Good Natured

Jewel of Fall

The versatile and delicious sweet potato

By Karen Frye

As the season moves from the heat of summer to the chill of fall, you will see more sweet potatoes at local markets and roadside stands. North Carolina is one of the country’s best producers, and Moore County, where some of the farms are second and third generation, is no exception.

Defining our diet for the season is a step toward better health. The sweet potato is a warming food, making it especially good to eat in the winter months. Look for foods that are grown within a 50-mile radius and incorporate these fruits and vegetables into your diet as much as possible.

The sweet potato is versatile. You can bake or steam it and serve with a little butter for a delicious side dish. Years ago, when the area was more agrarian and farmers spent much of their time outside in the fields, they would carry a baked sweet potato wrapped in a brown bag in a pocket for an energy-giving snack. I like to peel and cut a sweet potato into little cubes, roast them in the oven, toss the crispy cubes with some salt, and add them to my salad like sweet potato croutons. You can make sweet potato soup by boiling them in water, adding onions (or any favorite vegetable) and making a purée.

My family thinks of the sweet potato as a holiday food. My grandmothers were both exceptional cooks and would put out beautiful spreads of food, much of it grown in their gardens. The candied sweet potatoes, with a lot of butter and a little brown sugar, was one of the yummiest foods on the table at Thanksgiving and Christmas and always the first to disappear.

There are many health benefits to eating sweet potatoes. They’re rich in vitamin A, beta carotene and lycopene — all valuable antioxidants. They are one of the few vegetables that boost the body’s production of B12, a vitamin most commonly found in red meat, significant for a plant-based diet. They have lots of vitamin C, potassium, iron and fiber. They can help reduce inflammation in the intestinal tract. And they can increase the production of dopamine, serotonin and gamma aminobutyric acid (GABA), allowing for sounder sleep.

Get your sweet potatoes locally, if possible, to support the farmers. Find some recipes and see how your health will improve this winter by eating one of the tastiest foods there is.  PS

Karen Frye is the owner and founder of Nature’s Own and teaches yoga at the Bikram Yoga Studio.

Bookshelf

November Books

FICTION

Dava Shastri’s Last Day, by Kirthana Ramisetti

Dava Shastri, one of the world’s wealthiest women, has always lived with her sterling reputation in mind. A brain cancer diagnosis at the age of 70, however, changes everything, and Dava decides to take her death — like all matters of her life — into her own hands. Summoning her four adult children to her private island, she discloses shocking news: In addition to having a terminal illness, she has arranged for the news of her death to break early, so she can read her obituaries. As someone who dedicated her life to the arts and the empowerment of women, Dava expects to read articles lauding her philanthropic work. Instead, her “death” reveals two devastating secrets, truths she thought she had buried forever.

Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone, by Diana Gabaldon

Jamie Fraser and Claire Randall were torn apart by the Jacobite Rising in 1746; now the American Revolution threatens to do the same. In this newest novel in the Outlander series, it is 1779, and Claire and Jamie are at last reunited with their daughter, Brianna, her husband, Roger, and their children on Fraser’s Ridge. Yet, even in the North Carolina backcountry, the effects of war are being felt. Tensions in the Colonies are great, and Jamie knows loyalties among his tenants are split and it won’t be long until the war is on his doorstep. Brianna and Roger have their own worry: that the dangers that provoked their escape from the 20th century might catch up to them. Not so far away, young William Ransom is still coming to terms with the discovery of his true father’s identity — and thus his own — and Lord John Grey has reconciliations to make, and dangers to meet . . . on his son’s behalf, and his own.

Wish You Were Here, by Jodi Picoult

Diana O’Toole is perfectly on track. She will be married by 30, have kids by 35, and move out to the New York City suburbs, all while climbing the professional ladder in the cutthroat art auction world. She’s not engaged just yet, but she knows her boyfriend, Finn, a surgical resident, is about to propose on their romantic getaway to the Galapagos — days before her 30th birthday. When a virus appears in the city and it’s all hands on deck at the hospital, Finn has to stay behind. Reluctantly, Diana goes on the trip without him. Almost immediately, her luggage is lost, the Wi-Fi is nearly nonexistent, the whole island is under quarantine, and she is stranded until the borders reopen. Slowly, she carves out a connection with a local family and is transformed.

NONFICTION

Under Jerusalem, by Andrew Lawler

This is the story of underground Jerusalem, bringing to life the indelible characters who have investigated this subterranean landscape and discussing how the 150-year quest to unearth Biblical history in Jerusalem has led to remarkable discoveries, but also contributed to riots, bloodshed, and the impossibility of peace in the Middle East. When National Geographic published the cover story that inspired this book in November 2019, it became one of their most-read pieces of the year.

The Correspondents: Six Women Writers on the Front Lines of World II, by Judith Mackrell

On the front lines of the Second World War, a contingent of female journalists were bravely waging their own battle. The Correspondents follows six remarkable women as their lives and careers intertwined: Martha Gellhorn, who got the scoop on Ernest Hemingway on D-Day by traveling to Normandy as a stowaway on a Red Cross ship; Lee Miller, who went from being a Vogue cover model to the magazine’s official war correspondent; Sigrid Schultz, who hid her Jewish identity and risked her life by reporting on the Nazi regime; Virginia Cowles, a “society girl columnist” turned combat reporter; Clare Hollingworth, the first English journalist to break the news of World War II; and Helen Kirkpatrick, the first woman to report from an Allied war zone with equal privileges to men.

POETRY

Books and Libraries: Poems, by Andrew Scrimgeour

An enchanting book about books: a beautiful hardcover Pocket Poets anthology that testifies to the passion books and libraries have inspired through the ages and around the world. The poets collected here range from the writer of Ecclesiastes in the third century BCE to Maya Angelou, and Derek Walcott.

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

A House, by Kevin Henkes

A square, a circle, a roof, some snow, then flowers, some people, a house! With a simple palette and rhythmic repetitive text, this celebration of home and family may be the first book a child reads on their own and a family favorite, too. (Ages 2-6.)

Thank You, Neighbor, by Ruth Chan

Young and old, big and small, neighbors are always there to take care of each other. This sweet story with Chan’s charming illustrations celebrates neighbors of all kinds, even the furry ones. (Ages 2-6.)

Cat Problems, by Jory John

There’s just no end to the problems in kitty’s life. Someone keeps stealing the best cozy spot; sunbeam is falling down on the job; the couch doesn’t have any good scratching spots left; and (gag) there’s dry food in the food bowl. No one understands just how hard it is to be kitty. (Ages 4-7.)

City of Thieves: Battle Dragons, by Alex London

Wings of Fire meets How to Train Your Dragon in this series that’s sure to be at the top of every dragon-lover’s holiday list. (Ages 9-13.)

Cold Turkey, by Corey Rosen Schwartz

It’s time for some f-f-frozen f-f-farmyard f-f-fun when Turkey shares his cozy clothing with his frosty friends and then f-f-finds himself a bit f-f-frosty. This story of sharing, caring, and friendship is perfect for Thanksgiving or every day. (Ages 3-6.)  PS

Compiled by Kimberly Daniels Taws and Angie Tally.

Mileposts

Landings

Homage to a friend

By Julie O. Petrini

It was time. The needle angles in. His eyelids droop and his head lowers, prehistoric in the haze of age and sedation. First his knees and now his hocks buckle and, this final time, he lands onto the earth.

I remember other landings. He sights the obstacle. His ears perk and we each await the cue from the other. Mostly, I trust him to find the way and we take off in brief yet timeless flight. Gracefully, he lands and we gallop to the next.

Once, I take desperate charge and insist we fly too soon. All heart, he complies. Dense fence rails splinter as we crash and 1,500 pounds somersaults hard. I lay by his side and momentum hurtles toward me. Steel-rimmed hooves above my stillness. All will, he reverses gravity and gracefully he lands.

A little girl’s dream. Maybe every little girl’s dream. Madison Square Garden. Jumps overpacked into a spotlighted arena, fans noisy in the folding seats. No little girl anymore, I ask for his indulgence. Around we canter, finding each jump in stride. Up and over. Gracefully he lands.

We pass three decades together. A constant among the variables of marriage, children, career, life. He nickers at the crunch of my car wheels in the gravel of the stable yard. We wander rooty trails in the Massachusetts autumn, hoping for fallen trees across the path. I urge a trot and then we leap. And gracefully, always, he lands.

An old horse’s dream. Sun-soaked fields, crayon-green grass, Carolina-blue skies. The devotion of a little girl, in worn and torn costume. For as long as you want, until you’re ready, I tell him. I’m ready, he says to me one day.

And gracefully he lands. PS

Julie O. Petrini is a lawyer, writer and avid arts consumer. She splits her time between Southern Pines, North Carolina, and Wellesley, Massachusetts. She can be reached at jpetrini@petrinilaw.com.

Golftown Journal

Traveling Man

Getting an overlapping grip on the world

By Lee Pace

Greg Ohlendorf grew up in a small town less than an hour’s drive south of Chicago and has lived in Beecher, Illinois, all of his 58 years. “Our world is heavily influenced by the hustle and bustle of one of the biggest cities in America,” he says. “The world goes by very, very fast.”

It was natural that the aesthetics and pace of Pinehurst and Southern Pines would be a comfortable counterbalance after his first visit in 1996.

“We drove into town and saw the pine trees, and your blood pressure drops 10 points,” he says. “There’s a peace and a calm about it. You slow down immediately. I love small town charm, and certainly the Sandhills has all you could want. I was completely smitten from that first visit.”

He and wife Melissa stayed at the Carolina Hotel, and he played golf on Pinehurst Nos. 2, 6 and 7. He returned a decade later, this time bringing his son, Cam, and setting up a 14-round golf orgy over seven days that included a half-dozen courses at Pinehurst as well as Pine Needles, Mid Pines, and Forest Creek North and South.

“My wife fell in love with everything about Pinehurst and the Sandhills,” Ohlendorf says. “She thought the climate was great. She’s a Wisconsin girl and likes a sweatshirt-and-blue jeans kind of day. We’d been to Florida enough times, and I was not impressed with the golf. The golf in Pinehurst was compelling.”

Then, in 2014, the Ohlendorfs decided to plant a stake in the Sandhills, purchasing a townhouse at Longleaf and moving in the Thursday of the U.S. Open on Pinehurst No. 2. Today they spend from three to four months in the area to supplement their permanent home in Illinois. Ohlendorf uses his memberships at Pine Needles, Mid Pines and Pinehurst to get all the Donald Ross he wants — not to mention some Rees Jones, Jack Nicklaus, Tom Fazio, Ellis Maples and Gil Hanse, too.

“I love all things Ross and all things Sandhills,” Ohlendorf says.

When the worlds of golf and travel merge, the man knows of what he speaks. As a member of the Golfweek course rating panel since 2004, he’s played over a thousand courses worldwide in 16 countries. His litany of lists includes playing Golf Magazine’s Top 100; Golfweek’s Top 100 Modern Courses; and Golfweek’s Top 100 Classic Courses. He recently published a memoir of his travels in a book, Global Golf Travels.

The volume spans nearly 400 pages and tells of Greg and Melissa’s trips to the British Isles, Hawaii, Australia, Thailand, South Korea, Africa and beyond. Often Cam and nephew Clint make the journeys as well. Ohlendorf was motivated to schlep his golf clubs around the world after his father, who had been tethered to a 24/7/365 family business, died of Alzheimer’s disease. He and Melissa juggle their travel with their “day jobs” of Greg running a community bank in Beecher, and Melissa working as an educational technologist for the local school district.

“Carpe diem became my motto after Dad died,” Ohlendorf says. “My book started as a memoir to my family, and specifically for my grandson or granddaughter, who at the time I began, wasn’t even a figment in my son and his wife’s imaginations. I realized, though, that I knew so little of my grandparents’ lives that I wanted to leave something in writing for a future generation to read. Whether or not they cared about golf was secondary, but I thought they might like the ‘wanderlust’ traveler part of my adventure.”

Ohlendorf’s perspective on evaluating a golf course has evolved over the years into a focus on the putting surfaces and their settings. “I’m an architecture junkie but particularly a greens guy,” he says. “My sense of golf is if you shoot 72, you have 36 putts. That’s a perfect round of golf. If half the round is so uninteresting because you have less-than-compelling green sites, that doesn’t do much for me. Pinehurst No. 2 is all about the greens. Pine Needles and Mid Pines have wonderful greens. Dornoch around the greens is wonderful.”

The cover image of his book is a view of Royal Dornoch. “My favorite course in the world,” he says. It was 20 years ago that Ohlendorf first played the course on the northeast coast of Scotland that spawned a young Donald Ross as a greenkeeper and clubmaker. Melissa captured the cover shot from the vicinity of the fifth tee, with the middle part of the frame showing a cluster of the greens of the fifth, sixth and 11th holes. In the background, the hillside and narrow walking path leading to the seventh tee loom, while vivid yellow gorse bushes bloom in the foreground.

“The way the course is routed, with each of the first half dozen holes going ‘out’ but at slightly different angles, made me realize that there was so much more to links golf and its associated wind,” he says. “The tight turf, the revetted bunkers, and the fantastic green sites just caught my imagination.”

Ohlendorf embraces the ambience of Ross’ hometown and the friendliness of the proprietors of the shops, inns and restaurants almost as much as he does the golf experience. Visiting Americans are sure to book a table with expat Chris Surmonte, who runs Luigi, a popular café on Castle Street in the heart of town.

“Dornoch is perfect for the cover for my book,” he says. “When Dornoch’s in full bloom with the gorse, it’s literally breathtaking. You come off the second green to the third tee and it’s spread out below you in full bloom, and you just don’t want to move. It’s the same with the town and the little shops. I’ve passed Chris on the golf course and he’ll yell to me confirming my dinner reservation. Where else can you find that?

“Being a community banker, small towns and small businesses are my bread and butter,” he says. “It’s what I have done for a living. Pinehurst and Dornoch — these little places are meaningful to me.”  PS

Greg Ohlendorf’s book, Global Golf Travels, is available locally at Old Sport & Gallery in the village of Pinehurst or by clicking globalgolftravels.com.

Tea Leaf Astrologer

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

When a Libra hangs the moon, they don’t care if you notice. They just want you to take note of how perfectly it’s situated in the night sky — how it’s never looked bigger or brighter — and don’t the stars look dreamier than usual, too? Ruled by Venus, Libras are sometimes accused of living in a bit of a fantasy world. But here’s what this quixotic air sign needs to remember: Mood lighting will only get you so far. 

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

Remember the children’s game, Telephone? How “Go fly a kite” could become “Let’s leave tonight” in an instant? Don’t let this happen in real life.    

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

You’re feeling red hot this month. In other words: It’s time to ditch the sweatpants.   

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

Someone wants to be your friend. Try letting your guard down.   

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

What does a flower need to grow? I bet you know. Now, pretend you’re the flower.

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Before you dip your toes into the tempting waters of someone else’s drama, ask yourself if it’s worth swimming upstream.

Aries (March 21 – April 19)

Your sensitive side is showing. See what happens when you don’t cover it up.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

Expanding your horizons doesn’t always mean leaving the couch. But it’s probably a good idea.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

There are two sides to every story. But for you, it’s more like a prism.

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

In a world of this-isms and that-isms, choose peace.   

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

Three words: pancakes for breakfast. You know what I’m talking about.

Virgo (August 23 – September 22)

Let’s just say Venus is on your side this month.  PS

Zora Stellanova has been divining with tea leaves since Game of Thrones’ Starbucks cup mishap of 2019. She lives in the N.C. foothills with her Sphynx cat, Lyla. 

 

The Omnivorous Reader

Weddings and Wit

Learning about love on a deadline

By Anne Blythe

If you’re someone who likes to soak in every detail from The New York Times Vows section — and even if you’re not — Cate Doty just might have a book for you to tuck into your beach bag or snuggle up with beside a late fall or early winter fire. Her first book, Mergers and Acquisitions: Or, Everything I Know About Love I Learned on the Wedding Pages, published in May, builds on her experiences as a wedding announcement reporter for the Times. She likes that her memoir has been described as a breezy beach read, but it’s much more.

It’s a sprightly written coming-of-age story that gives readers a peek into how the Vows columns and marriage announcements get onto the newspaper’s pages while also revealing a young reporter questioning those traditions and institutions. Don’t expect a tell-all about those couples whose carefully crafted wedding resumes include first dates after a Harvard debate club meeting, or mentions of grandparents or parents with penthouse apartments overlooking Central Park.

This is a love story, an account from a witty, self-deprecating author who readily acknowledges the irony of poking fun at people who go to great lengths to get their wedding announcements into the Times, then having the news of her own marriage published there, too.

On a hot August morning on the stone steps of Wilson Library at UNC-Chapel Hill, Cate Doty — born in Raleigh and raised in Fayetteville — was sitting with her husband, Michael, watching students rush along the campus sidewalks between classes. Nearly two decades ago, Doty was one of those students herself, unsure of the path she would chart from those brick walkways. During freshman orientation, she wandered into the offices of The Daily Tar Heel, a feisty student newspaper that has launched many a storied journalism career.

An eventual North Carolina writer began to take shape.

Now, she’s back on campus, a published author, teaching in the journalism school and reminiscing about what compelled her to share her own wedding story after getting her feet wet writing for The New York Times wedding section. Doty takes her readers on a journey from her student days and a steamy romance on the cusp of adulthood in Chapel Hill to the nation’s capital and then New York, a city that woos its young arrivals while also putting them through their paces.

Along the way, she gives glimpses of Fayetteville, the Cumberland County city where she got a taste of the country club life, cotillions and what it was like to live on the edge of privilege in a complicated South while also questioning whether she was one of the advantaged or someone on the outside looking in. There are snippets from Swansboro, where her mother lives now, and peeks inside one of the largest newspapers in the world, where she worked as a researcher, news assistant and eventually editor.

Through the trials and tribulations of falling in and out of love while writing wedding announcements, Doty falls head over heels for a city, a profession and a fellow journalist — the same guy sitting with her below the marble columns of Wilson Library. It’s a book that makes you think about the nature of weddings, the institution of marriage, the stories behind the unions, and why anybody needs to read about the floral arrangements, dress designs and guests at the ceremony.

“What’s in a wedding announcement? After all, weddings will (and do) happen without one,” Doty writes. “In fact, most American nuptials, successful or not, go unnoticed by news organizations and unannounced, except on social media, and the occasional church bulletin. But the weddings we wrote about for the Times — they were different. They were, generally speaking, wildly expensive — far beyond the average American expenditure of $44,000. But they were more than the sum of their gilded parts. They were mergers of families and bank accounts, of aspirations and hubris. And these announcements were battle plans, and business plans, of class and warfare. They were incredibly difficult to obtain, which meant that they were worth far more than the soy ink they were made of.”

Doty transports readers through the Times offices to the desk of the wedding section editor, who quickly opens her eyes even wider to a world of haves and have-nots, and an exclusive club of brides and grooms who can be demanding, difficult, defiant and on occasion downright devoid of decency. The New York Social Register played a part in which of the 200, or more, wedding announcements submitted each week would land in the 40 to 45 available slots that readers of the Times print pages lingered over on Sundays. Lineage back to the Mayflower mattered, as did social and financial connections to Newport, Palm Beach, the Hamptons and the Upper East Side.

There’s a revealing story about one senator, “a craven, attention-hungry man,” who slammed down the phone on Doty in outrage as she asked him the same kind of fact-checking questions put to all who expect their nuptial announcements to appear in the Times.

Doty, who’s now 42, started writing for the wedding desk in 2004 and did so off and on for six years. The first three seasons she chronicles in her memoir are so descriptive that you can almost hear the phone messages blaring on Monday mornings after an aggrieved newlywed calls to complain about something put in — or left out of — their special announcement. Following the counsel of her legal team, Doty changed the names of editors, colleagues, brides and grooms she worked with and reported on in her book.

One name was unchanged, however, that of her husband, Michael. He worked at the Times, too, starting there as a news clerk and ending on the politics desk in 2016 after the primaries and general election. They both took buyouts that year when facing new demands of parenthood and changes at the newspaper.

In Doty’s memoir, readers see the confusion she wrestles with after Michael, her friend and lunch partner, invites her to a play in which he’s a character running wild in the bayou on a New York stage, completely naked and covered with mud.

“The lighting was artfully done so that you couldn’t see everything, but I saw nearly everything,” Doty wrote. “My face burned like lava. It trickled down my neck and my body, and I thought, Well then.”

She delivered her blunt critique of the play at lunch, blurting out a question they still playfully debate today, just as they do in the pages of the book. “‘You didn’t tell me you were going to be completely naked,’ I said over my turkey cheeseburger at the Westway. He looked startled, and then angry. ‘Yes, I did,’ he said prickly. ‘I wouldn’t have not told you that.’” They eventually had their first kiss on the steps of the New York Public Library between Patience and Fortitude, the marble lions that flank them.

Though it’s a city they’ve left behind for their home in Raleigh where they’re raising their first-grader and their dog, New York still occupies a huge space in their hearts.

“We were learning how to be ourselves,” Michael says about the book and the city he describes as a prominent character in it. “We were learning how to be together. We were learning how to live in the city. We were learning how to navigate a career path at the Times together.”

They were both Southerners in their City of Dreams, he the child of divorce with a nomadic sense of place, and she from a line of North Carolina women who, among other things, insisted that you don’t put family silver in the dishwasher for fear of damaging the patina. They challenged each other on their traditions and roots. 

North Carolinians may recognize a bit of themselves in the family and characters that come alive through Doty’s funny, warm and introspective words. They might question why a woman seemingly so critical of wedding announcements and the carefully crafted displays of stations in life that go along with them ends up writing a book about her own wedding story.

“I’m not above the fray,” Doty added. “But I also think it’s important, as someone who comes from this background, to talk about it. To poke holes in it.”   PS

Anne Blythe has been a reporter in North Carolina for more than three decades. She has covered city halls, higher education, the courts, crime, hurricanes, ice storms, droughts, floods, college sports, health care and the wonderful characters who make this state such an interesting place.

Bookshelf

October Books

FICTION

The Lincoln Highway, by Amor Towles

In Nebraska during the summer of 1954, 18-year-old Emmett is released from his sentence on a work farm to retrieve his 8-year-old brother following the death of his father and the subsequent foreclosure on the family farm. The plan is to head west on the Lincoln Highway for a fresh start, but two of Emmett’s friends, who escaped from the work farm, have other ideas. So begins an incredible odyssey blown completely off course, hopping freight trains and encountering Americana. Filled with retribution, heartache, empathy and humor, Towles delivers a rich and powerful novel with deeply developed characters.

No Diving Allowed, by Louise Marburg

From F. Scott Fitzgerald to John Cheever, the swimming pool has long held a unique place in the mythos of the American idyll, by turns status symbol and respite. The 14 stories that comprise No Diving Allowed fearlessly plunge the depths of the human condition as Marburg freights her narratives with the often unfathomable pressure of what lies beneath.

Jacket Weather, by Mike DeCapite

Jacket Weather drops you right into the beating heart of New York City — the heart of the music scene of the ’80s, the steamy gym of early morning, the delicious pain of obsessive love, the quiet rainy morning with the half-finished New York Times crossword, and a recipe for perfect Italian pasta. This one is a real treat.

The Memoirs of Stockholm Sven, by Nathaniel Ian Miller

Beginning in 1916, the hapless young Sven leaves Stockholm for a life of adventure in the icy north. A terrible mining accident alters his life and appearance, pushing him farther north to lead a solitary existence. Fate steps in, bringing a small, fascinating cast of people into his world, enhancing his isolation and worldview. Miller provides unforgettable characters, a deeply mesmerizing tale, and the most exquisite prose.

Miss Eliza’s English Kitchen: A Novel of Victorian Cookery and Friendship, by Annabel Abbs

A light novel about Eliza Acton, a British woman who lived in the 1800s. For 10 years she worked with her kitchen maid, Ann, and recorded her recipes with precise measurements and in a format that was readable. Publishing her cookbook, she changed the way recipes were written forever.

NONFICTION

On Animals, by Susan Orlean

In a charming menagerie of stories of beasts and birds and the bizarre humans who share their world, Orlean writes about a range of creatures — the household pets we dote on; the animals we raise to end up as meat on our plates; the creatures who could eat us for dinner; the various tamed and untamed animals we share our planet with. In her own backyard, Orlean discovers the delights of keeping chickens. In a different backyard, in New Jersey, she meets a woman who has 23 pet tigers — something none of her neighbors knew about until one of them escaped. In Iceland, the world’s most famous whale resists efforts to set him free; in Morocco, the world’s hardest working donkeys find respite at a special clinic. We meet a show dog, a lost dog, and a pigeon who knows exactly how to get home.

The Storyteller: Tales of Life and Music, by Dave Grohl

You may know Grohl as the Nirvana drummer or the frontman of the Foo Fighters or the interesting and reflective essayist who writes beautifully for magazines like The Atlantic. These essays encompass his childhood, life as a dad, creation of both iconic bands, activism, and memories of stars like Iggy Pop, Joan Jett, Tom Petty, Paul McCartney and Little Richard.

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

Boo, Baa, La La La, by Sandra Boynton

When does a cow say “Boooooo”? When it’s Halloween and she wants to try something newwwwww. Superb silliness from the beloved Sandra Boynton will make all the ghouls and boys giggle with this new board book just perfect for fall fun. (Ages 0-3.)

Looking for a Jumbie, by Tracey Baptiste

Mama says Jumbies only exist in stories, but Naya is pretty sure she knows where to find them. This We’re Going on a Bear Hunt-ish book with a Caribbean beat is the perfect (only a little bit scary) autumn read-aloud. (Ages 4-6.)

Bat Wings? Cat Wings!, By Laura Gehl

The cow says moo and the dog says ruff, but there’s always that kid who wants to turn everything on its head, and this is the perfect book for those little rebels. Animal facts combine with a bit of ridiculousness to make for a fun read-aloud that’s ideal for bedtime or any time giggles are in order. (Ages 4-7.)

The Beatryce Prophecy, by Kate DiCamillo

When your family is in danger, when you are the subject of a prophecy, when you are in the way of a king’s mission, it really helps if you have the soft ear of a goat to hold onto — and a friend or two on your side. From the three-time Newbery Award winning author, this brilliant novel is a must for young adventurers. (Ages 9-12.)  PS

Compiled by Kimberly Daniels Taws and Angie Tally.

Southwords

On a Wig and a Prayer

By Jim Moriarty

When the occasion warrants, I’ve been known to dress in women’s clothes. I’m not going to blame genetics entirely for this but it’s an established fact that my eldest brother — the one with the Ivy League law degree who clerked on the United States Supreme Court — once performed a musical number in drag at a 137-year-old Boston club that, on a separate occasion, had entertained Winston Churchill at dinner. My brother did allow as how the entire affair was a bit embarrassing, though given his singing voice, I’m not sure which part would have been the most mortifying.

While my local club, the Bitter and Twisted, never, to the best of my knowledge, hosted a British prime minister, I have appeared behind the bar there in female costume. It may have happened more than once. One particular evening it was for a holiday fundraiser. My wife, the War Department, and I joined Doris and Neville Beamer to pour beer and mix drinks dressed as The Mamas and the Papas. I was Mama Cass.

Costuming wasn’t a significant issue. As luck would have it, Mary McKeithen at Showboat has all my measurements — though for this episode I confess broad admiration at her ability to conjure up a pair of size 10 1/2 white go-go boots, a feat she accomplished with the apparent ease of ordering a pepperoni pizza.

The evening coincided with a visit from our nephew. At the time he was a C-130 pilot on active duty in the California Air Force Reserve, and he and his crew had put in at Pope Air Force Base on their way to who knows where. We invited them to join the festivities, which they did.

When our two-hour cruise behind the bar had ended, we collectively decided to retire to Neville’s basement emporium to unwind from the demands of performance art. Unaccustomed as I was to the rigors of wearing white go-go boots, I couldn’t tolerate the pain any longer and had to make a stop at home to de-Cass before joining the rest of our jolly band. I showed up at Neville’s in my usual costume — jeans, tennis shoes, a golf shirt and a jacket. As time went by and the feeling returned to my feet, my wife was approached by one of our nephew’s crewmen.

“So, what happened to Uncle Jim?” he inquired, clearly crestfallen at the mysterious absence of Mama Cass.

She nonchalantly pointed at me several barstools away. “He’s right there,” she said. And had been for the better part of an hour.

The appearance, or disappearance, of Mama Cass wasn’t my last brush with blush. That occurred some years later when I was on tap to reprise our bartending masquerade, this time dressed as a traditional geisha.

The War Department had volunteered to apply my makeup for me. After painting my face with the appropriate white greasepaint, she began drawing on the bright red lipstick with the care and concentration of a high school biology student slicing open a frog. When she finished she stood back to admire her handiwork.

“Oh, my God,” she said, her eyes widening with fright.

“What?” I asked. What had she done? Was I fixed up to look like the Joker?

“You look exactly like your mother.”

That was enough to make me hang up my muumuus for good.  PS

Jim Moriarty is the Editor of PineStraw and can be reached at jjmpinestraw@gmail.com.

 

Golftown Journal

A Loop of My Own

When lightning strikes twice

By Lee Pace

I’ve hit many thousands of golf shots over more than four decades, and through early July 2021 two of my favorites had come at Forest Creek Golf Club, the 36-hole facility just northeast of the Village of Pinehurst.

One was a hole-in-one in July 1996. I made an annual trip to Pinehurst in the 1990s with three buddies from Chapel Hill, and we were able to arrange a game at Forest Creek during its first summer of operation. I hit a sweet 6-iron on the sixth hole, and the ball hit the green, bounced and rolled into the cup.

Then, in May 2014, I was invited by Ed Kinney, a longtime friend through our shared affiliations with the University of North Carolina football and basketball programs, to play in the club member-guest. What a memorable weekend — five nine-hole matches on the club’s North and South Courses, a bed in Ed and wife Betty’s comfortable home on Granville Drive, succulent meals, and a lavish gift package (I still have my Scotty Cameron Newport 2 putter).

Ed and I played well together that weekend, and we needed to win our match on Saturday afternoon to collect first place in our flight. We were playing the back nine of the South Course and came to the par-3 17th. The hole was playing fairly long that afternoon, and I hit a 5-wood tight to win the hole and close out our opponents.

That hole is certainly one of the most gorgeous and challenging among the 36 at Forest Creek — a clutch of pine trees and azaleas standing sentinel to the rear, the tree limbs reflected in a pond in front of the green as you gaze from the tee, the rolling higher ground of the eighth fairway in the distance, a very shallow green demanding you get your number dead perfect.

If you’re going to nail the sweet spot and watch that gorgeous right-to-left curve against a deep blue sky, I can’t think of a better venue for it.

Thus I was certainly interested when I received a phone call in early 2018 from one of the partners of Colony 9 LLC, the group that at the end of 2017 had purchased Forest Creek from a consortium of members. They were looking ahead to the club’s 25th  anniversary in 2021 and wanted to talk about publishing a book to commemorate the club’s first quarter-century.

One of the interesting (and sobering) elements to tacking on the years is that you find yourself writing anniversary tributes to events you witnessed in real time. I can remember in the early 1990s having a meeting at the Holly Inn in Pinehurst with a fellow named Larry Torrance, who was on the staff of a new club just outside Pinehurst called Bent Creek. It turns out that “Bent Creek” as well as “The Farm” were two early names the developers wanted to use for their new golf venture, but because other clubs in Texas and Georgia, respectively, already had those names, they decided to go with Forest Creek.

I’ve been fortunate to have a front-row seat to the evolution of the Sandhills area since the late 1980s: from the restoration of Pinehurst No. 2 as a venue for major championships to the emergence of Pine Needles as a regular venue for the U.S. Women’s Open; from the explosion of golf courses in the 1990s to the retrenchment in various corners during economic downturns.

Forest Creek has been a major cog in that story. That it is still standing and standing strong is a testament to the original vision, the resolve of the members and the passion and resources that the Colony 9 partnership provides.

A highlight of my two-plus years working on the book to be introduced in late October at a gala 25-year-anniverary celebration has been the occasional late-afternoon walking round with course superintendent David Lee, who I’ve known dating to his previous job at Hope Valley Country Club in Durham. I know David as “Bushwood” and he knows me as “Shooter,” the nicknames bestowed upon us when we joined the early morning men’s workout group known as F3 in the Durham/Chapel Hill area around 2013. That both of our monikers came from the golf movie realm (his from Caddyshack and mine from Happy Gilmore) are testaments to the place golf holds in our lives.

I sought David out for a twilight nine on July 15, 2021, just as the finishing pieces were coming together to form the book. I wanted to enjoy the nirvana of late afternoon golf, bags slung over our shoulders, no hurry in the world, before finishing this essay. I had reflected earlier in the week on my history at Forest Creek and even plowed through some memorabilia to see if I might have saved that scorecard from 1996, but to no avail.

A fierce thunderstorm to the east threatened our outing at 4 p.m., but David checked the radar and thought the weather was moving away from us. So off we set, the only two golfers, it seemed, on the premises.

We embraced the experience — catching up on work, family, our respective workout regimens, the upcoming football season, plugging various leaks in our respective golf games, the stuff guys talk about when they’re going for a walk in a nice park — with a few golf shots thrown in.

We climbed the steep hill leading to the sixth tee. I tried to catch my breath while measuring the distance with my GPS. I pulled my 5-iron for the 168-yard shot. I put a good move on the ball, and it tracked toward the hole. I knew it would be close but couldn’t see just how close, my aging eyes able to see the landing and bounce of a ball but not always the final resting spot. 

“Nice shot,” David said, then, looking closer, added, “I think that’s in the hole.”

“Seriously?” I responded.

“That or it’s right behind the stick.”

“Maybe it rolled off the back,” I said.

“No, it definitely did not do that.”

I quickened and lengthened my strides toward the green. No sign of the ball. I got to the hole, leaned over, and sure enough, there it was.

Twenty-five years later — same hole, same month of the year, same one.

I phoned one of my playing companions from a quarter-century ago and marveled over the odds.

“Water has a better chance of freezing at 43 degrees than what you just did,” Mick Mixon said. “That is just eerie.”

David phoned one of his assistants as we were playing the seventh hole and asked him to grab the flag from the sixth hole. “If you make a hole-in-one here, you get to keep the pin flag,” he said. The flag was delivered as we hit our tee shots on eight. It will look splendid with Tom Fazio’s autograph and a nice frame.

All I wanted from that twilight nine was to close the loop on my 25 years at Forest Creek. Consider that box properly checked.  PS

Lee Pace has written club histories in the Sandhills area for Pinehurst Resort and Country Club, Pine Needles, Mid Pines and now Forest Creek Golf Club. Contact him at leepace7@gmail.com and follow him on Twitter at @LeePaceTweet.

Simple Life

The Last Ride

A legendary car, two old dogs and the end of the road in sight

By Jim Dodson

I knew this day would eventually come.

In recent years, I’ve pushed the thought to the back of my mind that it might be time to say goodbye and hand her off to someone who can restore her to her glory.

But every time I take her for a spin, by Jove, The Pearl works her automotive magic on me, riding like a dream, cruising the world on eight cylinders and a Corvette engine. With her roomy leather seats and patented “Dynaride” suspension system, she’s still like driving in your living room. We’ve been together a dozen years, almost half The Pearl’s life and almost one-sixth of mine. We survived the Great Recession, the end of cassette players and four teenagers. My dog Mulligan has spent most of her long life riding shotgun in The Pearl. Oh, the places we’ve been together up and down the highway!

The Pearl is a 1996 Buick Roadmaster estate station wagon, reportedly the last true production wagon that General Motors made before switching to prissy little SUVs.

The mighty Roadmaster is an American automotive icon, introduced in 1936 as the nation began to crawl out from under the Great Depression. Its creators had this nutty idea that Americans getting back on their feet might want to take the family on a road trip to see the land of the free and the home of the brave. With its oversized windows, sleek lines, wide chassis, faux wooden siding, “vista roof” and proverbial third seat facing backwards, the versatile Roadmaster wagon was just the ticket for seeing America from ground level.

The end of the Roadmaster line came in 1996 when 22,989 models rolled off the assembly line for the last time.

Mine entered the life of a nice gentleman from New Jersey who loved the car so much he kept the dashboard covered with protective felt and put only 60,000 miles on its odometer over 12 years.

Fate and quiet desperation brought us together when my children began stealing the Volvos and Subarus to go off to college. I wrote a newspaper column joking that I was shopping for a car like the one my old man drove when I was a kid — a gas-guzzling monster of the American highway that no enlightened, environmentally-minded Millennial would be caught dead riding in around town. It turns out, that car was a Buick Roadmaster wagon.

Not two days after the column appeared, a woman phoned to say, “Mr. Dodson, I am here to make you a happy man.”

Her father and mother were residents of a local senior living community. They owned a 1996 Buick Roadmaster station wagon that the daughter had fooled her father into giving up, lest he injure himself or someone else due to his declining driving habits.

“My father bought the car new and absolutely adores it,” she explained. “We all loved it. It took me off to college and helped me move several times. She has a few dings but still runs like a dream. But it has to go.”

She explained that a vintage car buff out West was interested in buying it — Roadmasters were apparently big with car collectors — but if I wanted to check it out at a local garage, she would consider selling it to me.

“If you don’t buy this car,” said the mechanic, handing me the keys for a test drive, “I probably will. They don’t make cars like this anymore.”

I purchased it an hour later. My wife laughed when she saw it pull into the driveway. “Oh my,” she said. “That really is your father’s Buick.”

No. 1 son — the Subaru thief — asked if he could take the car off to college. Not a chance, I told him.

No. 2 son pointed out that my Roadmaster model was ranked No. 7 on the “official list of Best Cars to Own in the Event of a Zombie Apocalypse.” He wondered if he could take it for a spin.

“Maybe after the zombie apocalypse,” I said.

I had, after all, my own big plans for this oversized jewel of the 20th Century American highway.

For many years — decades, actually — I’d dreamed of finding and traveling the Great Wagon Road of Colonial America, the famous backcountry highway that brought thousands of Scots-Irish, German and other European immigrants to the American South during the 18th century, including my own English and Scottish forebears.

Historians and old road experts had recently determined the Great Road’s original path from Philadelphia to Augusta, Georgia — an 850-mile land route that passed through some of the most historic battlefields, towns and sacred landscapes of early America.

Dan’l Boone and his family traveled it from Pennsylvania to the banks of the Yadkin River. The most pivotal battles of the Revolutionary War were fought along the highway, including engagements at Cowpens, Kings Mountain and Guilford Courthouse, leading to the British surrender at Yorktown. 

America’s first immigrant highway also bisected the killing fields of the American Civil War at Antietam and Gettysburg, where Abraham Lincoln — whose grandfather lived on the Great Road in Virginia — gave the Gettysburg Address on a hill just above the highway. By my count, in fact, no less than seven U.S. presidents were either born directly on or traveled the Great Wagon Road most of their lives. The Scots-Irish brought their balladry, fiddle music and God-given talent for fighting (and making corn whiskey) down the road, giving birth to Bluegrass in the hollers of Appalachia.

Four summers ago, after years of research and planning, my dog Mulligan and I set off along the road in our own Great Wagon, which a colleague at work nicknamed The Pearl, hoping to travel the entire route in two or three weeks.

Silly me. It took a month just to get out of Pennsylvania. The abundance of great stories and memorable people we met along the road turned an 800-mile road trip into a three-year, 3,000-mile odyssey of discovery that recently drew to a close, including a year of travel lost due to COVID.

Though she is showing her age and is more dinged up than ever, The Pearl managed to make the entire journey and then some. She brought us home with an engine that still runs like a dream.

Along the way, she provided absolute strangers with fond memories of their own childhood. “My father had a car just like that,” they would say with a note of pure wonder. “It was my favorite family car.” A man in the parking lot at Gettysburg actually offered to buy The Pearl. “How much do you want for her?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I replied. “But I might someday give her to the right person.”

He handed me a card, which I promptly lost.

Since finishing the road last autumn, The Pearl has mostly been my gardening car, hauling shrubs and mulch, though Miss Mulligan and I go out for a spin every now and then.

Mully is now 16, The Pearl is pushing 25. The last ride can’t be far away.

But what a time we’ve had, what a sweet journey it’s been. PS

Jim Dodson can be reached at jwdauthor@gmail.com.