory Cash 

About half a mile down a gravel road off a two-lane highway in rural Hillsborough, block printmaker Katie Hayes is working in a light-filled studio above her garage. It’s midday on a warm afternoon in late April. Sunlight slants through a canopy of tulip poplars and oaks, trickling down to the dogwoods that make up an understory that shades countless azaleas wild with blooms. I can’t see it from where I stand, gazing at the forest from the sliding glass door at the back of Katie’s studio, but I can hear a nearby cardinal chirping against a backdrop of birdcalls that echo through the trees.

It’s not a stretch to say that the living things outside Katie’s studio parallel the flora and fauna portrayed in her prints: All around me, jet black herons with indigo wings stalk through shallow pools; brilliant monarchs and viceroys alight on purple coneflowers; scarlet tanagers perch on branches surrounded by yellow blossoms. Here, the wild things outside the studio’s walls have been tamed and contained, framed and matted, but no less alive than they would be in the natural world.

Unlike the wildness of the woods, Katie’s studio space is meticulously managed. Drying prints lean against the wall on one side of the studio. Rollers — known as brayers — and ink and instruments made for cutting or measuring hang in various places within easy reach. A basket of pre-ordered prints featuring a yellow lady’s slipper rest in a basket, each print partnered with a personalized handwritten note from Katie. The airy space is orderly and organized, a far cry from the world outside its walls.

“Setting this place up exactly as I need it feels really good,” Katie says. She is rolling midnight black ink onto a piece of plexiglass. “I never thought I’d have a place like this.”

I know that Katie is talking about her studio, but she could be referring to the 10 acres she shares with Sean and their daughter, Millie, and son, Ben. Or she could just as easily be talking about Hillsborough, or even North Carolina, for that matter. Although she was raised in Cullowhee, North Carolina, at one point in her life she’d lived in 13 houses in four states, and that was before she and Sean settled in Ohio, where Sean worked for Oberlin College and Katie worked for a nonprofit, assisting high school students with everything from completing college applications to tasks like locating their Social Security numbers. With each move, whether it was from the mountains of North Carolina to the Piedmont to attend UNC-Chapel Hill, or from Carrboro to Ohio, Katie began to see her regional identity more clearly.

“It wasn’t until I really left the South that I realized that being a Southerner was part of my identity, like I didn’t realize that being a rural mountain kid was part of my identity until I went to Carolina,” she says.

At the moment, Katie is using a heavy glass baren to smooth paper atop the block cut in order for it to absorb the ink that covers the block. The process of making a single print is long and tedious. After cutting a design into a block of linoleum, which can take anywhere from a couple of hours to a couple of days depending on the complexity of the image, Katie uses a brayer to evenly smear ink across a piece of plexiglass before using the same brayer to cover the block in ink. She then lays the paper over the block and runs the baren across the back of it. Most prints make use of more than one color ink, so each print goes through this process at least twice.

Katie made her first print in an art class at Smoky Mountain High School in Jackson County. She carved a linocut of a rabbit, and after her teacher put it on display someone offered to buy it. She sold it for $15, and while she didn’t return to printmaking for many years because she didn’t have the tools and materials, the early satisfaction of knowing that her work had spoken to someone stayed with her.

What also stayed with her was the effect her grandmother’s art and practice had on her. Shirley O’Neill was an accomplished amateur watercolorist, and she always made sure that Katie had good materials — high quality paints, brushes and paper — in order to do her best work.

I watch Katie make print after print, nervous that our conversation will distract her and cause her to make a mistake, and also impressed at how she seems both careful and carefree. The block she is working from now is for a 12×16 inch matboard print from her limited edition Mid-Century Botanical series. Each print features a colorful design — a gold sun, a soft pink segmented circle, a gray oval — overlaid by the black shapes of various flora: Virginia bluebells, native ferns and peonies. She peels back the matboard, revealing a cardinal flower set against a segmented gold sun. I watch her repeat the process of imprinting cardinal flowers on several more matboards with various colorful shapes already set onto them, and each time she reveals the flower her face lights up in a smile.

“It feels so good,” she says. “When it works, it’s so good.”

While the process is repetitive, it doesn’t allow Katie to shut off her brain and rely on rote memory. She is constantly assessing the amount of ink on the brayer, the placement of the paper against the block, and the countless other adjustments she makes during a single print run, which she limits to 100. There are no reproductions. Every print is handmade, distinct and limited.

Katie’s designs don’t only end up as hand-pulled prints made in her studio; her designs are also printed on everything from fabric to wallpaper by Spoonflower, a global marketplace based in Durham that manufactures textiles, connecting artists directly to consumers with no overhead costs for the artists.

Katie creates images of the flora and fauna of the Southern landscape she knows so well not only because she’s a native, but also because she gave birth to a daughter in Ohio who was upset by the family’s move south to Durham five years ago, when Sean took a job running operations for a firm that services solar farms.

“The move was a chance to get back closer to family,” Katie says, “but my daughter was 4 1/2 at the time, and when we moved it was really hard for her. She had a newborn baby brother. We had lived in a great neighborhood in Ohio, and she’d had tons of friends at a great school, and she was uprooted. The way I got started creating these images was at night. When she would go to bed, I would make her these coloring pages, where I would illustrate different native Southeastern flora and fauna. During the day I would have my hands full with the baby, but I would whisper to her, ‘Pssst, I made you some new coloring pages. These are passion flowers. They grow wild here and look like jungle plants.’

“For a long time I resisted doing art professionally. I always saw the art world as something really exclusive,” she adds. “It wasn’t for redneck girls from Cullowhee.”

But moving to Ohio made her reconsider the role art could play in her life, and the lives of people both inside and outside the region.

“When I moved to Oberlin, people always had all these misconceptions about North Carolina and the South; it’s either Gone with the Wind or Duck Dynasty. Neither of those are authentic to my experience,” she says. This, combined with connecting her daughter to their new home via images of the Southern landscape, inspired Katie to develop a library of images, eventually culminating in a printmaking shop she calls the New South Pattern House.

“As parents we’re always trying to curate the best parts of our childhood,” she says. “That’s how I think of my Southern identity with my kids and, frankly, my business. What parts do I want to highlight? We have this incredibly rich biodiversity. We have beautiful, vibrant cities. What are the parts we want to move away from? When people think of Southerners, do I want them to think of the Confederate flag? No, not for me. I want them to think of coneflowers.”   PS

Wiley Cash is the Alumni Author-in-Residence at the University of North Carolina at Asheville. His new novel, When Ghosts Come Home, is available wherever books are sold.

Birdwatch

Stranger in Town

Mississippi kite finds new regions

By Susan Campbell

Seldom do we hear of good news when it comes to the status of our migrant bird populations. But there are species that are actually expanding their ranges as a result of human alteration of habitats. The Mississippi kite here in the Southeast is one. This is a handsome raptor of wooded terrain that feeds mainly on large insects. It was found breeding in the floodplain of the Roanoke River in the late 1980s. The next region where it was detected happened to be here in the Sandhills. And now it can be found in the Triad as well as other locations in the Piedmont and the Coastal Plain.

These are small, sleek raptors that are very maneuverable. Adults are a mix of gray and black with long, tapered wings, a relatively long, squared-off tail and a delicate, hooked bill. Immature birds are streaked brown with barred tails. They are birds built to catch rapidly moving, aerial prey. Grasshoppers, beetles, dragonflies and even bats are targets when hunting. They also feed low to the ground when small reptiles and mammals are abundant. In late summer, as they are preparing to head south, large flocks can be seen foraging over large open areas such as farm fields where flying insects are abundant.

Although they breed here, Mississippi kites winter in South America. As well-studied as the species has been in the United States, little is known about them after they leave. Although they collect in large groups in the south-central U.S. and travel to southern Brazil and northern Argentina, their ecology is a question mark. But we have good data on the Midwestern and Southeastern populations, both of which are expanding. Everything from increases in pasture lands, golf courses and parks adjacent to mature woodlands are providing opportunities for nesting.

An increase in nesting around human habitation means an increase in kite interactions with people. And this can actually be problematic. Mississippi kites are very aggressive when it comes to defending their nests and young. I have been on the receiving end of warning whistles given by territorial individuals a number of times. Furthermore, they will readily dive bomb perceived threats — and this includes humans. I was very startled one summer several years ago to not only observe a new family on the farm where I was living in Southern Pines, but to also be buzzed by one of the adults. I was shocked by how quickly I was attacked and how close the bird came to my head. A very effective defensive maneuver for sure!

Late in the summer, kites will amass at rich foraging sites before they migrate southward. These sites may be north or west of the breeding grounds. Dozens can be seen alternately soaring and wheeling around above farm fields where an abundance of large insects such as grasshoppers, locusts, and beetles are found. If you happen upon one of these locations, it is quite a sight to see. For whatever reason, few areas consistently attract kites from year to year. One spot that is reliable in the N.C. foothills (oddly enough, since they do not breed there) is Irma’s Produce fields in McDowell County —right along I-40. If you are passing in late July or early August, it is well worth a stop. Not only do the birds put on quite a show, but I hear that Irma’s fruits and veggies are a treat as well.

There is much interest in documenting nesting Mississippi kites here in North Carolina. Should you know of a nest site or see adults or immature kites in the next few months, please drop me an email. These are beautiful and fascinating birds and certainly worthy of special attention. PS

Susan Campbell would love to hear about your wildlife sightings and receive your photos. She can be contacted by email at susan@ncaves.com or by phone at (910-585-0574).