Thanksgiving Reminiscences

Thanksgiving Reminiscences

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Thanksgiving Reminiscences

The call went out. Send us your wild, your sweet, your huddled histories of Thanksgivings gone by yearning to be shared. Here are a few, from minor disasters to major memories.

Now it’s time to make some more.

When I was growing up in Winnetka, Illinois, a suburb of Chicago, my family traveled every year to our farm in Tryon, North Carolina, for Thanksgiving.

In 1965, after the holiday weekend, we flew back to Chicago from Asheville. We were already seated when a group of gentlemen boarded the plane, walked by us and sat a few rows behind us. My father recognized one of the gentlemen — describing him as a great man who would change the history of our country — and encouraged me to go talk to him.

Never shy, even at the awkward age of 12, I approached the gentleman and introduced myself: “My name is Marilyn Barrett, and my father says you are a great man and I need to meet you.”

He looked up at me, smiled a brilliant smile, heartily shook my hand, and said something to the effect of, “Thank your father for me.” We talked a bit and when I asked him for his autograph, he pulled a pen from his suit pocket and signed the only paper I had with me: my ticket jacket for Delta Airlines Flight 750, from Asheville to Chicago-O’Hare, stamped November 28, 1965.

He wrote, “Best Wishes, Martin Luther King, Jr.” 

— Marilyn Barrett

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. It comes in the fall with the possibility of experiencing beautiful fall foliage, if conditions have been right.

To me, Thanksgiving is a color, or a few colors: golds, reds, browns, orange, tan. I love the beautiful gold presented by the gingko tree at the corner of East Massachusetts Avenue and South East Broad Street in Southern Pines, and if you look into the woods you’ll see the lovely tans presented by American beech trees. All these colors are a part of what Thanksgiving is to me.

Of course, there is the food — usually too much food — and home-cooked is the best. There has been only one Thanksgiving that didn’t work out so well for me, and it was my own fault. Every year, somehow, when I fix my plate to eat, I think I have to eat a good portion of EVERYTHING. Mistake! One year, at my late mother’s home, I ate too much. Oh, the pain! I spent much of that day trying to recover. I can laugh about it now, and Thanksgiving remains my favorite holiday. Food, family, friends and if we’re lucky, beautiful fall weather.

— Linda Pearson

I’m not a baker, but in 2018, I found what looked like a foolproof recipe for a spiced pound cake with buttermilk glaze. It was the first Thanksgiving my parents hosted in North Carolina after years of chilly, sometimes snow-covered Thanksgivings in Pennsylvania. I had just gotten married that May and, feeling like I was officially entering adulthood, I was determined to contribute.

I got a store-bought spiced pound cake and placed it on a decorative plate, which meant I only needed to make the four-ingredient glaze.

My first attempt turned into something resembling cement. I blamed the butter and my lack of patience for maybe not whisking enough. I threw it out and headed to my parents’ house for attempt No. 2.

I double- and triple-checked the ingredients because I didn’t want to mess up my first Thanksgiving contribution as an “adult.” I carefully measured 2 cups of powdered sugar, 3 tablespoons of melted butter, 1 teaspoon of vanilla extract and 2 tablespoons of buttermilk.

Same result, glue!

I had a bright idea to put it over high heat, add some water and declared it good enough. At least I was able to drizzle it over the pound cake, only to discover after a bite or two that the glaze — now room temperature — was completely inedible.

That Thanksgiving, I learned an important lesson. Buttermilk and buttermilk pancake mix are not the same thing. For Thanksgivings to come, I’ll stick to my Pinterest board veggie platters.

— Erika Leap

My now-husband and I had just started dating. My momma took a little while to love him as I did. He would come for homemade suppers quite often. The night that the ice was broken was a hot dog and hamburger supper night. We all came together, joined hands, prayed over our prepared food and family.

Now, my momma, being Southern, could make cole slaw that would make you stop in your tracks. You can put it on a hot dog, a burger, eat it as a side. After supper, he told Momma, “That’s the best cole slaw I’ve ever had!” That was all it took, one compliment, and she loved him forever. I could walk in her house first, and she’d want to hug him first.

I was never mad, I enjoyed seeing their relationship grow. After that, no matter the dish, there was cole slaw — spaghetti and meatballs, we had cole slaw; chicken and dumplings, cole slaw; we could make a sandwich, there was cole slaw! Everyone knew that was my husband’s cole slaw, made just for him.

After years of this routine, on a Thanksgiving, we gathered at the table, joined hands, and my brother began to bless our well-prepared meal. We all sat quietly with heads bowed. Suddenly Momma raised her head and said, “Wait, Jesus, hold that thought.” She shot up from her chair and said, “I forgot the COLE SLAW!”

We all looked at one another and a slow laugh began. Momma had just told Jesus to hold that thought, in the middle of prayer, to make cole slaw.

My momma has since gone home to our Lord. I’ve done my best to replicate her cole slaw, but it will never be good enough to tell Jesus to “hold that thought.”

— Sonya Valk

Grandma was an identical twin, but only “Grandma Aunt Jacky” is still living. Throughout nine decades together, the twins’ shared DNA kept them close, so Dad was close with his cousins, and Thanksgivings have always involved extended family referred to as aunt and uncle, who are actually first cousins once removed.

My parents sometimes hosted Thanksgiving when I was young. Other times, we’d travel through the crisp Pennsylvania fall weather. I’d shower and pull on something fancy just to change into sweatpants for two-hand-touch after an hourlong car ride. The logistics never made any sense.

It was often a full game with knit hats marking the corners of a lopsided field. At worst, it was a couple of the youngest and three adults tossing a pigskin. Dad was always one of them, and still is. He has a sense of duty to tradition. It’s why we always made the drive, and why I still do, up from the Carolinas.

With the last points scored, I’d go inside, change back into my holiday best, more rumpled than before, and sit down to a feast a day’s drive north with aunts, uncles and first cousins once removed. Logistics be damned.

— Jenna Biter

Getting off a long flight from Mumbai to Sydney, Darling Husband and I were greeted by our old friends Zena and Paul, who whisked us off to their home outside the city. It was November 2005. The next night they surprised us with a Thanksgiving dinner, which they had researched as they do not celebrate this very American holiday in Oz. Turkey, a bold attempt at dressing, and green beans, along with a lovely Australian wine to round it out.

No dinner was ever more thoughtfully put together for two displaced Yanks. The sheer joy of being in their lovely home was cause enough for giving thanks, but Zena and Paul produced a feast for two weary travelers to bring both cultures together. It was a time to be truly grateful for life, good food so lovingly prepared, and friends on the other side of the world we so seldom saw.

Not a Thanksgiving goes by that I don’t think of them and how they rekindled the meaning of coming together in gratitude for friendship and living a blessed life. And since DH’s passing, these memories warm my soul.

 

— Joyce Reehling

My Thanksgiving story is pretty mundane, compared to most people’s. Except for my sister, who lives up North, all the family is gone now. Even cousins are gone, except for a small handful who are scattered throughout the country; who knows where. Thanksgivings for me over the last 10 years have consisted of photographing the Moore County Hounds’ annual Blessing of the Hounds — Opening Meet. Afterward, I race home to get the pictures ready for The Pilot, and then prepare a meal for a horse friend who comes over and who is even less of a cook than I am. But I wing it, and we are both fine with the food; after all, it’s the coming together to share the meal on that day that matters.

But if I reminisce, which I tend to do even more now as time passes, Thanksgiving in my family was shared with the aunts and uncles who would travel down from Jersey to be with us, as we would travel up there to visit for Christmas every year. In the very early days in the 1960s, the cousins came too, and it was a great time to see and be with family again. My mother always cooked all the traditional foods and desserts, and it would be way more than we could eat, with loads of leftovers. But now I savor as many of those memories as I can, holding them in my mind and in my heart.

— Diane McKay

After my mother died, my father wanted to take on the Thanksgiving meal. His children (myself and husband, sister, and brother and wife) returned home each year to share the special occasion. Dad was a good cook and the meals were simple — only two side dishes even for holiday feasts. One year he decided to put the frozen turkey out on the front porch overnight to thaw for cooking the next day. When he woke up early in the morning to check on it, he discovered that a wild animal had feasted on it during the night. It might have been the neighbor’s cat!

After we all had a good laugh, Dad found a turkey loaf in the freezer and continued cooking the mashed potatoes and gravy and a green bean casserole. Sometimes good memories can come from bad times.

— Diana Staley

Fry Thanksgivings were always filled with family, friends, food (so much food) and fun. The day probably started with the men off to “hunt”; one never saw any game come back but lots of happy smiles. Women in the kitchen!

Us kids had a ball on the farm and were into every building and barn all over the place. I don’t remember a big turkey, but more of a big ham, lots of chicken, roast beef and every veggie one could think of, from potatoes to squash, along with all the relishes, pickles and molded salads from the latest recipe in the paper.

Two long freezers in the hallway were topped with pound cake (the all-time favorite), chocolate cake, fresh coconut cake, caramel cake and a neglected fruit cake.

Oh, and what pies! Every fruit that one can imagine, to pecan, chocolate cream, lemon meringue, and pumpkin and sweet potato!

All topped off with Grannie’s sugar cookies!

The Amazing Grace Farm is still known for its love of family, friends, fun and food.

— Glenda Kirby

Thanksgiving Recipe — Main Course

(Taken from the cookbook Joy of Heavenly Cooking)

Select 18 lbs. (or more) of Blessings

Stuff with Gratitude

Season with Kindred Broth

Roast with the Warmth of Humor

Baste with the Oil of Kind Words

Serve on a Platter of Goodwill

Carve some Savory Memories

Pass the Gravy of Compliments

Ladle lavishly with Love

Taste the Flavor of Fellowship

Enjoy a Hearty Feast of Grace

All from the hand of God

 

— Sandra Fischer

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Ut elit tellus, luctus nec ullamcorper mattis, pulvinar dapibus leo.

My family tends to be creatures of habit without really meaning to be, just comfortably leaning into what’s already there and not questioning what has been. To me, this gentle compliance is most prominent on Thanksgiving. Once on a phone call, my brother simply stated, “There’re just little traditions, that’s all,” but I swear it’s more than that because our beats and actions feel so intentionally woven into the day.

Sometimes that table is quiet, everyone taking the day to just be after a year of moving, and working, and adjusting to the needs of others. Other years it’s loud with stories of the aunts that feel like the worn pages of a favorite book, or making up songs with our forks and a random toy whistle.

But no matter what, the overall day remains the same. Nonna arriving late, annoyed and mumbling, “The pie’s not good, that damn oven.” A game on the TV no one watches but stays on anyway. Promising we won’t fill up on cheese before dinner like last year. My sister and I whispering inside jokes across the table. A cat nudging your ankle for scraps. Vibrant paper crowns. Ma’s smile. Warmth, consistent warmth.

— Victoria Landers

Two Thanksgiving Gentlemen

Two Thanksgiving Gentlemen

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Two Thanksgiving Gentlemen

Fiction by O. Henry

Illustration by Keith Borshak

There is one day that is ours. There is one day when all we Americans who are not self-made go back to the old home to eat biscuits and marvel how much nearer to the porch the old pump looks than it used to. Bless the day. It is the one day that is purely American. Yes, a day of celebration, exclusively American.

And now for the story which is to prove to you that we have traditions that are becoming older at a much rapider rate than those of England are — thanks to our git-up and enterprise.

Stuffy Pete took his seat on the third bench to the right as you enter Union Square from the east, at the walk opposite the fountain. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had taken his seat there promptly at 1 o’clock. For every time he had done so things had happened to him — Charles Dickensy things that swelled his waistcoat above his heart, and equally on the other side.

But today Stuffy Pete’s appearance at the annual trysting place seemed to have been rather the result of habit than of the yearly hunger which, as the philanthropists seem to think, afflicts the poor at such extended intervals.

Certainly Pete was not hungry. He had just come from a feast that had left him of his powers barely those of respiration and locomotion. His eyes were like two pale gooseberries firmly imbedded in a swollen and gravy-smeared mask of putty. His breath came in short wheezes; a senatorial roll of adipose tissue denied a fashionable set to his upturned coat collar. Buttons that had been sewed upon his clothes by kind Salvation fingers a week before flew like popcorn, strewing the earth around him. Ragged he was, with a split shirt front open to the wishbone; but the November breeze, carrying fine snowflakes, brought him only a grateful coolness. For Stuffy Pete was overcharged with the caloric produced by a super-bountiful dinner, beginning with oysters and ending with plum pudding, and including (it seemed to him) all the roast turkey and baked potatoes and chicken salad and squash pie and ice cream in the world. Wherefore he sat, gorged, and gazed upon the world with after-dinner contempt.

The meal had been an unexpected one. He was passing a red brick mansion near the beginning of Fifth Avenue, in which lived two old ladies of ancient family and a reverence for traditions. They even denied the existence of New York, and believed that Thanksgiving Day was declared solely for Washington Square. One of their traditional habits was to station a servant at the postern gate with orders to admit the first hungry wayfarer that came along after the hour of noon had struck, and banquet him to a finish. Stuffy Pete happened to pass by on his way to the park, and the seneschals gathered him in and upheld the custom of the castle.

After Stuffy Pete had gazed straight before him for ten minutes he was conscious of a desire for a more varied field of vision. With a tremendous effort he moved his head slowly to the left. And then his eyes bulged out fearfully, and his breath ceased, and the rough-shod ends of his short legs wriggled and rustled on the gravel.

For the Old Gentleman was coming across Fourth Avenue toward his bench.

Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years the Old Gentleman had come there and found Stuffy Pete on his bench. That was a thing that the Old Gentleman was trying to make a tradition of. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had found Stuffy there, and had led him to a restaurant and watched him eat a big dinner. They do those things in England unconsciously. But this is a young country, and nine years is not so bad. The Old Gentleman was a staunch American patriot, and considered himself a pioneer in American tradition. In order to become picturesque we must keep on doing one thing for a long time without ever letting it get away from us. Something like collecting the weekly dimes in industrial insurance. Or cleaning the streets.

The Old Gentleman moved, straight and stately, toward the Institution that he was rearing. Truly, the annual feeding of Stuffy Pete was nothing national in its character, such as the Magna Carta or jam for breakfast was in England. But it was a step. It was almost feudal. It showed, at least, that a Custom was not impossible to New Y — ahem! — America.

The Old Gentleman was thin and tall and sixty. He was dressed all in black, and wore the old-fashioned kind of glasses that won’t stay on your nose. His hair was whiter and thinner than it had been last year, and he seemed to make more use of his big, knobby cane with the crooked handle.

As his established benefactor came up Stuffy wheezed and shuddered like some woman’s over-fat pug when a street dog bristles up at him. He would have flown, but all the skill of Santos-Dumont could not have separated him from his bench. Well had the myrmidons of the two old ladies done their work.

“Good morning,” said the Old Gentleman. “I am glad to perceive that the vicissitudes of another year have spared you to move in health about the beautiful world. For that blessing alone this day of thanksgiving is well proclaimed to each of us. If you will come with me, my man, I will provide you with a dinner that should make your physical being accord with the mental.”

That is what the Old Gentleman said every time. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years. The words themselves almost formed an Institution. Nothing could be compared with them except the Declaration of Independence. Always before they had been music in Stuffy’s ears. But now he looked up at the Old Gentleman’s face with tearful agony in his own. The fine snow almost sizzled when it fell upon his perspiring brow. But the Old Gentleman shivered a little and turned his back to the wind.

Stuffy had always wondered why the Old Gentleman spoke his speech rather sadly. He did not know that it was because he was wishing every time that he had a son to succeed him. A son who would come there after he was gone — a son who would stand proud and strong before some subsequent Stuffy, and say: “In memory of my father.” Then it would be an Institution.

But the Old Gentleman had no relatives. He lived in rented rooms in one of the decayed old family brownstone mansions in one of the quiet streets east of the park. In the winter he raised fuchsias in a little conservatory the size of a steamer trunk. In the spring he walked in the Easter parade. In the summer he lived at a farmhouse in the New Jersey hills, and sat in a wicker armchair, speaking of a butterfly, the ornithoptera amphrisius, that he hoped to find some day. In the autumn he fed Stuffy a dinner. These were the Old Gentleman’s occupations.

Stuffy Pete looked up at him for a half minute, stewing and helpless in his own self-pity. The Old Gentleman’s eyes were bright with the giving-pleasure. His face was getting more lined each year, but his little black necktie was in as jaunty a bow as ever, and the linen was beautiful and white, and his gray mustache was curled carefully at the ends. And then Stuffy made a noise that sounded like peas bubbling in a pot. Speech was intended; and as the Old Gentleman had heard the sounds nine times before, he rightly construed them into Stuffy’s old formula of acceptance.

“Thankee, sir. I’ll go with ye, and much obliged. I’m very hungry, sir.”

The coma of repletion had not prevented from entering Stuffy’s mind the conviction that he was the basis of an Institution. His Thanksgiving appetite was not his own; it belonged by all the sacred rights of established custom, if not, by the actual Statute of Limitations, to this kind old gentleman who had preempted it. True, America is free; but in order to establish tradition some one must be a repetend — a repeating decimal. The heroes are not all heroes of steel and gold. See one here that wielded only weapons of iron, badly silvered, and tin.

The Old Gentleman led his annual protégé southward to the restaurant, and to the table where the feat had always occurred. They were recognized.

“Here comes de old guy,” said a waiter, “dat blows dat same bum to a meal every Thanksgiving.”

The Old Gentleman sat across the table glowing like a smoked pearl at his cornerstone of future ancient Tradition. The waiters heaped the table with holiday food — and Stuffy, with a sigh that was mistaken for hunger’s expression, raised a knife and fork and carved for himself a crown of imperishable bay.

No more valiant hero ever fought his way through the ranks of an enemy. Turkey, chops, soups, vegetables, pies, disappeared before him as fast as they could be served. Gorged nearly to the uttermost when he entered the restaurant, the smell of food had almost caused him to lose his honor as a gentleman, but he rallied like a true knight. He saw the look of beneficent happiness on the Old Gentleman’s face — a happier look than ever the fuchsias and the ornithoptera amphrisius had ever brought to it — and he had not the heart to see it wane.

In an hour Stuffy leaned back with a battle won. “Thankee kindly, sir,” he puffed like a leaky steam pipe; “thankee kindly for a hearty meal.”

Then he arose heavily with glazed eyes and started toward the kitchen. A waiter turned him about like a top, and pointed him toward the door. The Old Gentleman carefully counted out $1.30 in silver change, leaving three nickels for the waiter.

They parted as they did each year at the door, the Old Gentleman going south, Stuffy north.

Around the first corner Stuffy turned, and stood for one minute. Then he seemed to puff out his rags as an owl puffs out his feathers, and fell to the sidewalk like a sunstricken horse.

When the ambulance came the young surgeon and the driver cursed softly at his weight. There was no smell of whiskey to justify a transfer to the patrol wagon, so Stuffy and his two dinners went to the hospital. There they stretched him on a bed and began to test him for strange diseases, with the hope of getting a chance at some problem with the bare steel.

And lo! an hour later another ambulance brought the Old Gentleman. And they laid him on another bed and spoke of appendicitis, for he looked good for the bill.

But pretty soon one of the young doctors met one of the young nurses whose eyes he liked, and stopped to chat with her about the cases.

“That nice old gentleman over there, now,” he said, “you wouldn’t think that was a case of almost starvation. Proud old family, I guess. He told me he hadn’t eaten a thing for three days.”  PS

Born in Greensboro, North Carolina, O. Henry (William Sidney Porter, 1862-1910) published “Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen” in 1907 in the collection The Trimmed Lamp and Other Stories. It has been lightly edited for a 21st century audience.

The Wild West Comes East

The Wild West Comes East

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The Wild West Comes East

Design for community, utility and beauty

By Jenna Biter

Photographs by John Gessner

Slate blue doors open into a rancher that’s full. Four kids ages 9 to 13 pad through the halls, and friends gather in the kitchen on Soup Sundays and Muffins and Mimosas. Dogs and cats lounge on the deck. Several are permanent members of the family; the rest are visitors.

More than a hundred puppies and kittens have sheltered with the Quinlans since they moved into the buff brick house eight years ago. “We foster animals, and it’s really fun,” Sarah Quinlan says. “The kids get really involved in their care.”

When the family of six moved into the 4,000-square-foot house near Reservoir Park, Quinlan intentionally remodeled the space to accommodate all the traffic and love of a young family, without sacrificing beauty. “There are a lot of people out there who think when they have young kids it’s not the time to invest in making their house nice,” she says. “And to me, it’s the opposite.” Quinlan values community, utility and beauty in her approach to interior design. That’s true whether she’s designing for her family or her clients.

Quinlan launched her home-staging and interior design firm, The Bold Buffalo, a year ago. “It has a distinctly Western style,” says Quinlan, who grew up in Butte, a small town in wide-open Montana. She still misses home, so she brings home to her through interior design. The aesthetic has been well received in the Sandhills, so she leans in. “Some of the color palette is the Ralph Lauren hunting lodge vibe that people who are into horses really like,” says Quinlan. The mount of an axis deer hangs over the fireplace. A neutral palette complements wood, leather, wool and stone, all served up in generous portions.

Quinlan likes maximalism and the oversized. She also likes a good deal. “Literally everything in the house is thrifted,” she says. She shopped Facebook Marketplace and thrift stores around town. Part of that decision was necessity. To achieve her vision on the family’s single military income, Quinlan had to do it on a budget.

“My husband jokes that I play Price Is Right anytime anyone walks in because as soon as they’re like, ‘Oh, I like your couch,’ I’m like, ‘Guess how much I paid for it?’” Quinlan says. A steal of a half-moon leather sofa is a main feature in the yawning, 1,500-square-foot living/dining/kitchen space that wasn’t always so open. The space was originally sectioned off into four rooms, but Quinlan had the walls demolished.

“People could not see it,” she says, guessing at why the house sat on the market for two years before the Quinlans moved in. They replaced red front doors with the slate blue and totally remade the foyer. She heightened the drama by dousing the space in black and accenting it with floral wallpaper. A dramatic seascape sails across one wall.

When it comes to art, Quinlan’s philosophy is buy big; if it’s not big, hang it in a space where it looks big; more is better; and buy original when possible. One of her favorite pieces is the 19th-century Danish original she purchased for less than $500 on Facebook Marketplace. As for family photos, she prefers a candid shot to a staged portrait that lacks personality. “If I can’t tell what your favorite animal is or where you’ve gone on vacation by walking through your house, then it’s not doing its job of telling a story,” says Quinlan.

She designed the kitchen so dishes could be put away by a 4-year-old, and the iron-legged barstools under the island’s overhang were an intentional choice. “I know kids are going to sit there kicking their feet on the barstools, and I know foster puppies love to chew the legs of everything,” Quinlan says. “I make very specific decisions on materials and on things being dual purpose so that we can gather and have community here.”

Quinlan has filled the gap of extended family back home with military family and neighborhood community. Local kids check books in and out of the Quinlans’ library with a stamp. Military friends come over multiple times per month for recurring events. Every year, they host a comedian in their outdoor living space with at least 50 guests comfortably in attendance.

“I’ve seen a lot of people that have comfortable homes, and I’ve seen a lot of people that have beautiful homes,” Quinlan says. She aims to deliver both.  PS

Discover Sarah Quinlan’s services and portfolio at theboldbuffalo.com. Jenna Biter is a writer and military wife in the Sandhills. She can be reached at jennabiter@protonmail.com.

Alamanc November 2026

Alamanc

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Alamanc November 2026

By Ashley Walshe

November says come to the table, come hungry, come as you are.

The collards are slow cooking with onion. Aromatics sizzle on the stovetop. Outside, chickadees and titmice chatter in the underbrush.

Come as you are.

Through the window, a swirl of crimson leaves takes flight, stripping the maple of its autumn color. You study the tree’s thin, ascending branches; its nakedness; its graceful surrender. Your face and shoulders soften.

Who are we beneath the surface, beneath the armor, beneath our own resistance?

The cornbread is ready. Company arrives with casserole and pie. The children arrive as invited, sneaking cookies from the countertop before bounding back outside.

Hands keep busy. Place settings and chairs are rearranged. An old guitar is being tuned on the front porch.

The kitchen is a whir of movement and chatter. Through the window, the children shuffle leaves into crimson landing pads. A wren blasts his brassy song through the neighboring forest.

At last, let us gather at the table with our joys and our sorrows. The heaviness of our losses. The grace of our endless blessings.

Look around. Take in the beauty of these hands — all they have built and held and tended; all they have released.

Study these eyes, the laugh and worry lines, the wisdom and the innocence.

Are we not just like the trees, shaped, too, by wind and sun? Surrendering to life’s seasons in our own perfect timing? 

May we be gentle with each other. May we seek the simple wisdom of the earth and her children. May we nourish ourselves completely.

November Scavenger Hunt

A buck moth on a bright autumn day.

Vagrant rufous hummingbird.

Red, orange, yellow and burgundy leaves.

Snapdragons.

A bark-stripped tree from a white-tailed buck.

White-throated sparrows.

Chimney smoke.

Flowering witch hazel.

Wood ducks on the water.

It was one of those early November mornings that are as beautiful as any in spring. There was gold everywhere, drifts of it on the elm tree, flakes of gold under our feet, gold dust on the hedges, liquid gold in the refracted falling light.

— Elizabeth Goudge, The Dean’s Watch

Songs of Thanks

The trees offer their leaves back to the earth that holds them.

Can you hear the soil humming songs of thanks?

And what of the caterpillars? Luna moths spin their silk cocoons among leaf litter, where woolly bears lie frozen until the return of spring.

Firefly larvae tuck themselves beneath the thick, damp duff.

Frogs, toads, turtles, snakes and salamanders nestle beneath its safety, too.

Spring herself will give thanks for this humble offering; this blanket of darkness; this quiet, maternal embrace.

You’re welcome, the trees sing back. And thank you.

Poem November 2026

Poem

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Dish Towel

By erri Kirby Erickson 

One of my parents’ dish towels

hangs on the handle of our stove.

It is aqua-blue, covered with red

and yellow poppies. How many of

their dishes this towel must have

buffed, plus silverware, glasses,

cookpots and pans. For decades

Mom washed them and Dad did

the drying. But after he died, she

stood alone at their sink, letting

the water grow cold — soap suds

like glaciers slipping into the sea.

Six months a widow and she, too,

was gone, leaving a lone bowl in

the drainer, a single spoon, a fresh

dish towel draped just so on a ring.

                 

Terri Kirby Erickson is the author of eight collections of award-winning poetry, including The Light That Follows Us Home.

The Art of Frying a Turkey

The Art of Frying a Turkey

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The Art of Frying a Turkey

Be careful. Be very, very careful.

By Warren Henry Lewis

Photograph by John Gessner

There’s a particular sound the Sandhills makes in late November: the low roar of a propane burner in a distant driveway, bringing oil up to temperature in a pot big enough to defend the castle ramparts. By the third week of the month it’s a neighborhood chorus, with cul-de-sacs across the county contributing versions of their own.

Frying a turkey has become as regionally native as barbecue, even though the technique arrived from Louisiana by way of tailgate parking lots and word of mouth. It earned its place here on merit: crisp skin, meat that stays moist, a bird that’s done in under an hour instead of half a day tying up the oven.

It also remains, by a wide margin, the most dangerous thing most people do to their food all year — worse than egg salad in the heat of summer on a picnic. The U.S. Fire Administration and the National Fire Protection Association both flag turkey fryers every autumn, and the failures follow a short, repeatable list. Get the process right and it’s no more hazardous than a grill. Skip a step and you’re explaining to your insurance adjuster why there’s a scorch mark up the side of the garage.

The oil, not the bird, is what matters most. Frying works by immersion in oil held around 350 degrees — hot enough that the exterior sets almost instantly, sealing moisture in rather than letting it render out over hours. That’s the whole appeal. It’s also the whole risk: A few gallons of oil at 350 degrees is a few gallons of oil that will ignite on contact with an open flame if it spills, and it spills for one reason more than any other — too much oil in the pot, displaced by too much turkey.

Measure your oil level before you ever turn on the burner. Set the bird in the empty pot, cover it with water until submerged, pull the turkey out, and mark the waterline — that’s your fill line. Think Archimedes and the bathtub. Dump the water, dry the pot completely, and fill to that mark with oil, no higher. Skipping this step and eyeballing it is how oil ends up on the ground, on flame, and on the side of a house.

The second potential failure is moisture. A wet or partially frozen turkey dropped into hot oil turns instantly to steam, and steam expanding inside oil doesn’t simmer — it explodes outward. This is not good. Thaw the bird completely, days in advance, and pat it dry inside and out immediately before frying. Maybe even twice. No standing water in the cavity. No ice crystals in the joints. If you’ve brined it, dry it again after — thoroughly, longer than feels necessary.

Where you fry matters as much as how. Outdoors only, on a flat surface, well clear of the house, the garage, the deck, and anything with a roofline — the NFPA’s standard is 10 feet minimum, and farther is better. Not on a wooden deck. Not under an overhang, however far it seems. Level ground keeps the pot from tipping; a fryer set up on grass or gravel that gives even slightly under the stand’s legs is a recipe for disaster.

Lower the turkey into the oil slowly, and stay at the pot the entire time it cooks — this isn’t a set-it-and-forget-it appliance. Kick back in a lawn chair but keep your eyes open. Unlike with BBQ ya’ really gotta pay attention, so maybe reconsider that second beer. It’s only an hour or so. A turkey fryer left unattended, even for the few minutes it takes to answer the door, is the single most common thread running through the incident reports. Keep kids and pets well back from the whole operation — oil that’s already hot stays hot for a long time after the flame is out.

Have a plan for what goes wrong before you need it. Grease fires don’t respond to water — water on burning oil throws flaming oil into the air, which is how a contained fire becomes an unconfined one. Keep a Class K or ABC-rated extinguisher within reach, and know that smothering — a metal lid, baking soda in quantity — works when an extinguisher doesn’t. I’m a big fan of fire blankets. We have them in our kitchen, and keep ’em in our cars as well. Keep the propane tank and hose connection away from the burner itself. Check for leaks with soapy water before lighting, not after.

Done with attention to these few points, a fried turkey is worth the trouble: skin the color of an old saddle, meat that hasn’t spent four hours drying out in a 325-degree oven. Pull it at 165 degrees in the breast, 175 in the thigh, let it rest 20 minutes under foil before anyone touches it with a knife. The Sandhills didn’t invent this method, but by the sound of more than a few driveways in late November, it’s adopted it as its own.

Basic Wet Brine for a Fryer Turkey

A brine does two things worth doing — it seasons the meat all the way through, not just the surface, and it helps the bird hold on to moisture during the fast, hot cooking a fryer puts it through. Scale this up proportionally for a bird larger than 14 pounds, and give yourself two days, one to brine, one to dry.

1 gallon water, plus more to top off

1 cup kosher salt

1/2 cup brown sugar

2 tablespoons black peppercorns

4 bay leaves

1 head garlic, halved crosswise

1 orange, quartered

A handful of fresh thyme

Instructions

Bring half the water to a simmer in a large pot with the salt, sugar, peppercorns and bay leaves. Stir until the salt and sugar dissolve completely, then remove from the heat and add the garlic, orange and thyme. Let it cool to room temperature — don’t brine with warm liquid.

Combine the cooled brine with the remaining cold water in a container large enough to hold the turkey fully submerged — a clean cooler works well for a whole bird. Add ice as needed to bring the temperature down and keep it there.

Submerge the turkey breast-side down. Weight it if it floats. Refrigerate, or keep the cooler packed with ice, for 12 – 18 hours. Longer than 24 and the texture turns spongy rather than juicy.

Lift the turkey out, discard the brine, and rinse the bird under cold water to clear off surface salt. Then — and this is the step that matters for a fryer — dry it completely, inside and out, and let it sit uncovered on a rack in the refrigerator for several hours or overnight before frying. A brined bird holds extra surface moisture, which is exactly the hazard discussed above. It has to be gone before the turkey goes anywhere near the oil.

***

I’m from the Northeast and typically November was cold enough (32-40 degrees) to leave the turkey in the brine outside. Down here, you’ll have to make gobs of space in the refrigerator.

Having sold Chef Warren’s, Warren Henry Lewis is now channeling his creativity toward writing. A knitting novella is in the works.

Warren Lewis surrounded by Southern Pines firefighters Andrew Whitaker (kneeling), L-R: Eric Adams, Brody McGraw, Logan DeBerry, Jay Lacsina

Cape Cod Soul

Cape Cod Soul

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Cape Cod Soul

Heartwarming highlights on a Southern shore

By Hazlette Huskins

Photographs by John Gessner

Chris and Kerrie Szczuka grew up in the small Massachusetts towns of Salem and Holyoke, respectively, and when they began to search for a place to settle down as a young family, they managed to combine her love for rural farmland with his desire for proximity to the coast. Newburyport fit the bill, an hour north of Boston, where they could take their three kids — Jack, Craig and Emma — for activities and lessons. As an engineer with a firm that has offices nationwide, Chris eventually decided to look at other locations to call home, and they honed in on the Research Triangle. With what they considered a God wink to their plans, they relocated to Apex and settled into Salem Village.

In 2020, they began looking for lake property and, impressed with the clear Moore County lakes, eventually found the perfect lakefront lot in the Seven Lakes West neighborhood. At just over an acre, it gently slopes toward the waterfront with a long-distance view across the broadest part of the lake. They visited occasionally, bringing their boat to check out neighboring lakeside properties, and saw several places that reflected the New England style they are so fond of.  While their youngest child was in high school in 2023, they began the construction process so that it would be completed once they were ready to move.

With the help of Susan Arciero Interiors, they began designing the home around a few basic principles: cedar shake siding was a must, a gable roof line to create a little more interest, and a main floor that would feature one-level living just for them. Dreading the thought of passing empty children’s rooms as they went about their day, they created a separate area for the (now grown) kids to feel at home, even in a new build in a new town. Ascending to the small cluster of rooms upstairs feels like entering a pilothouse overlooking the most magnificent view of the lake.  With a family of tennis enthusiasts, Kerrie decorated a small sitting area at the top of the stairs with some memorabilia, including her childhood racket and tennis balls from both the French and Australian Opens. No space is wasted, even along the staircase wall where book club progress is measured spine by spine along a narrow shelf. With the help of K. P. Quality Builders, they thought ahead with smart details like an upper level closet that could one day be easily converted to an elevator.

Downstairs, the breakfast nook accommodates a crowd, with built-in upholstered benches around a custom-built dining table Chris commissioned from Oak City Customs in Raleigh. A favorite painting adorns one wall and ties in the colors from the rest of the home. Created by a former neighbor in Massachusetts, it is a treasured piece that invokes the memory of a Cape Cod beach where the family spent time when the kids were young.

Continuing the creamy wall color with a similar hue in cabinetry, the kitchen wows in its simplicity. Gingham-wrapped books of favorite recipes were gifts from the kids that stand on a countertop, while the beginnings of a teapot collection fill the glass-front cabinets along the ceiling — proudly representing Ireland, England, their wedding day, and soon, a piece from China. LA Cabinets in West End created the kitchen cabinets and matching living room built-ins, with rattan inserts to disguise speakers, as well as the storage cabinets with floral cut-out detail in the mud room. Tucked behind barn doors, Chris has a home office that allows for focus when necessary, and a spectacular view of the glistening lake when a break is needed.

A few creative and heartwarming highlights are found in unsuspecting places, such as the wallpaper. The piano room just off the foyer is partially covered in an enlarged Nav Chart Art map of Newburyport, with stars indicating the places they called home during their time there.

Another way of preserving the family’s past is displayed in the walk-through pantry. With a nostalgic nod to the sitcom Who’s the Boss?, one of the doors had to be swinging, and both have porthole windows to let light pass through. At first glance you notice a display of Kerrie’s grandmother’s blue and white Currier & Ives china. On the wall itself, you discover a recipe in her grandparents’ handwriting, enlarged and printed onto a wallcovering. Her Italian grandmother lived on a lake in New Hampshire where Kerrie spent much of her summers growing up, and this nook honors her in a unique way.

The lower level with direct access to the backyard and the lake beyond is a vast space designed for late-night hangouts and leisure activities. The shower was extended to accommodate the family’s two golden retrievers, Alice and Maggie, who often come home soaking wet from a swim. Outside, the couple formed a mini beach area complete with chairs and an umbrella. Their boat, fittingly named Waggin’ Wheel, sits at the head of the inlet and admires each sunset across a 1 1/2 nautical mile stretch of Lake Auman.

A standout feature is the cupola above the garage with a whale weathervane atop, lovingly called Winnie the Whale. While Winnie seems to have been purchased specifically for this house, she came from Newburyport and has been watching over the family for 18 years, at one time residing on a stake in their Apex yard. She appears right at home after her latest and final move.

The couple incorporated pieces that reflect traditional New England style and stayed true to the origin of certain items, including wood canoe paddles from Maine-based Shaw & Tenney that hang high on the living room wall. A New York artisan, The Carving Company, created the hand-carved wooden exterior house sign that hangs over the front door and mirrors its color. Presented with numerous shades of blue paint options, Kerrie decided to flip the samples over to read the names instead.  Newburyport Blue was staring back at her and the door’s fate was sealed.

Chris and Kerrie love the natural cedar shake siding that adorns the facade and, faithful to the Nantucket style they adore, intend to let it age gracefully. It lends an unpretentious welcome that greets you at the Dutch front door, perfect for the two pups to keep an eye on passersby.

This custom home has packed so much charm and love for family into its walls that it immediately has a sense of place. It was built at a time when their family had begun to scatter — more far than near — for their next stages in life, and has established a refreshing place to relax, recharge and reconnect in a home that embraces old memories, new friends, and life by the water.  PS

Hazlette Huskins is a native North Carolinian, international business graduate of UNC Wilmington, real estate broker, children’s book author and an Arts Council of Moore County Fine Arts Festival award recipient.

Jack’s Lanterns

Jack's Lanterns

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Jack's Lanterns

The joy and wonder of carved pumpkins

Story and Photographs by Todd Pusser

In the fall of 2011, our family displayed one last, grand pumpkin show. It was an event that my parents still talk about to this day. That year, the autumn weather was glorious, filled with bright, warm sunny days and cool, crisp evenings. A full week was spent prepping the front yard for the throngs of people that would venture out to our rural Eagle Springs home just to see a display of carved pumpkins. These were not just any run-of-the-mill jack-o’-lanterns with triangular eyes and teeth, mind you, but pumpkins that glowed with the faces of popular cartoon characters, collegiate mascots, famous movie stars and wild animals. Bales of hay were stacked high across the front yard. Scarecrows were staked into the ground. And tiki torches lined the drive.

A local farmer, Charles Martin, had kindly volunteered to grow us a crop of pumpkins on a portion of his property. We picked the pumpkins, an extra-large heirloom variety known as Mammoth Gold, from his dusty field the first week of October, and by the time Halloween weekend rolled around, I had carved over 200 of the giant gourds. Mammoth Gold pumpkins average around 40 pounds in weight and are bright orange. Their skin is relatively soft and pliable, making them much easier to carve compared to store-bought pumpkin varieties, like Sugar Pies or Connecticut Field pumpkins, which have thick skins, dense fibrous insides and long stems.

Over 8,000 people visited the yard during the three nights that we displayed the pumpkins. People had traveled all the way from Greensboro and Fairmont just to see jack-o’-lanterns glowing beneath a star-filled sky. We asked that visitors donate cans of food for local charities, which they did by the truckload. It was the highlight of our year.

Jack-o’-lanterns displayed on the front doorstep on Halloween night are as iconic as Christmas trees and baskets of Easter eggs. They are holiday symbols that have become fully ingrained in our American culture over the last 150 years. In her book Pumpkin: The Curious History of an American Icon, author Cindy Ott notes that the first published image of a carved jack-o’-lantern appeared in an 1867 issue of Harper’s Weekly magazine. However, the origin story of jack-o’-lanterns takes place on the far side of the Atlantic, in the woodlands and moors of the Old World.

Centuries ago, ancient Celts of Ireland and Scotland celebrated the end of the harvest season in a festival known as Samhain. The festival commenced at sunset on Oct. 31 (Samhain’s Eve) and continued until sunset on the following day. During that first night of celebration, the Celts believed that the spirits of the dead would walk about the land, freely among the living. In order to ward off those restless souls, people would dress in frightening costumes and carve scary faces into root vegetables like turnips and potatoes.

Originally cultivated in North America over 7,000 years ago, pumpkins, a type of winter squash, were at the time completely unknown to Europeans. They would not encounter pumpkins until much later, when the first Colonists arrived on our shores and discovered Native Americans growing the fruit (yes, pumpkins are scientifically a fruit and not a vegetable) as a crop. Among those early European settlers were Irish immigrants who brought with them the legend of Stingy Jack.

Though countless versions of this tale have circulated through the centuries, all agree that Jack was an unlikeable character who had a penchant for tricking people. In one recurring tale, Jack even tricked the devil. Not one to trifle with, the devil banned Jack from hell when he died. Due to a lifetime of mischievousness and immorality, Jack had already been denied access to heaven. He was soon cursed to wander between both worlds for eternity, with only an empty turnip lantern to guide his way. Eventually, the devil felt pity for Jack and granted him a single ember of coal to light his lantern on his journey through purgatory. And the jack-o’-lantern was born.

My fascination with carved pumpkins dates back to my earliest childhood days in Eagle Springs. Like most kids, I loved Halloween. I planned my costumes months in advance. Devouring Mary Janes and Bit O’Honey candies, as well as Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, acquired from a night of tricks or treats was one of life’s great pleasures. To no surprise of anyone who knows me, It’s the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown was, and still is, my favorite TV show.  So, when my parents took me to see a display of jack-o’-lanterns at a local farm one crisp October night, I quickly became obsessed with the glowing gourds. The farmer, Otis Boroughs (who taught in Moore County schools for 30 years and would later become my driver’s ed teacher), grew a large field of pumpkins each summer near my grandmother’s house.

Turns out Mr. Boroughs also had an artistic side. He would carve extraordinary scenes into the pumpkins he harvested and display them each and every Halloween night for all to see. People traveled from all parts of the state to see his magnificent jack-o’-lanterns. Dozens and dozens of glowing pumpkins lined his yard and the loft of his old red barn. Everything from Mickey Mouse to Bugs Bunny and E.T. to the N.C. State wolf mascot were on display. One of his most popular was of a horse-drawn carriage, carved over multiple pumpkins, with Cinderella sitting inside.

For a kid who loved to doodle and had notebooks full of drawings of dinosaurs and snakes, I could not figure out how he had carved such intricate characters into the sides of the giant gourds. I would spend hours walking among his glowing creations as the aroma of baked pumpkin pie (from the candles burning inside) hung heavy in the cool, evening air. It was magical.

For years, I pestered Mr. Boroughs to teach me how to artfully carve a pumpkin. Finally, one Saturday afternoon, after the fall harvest, he relented. I was around 10 years old at the time. That day in his workshop, surrounded by tools and tractors, he taught me the trick to great pumpkin carving.

First, you must choose a pumpkin that fits the design that you have in mind. That day, I had brought with me some permanent markers to draw the Demon Deacon, the mascot of Wake Forest University — my dad’s favorite team — on the side of a pumpkin. Mr. Boroughs picked out a rather tall, oblong-shaped pumpkin that was able to stand upright on its own. It matched well with the long face of the Deacon. After a few minutes, I had completed my drawing.

Next came the most important part, choosing the proper knife to carve out the design. Mr. Boroughs’ tool of choice was a 12-inch compass hand saw with a small metal handle. The narrow, finely serrated blade enabled him, and me, to work magic on a pumpkin. With that simple blade, I easily cut out the sharp corners and intricate patterns, like the eyes and bowtie, of the Demon Deacon. It was much easier to use than the large straight-edged blades I was accustomed to using when cutting out the stereotypical triangular eyes, nose and mouth of past jack-o’-lanterns.

The crowning glory was when Mr. Boroughs placed a candle inside the pumpkin and turned off the lights in the workshop. The face of the Demon Deacon exploded to life, casting a golden glow throughout the tool hed. It was jaw-dropping. No doubt, this is what those early Irish immigrants felt when they put candles in those first pumpkins instead of turnips.

With that afternoon’s pumpkin carving class fully embedded into my memory bank, I went on my way. That Halloween, I carved out a half-dozen jack-o’-lanterns, following the outlines of my hand-drawn designs, including a ghost and caricatures of Mickey Mouse and Godzilla. The only people to see them were my parents and grandmother. My father loved the Demon Deacon. Still, Mr. Boroughs insisted that I tell no one the secret sauce for carving extraordinary pumpkins.

Throughout my teen years, Mr. Boroughs continued his annual display of jack-o’-lanterns, drawing ever larger crowds. His pumpkins were featured in newspapers and on local television stations. Despite being distracted by the usual teenage boy preoccupations of sports and girls, I made it a tradition to visit his farm each and every Halloween.

But alas, all good things come to an end. Father Time finally caught up with Mr. Boroughs. The toll of tending a pumpkin field and carving over a hundred jack-o’-lanterns each year became too much, and he eventually closed his grand pumpkin show for good in the late 1990s. To say I was disappointed is an understatement. His pumpkin display had meant so much to the communities of Eagle Springs and Jackson Springs. The thought of local kids not experiencing the same kind of wonderment that I had experienced as a child viewing his marvelous jack-o’-lanterns was simply too much to bear.

After a couple years of dark Halloween nights, I decided to follow in the footsteps of Mr. Boroughs and create a pumpkin show of my very own, this time in the yard of my childhood home, just a few miles from his farm. The yard was just shy of 2 acres and could easily accommodate many pumpkins, as well as long lines of people. And that is exactly what I did for nearly a decade, culminating in that last pumpkin display in 2011. By that time, life and work had begun to take me far away from Eagle Springs. It became impossible to commit to the time necessary to produce such a large show, so I hung up my carving knives.

Since then, things have changed dramatically. The secret sauce for great pumpkin carving is now readily available to everyone, with mass-produced pumpkin carving kits showing up on store shelves well before Labor Day. Countless online stencils, of every subject imaginable, can be downloaded and applied to pumpkins for easy carving. One can even buy artificial carving pumpkins so you can preserve your jack-o’-lantern for years to come.

Mr. Boroughs passed away in 2024, at the ripe old age of 87. Eagle Springs farmer Charles Martin followed soon after, in February of this year.

I am now a proud parent to a precocious 7-year-old girl named Ella. She has an artistic side herself. Every year, we try and make a point to carve at least one jack-o’-lantern for Halloween. Perhaps this year she will want to carve out a character from the hit K-Pop Demon Hunters since she is constantly singing the movie’s songs on the way to school. Or, after seeing Toy Story 5 this past summer, she may want to try a Buzz Lightyear.

Or maybe, just maybe, I can convince her to carve a horse-drawn carriage with Cinderella sitting inside — for old times’ sake.  PS

Prost, Y’all

Prost, Y'all

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Prost, Y'all

Pines, ponies, porch swings and a stein full of Bavaria

By Warren Henry Lewis

Photographs by John Gessner

Feature photo: Ben Lewis, Emily Von Cannon and Warren Henry Lewis at Railhouse Brewery

Remember when we lived in a small town, the kind of place where you gave directions like “if you get to Red’s Exxon you’ve gone too far”? We’ve grown up some since then — a few more roundabouts, which I don’t want to discuss, a few more golf courses, and some great new neighbors up the road — but nothing’s touched the two things that matter most: the pine trees and our unshakable belief that any excuse to gather outside is a good one.

In October, somewhere between the second julep and the third round of “who makes the best pimento cheese,” Moore County goes full Bavaria. So what if Munich’s version begins in the middle of September and runs until the first Sunday in October? At least we’re in the queue. For a few golden weekends, we swap the porch for the biergarten and nobody blinks. Bavaria gave the world lederhosen, oompah bands, and a beer stein you need two hands and a chiropractor to lift. We gave the world the steeplechase, the pine-shaded front porch, and a fierce, decades-long opinion about how to dress a pimento cheese sandwich. Different heritage, same instinct: get dressed up, stand in a field, toast to nothing in particular. By November we’re back to seersucker and sweet tea.

We already gather by the thousands for a golf tournament and treat it like a religious observance. And we’ve been known to put on our finest tweed to watch horses jump over things. Adding a polka band and a plate of bratwurst to the calendar isn’t a stretch. It’s just one more excuse.

None of this is new for us, if I’m honest. I’ve lived here long enough to watch the county become a little bit of everywhere. Retirees roll in chasing sunshine. Military families cycle through Fort Bragg, importing a piece of wherever they’ve come from. Golfers from around the world bring their love of the game and our community. Riders and trainers show up every autumn from as far away as Kentucky and overseas for horse country season. By now, Moore County isn’t really one thing, it’s a lot of things, filtered through tall pines and slow afternoons. A German beer garden is just the latest arrival at the party.

I’ll admit the setting helps the illusion along. Bavaria has its Black Forest, dark and fragrant with fir. We’ve got the longleaf pines, and on a crisp evening at Weymouth Woods, with that turpentine smell in the air, it isn’t hard to squint and think you’re somewhere far grander and colder. Swap the fir for the longleaf, the alpine chill for a Sandhills breeze that still remembers summer, and you’ve got a passable Bavarian backdrop. Minus the yodeling. (Tell the truth, did you hear the Ricola ad in the back of your mind?)

The village of Pinehurst throws its own Oktoberfest at Tufts Memorial Park. Kinderfest opens the evening — a couple of hours of music, crafts, bubble artistry and a nod to Halloween for the kids — before the grownups take over with German music, food and beverages that need no translation. It’s free, it’s friendly, and the crowd is exactly what you’d expect: a few actual dirndls, several ambitious attempts at lederhosen, golf carts neatly parked in rows, and a lot of people who simply came as themselves, beer stein in hand.

There’s something wonderful about watching a man who spent his afternoon in seersucker switch by evening into suspenders and knee socks; or a woman who traded her sundress for a dirndl like she’d been doing it her whole life. The Sandhills needs no excuse to play dress-up.

A bit down the road, Railhouse Brewery has been running an honest-to-goodness Oktoberfest for more than a decade. I go most years for the curry brats and stay for the hammerschlagen, which, if you’ve never seen it, is kinda like cornhole for people who enjoy hitting things with a hammer while a crowd of strangers cheers them on. There’s stein-holding too, which separates the casual reveler from the truly committed, and relay races that end, as most good ideas in the Sandhills do, with everyone a little out of breath and ready for another round.

None of this makes us honest-to-God Bavarians, and I’m not claiming otherwise. What it makes us is a place willing to borrow a good time when we see one — take a festival built for beer halls and mountain villages, and set it down happily among the pines, the ponies and the porch swings. We’ve spent more than a century collecting traditions from elsewhere and making them feel like home: the hunt from England, golf from Scotland, sweet tea from points South, and now, on a crisp weekend each fall, a beer garden from Bavaria. Does life get any better than that?

So pour something cold, find a polka you can stomp along to even if you can’t name it, and raise a glass to the strangest, most delightful thing about Moore County: We’ll find any excuse — horses, hounds or hops — to get dressed up, gather outside, and celebrate together. I hope my lederhosen still fit! Prost, y’all.

————

Let’s talk curry brats. Delicious. Pair them with a great stone-ground mustard and my potato salad. Below is a recipe for the brats, but it’s really OK to pick them up in a good supermarket or meat market if you don’t want to make your own.

Curry-Flavored Bratwurst

Yield: 12 sausages

Preparation time: 30 minutes, plus chilling time

Ingredients

(It’s important to keep everything nice and cold while you’re making these or any sausage.)

2 pounds (900 grams) ground pork, preferably 20–25 percent fat

1 1/2 tablespoons mild curry powder

1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt

1 teaspoon ground coriander

1 teaspoon ground cumin

1/2 teaspoon turmeric

1/2 teaspoon black pepper

1/4 teaspoon ground ginger

1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper, optional

2 cloves garlic, finely minced

1/2 cup cold beer, broth or water

2 tablespoons finely minced onion

1 tablespoon brown sugar

1 tablespoon Dijon mustard

1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg

Sausage casings, if making links

 

Directions

1) Chill the pork, mixing bowl and grinder parts until very cold.

2) In a small bowl, combine the curry powder, salt, coriander, cumin, turmeric, black pepper, ginger, cayenne pepper, garlic, onion, brown sugar, Dijon mustard and nutmeg.

3) Add the seasoning mixture to the cold ground pork. Pour in the cold beer, broth or water.

4) Knead the mixture for 2–3 minutes, until it becomes sticky and holds together.

5) Fry a small sample of the mixture in a skillet. Taste and adjust the seasoning as desired.

6) Cover and refrigerate the sausage mixture for at least 1 hour, or preferably overnight.

7) Stuff the mixture into sausage casings and twist into links. Alternatively, shape it into patties.

8) To cook, place the bratwurst in a skillet with a small amount of water or beer. Cover and cook gently for about 10 minutes.

9) Remove the lid and continue cooking, turning often, until the bratwurst is browned and reaches an internal temperature of 165°F

Serving Suggestions

Serve with sauerkraut, German mustard, my warm potato salad, grilled onions or crusty bread.

 

Warm Potato Salad

1 1/2 pounds red bliss potatoes, quartered

1 tablespoon blended oil

1/3 cup shallots, sliced into rings

4 cloves garlic, smashed

1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar

2 tablespoons red wine vinegar

1 teaspoon unsalted butter

2 tablespoons chopped parsley

Kosher salt and fresh cracked black pepper

 

Wash your potatoes well.

Put them in a pot large enough to cover them with water by 2 inches. Add enough kosher salt until you can just barely taste the salt.

Bring the water to a boil, and then lower to a simmer. Cook the potatoes until a bit more than fork tender, but not falling apart.

Let’s multitask: at the same time, in a pretty large sauce pan, warm until the oil starts to shimmer.

Add the shallots and garlic.

While the shallots and garlic are slowly doing their thing, drain the potatoes. Now, toss the potatoes with the shallots and garlic. Toss them rough enough to kinda bust the potatoes up.

Turn the heat off. Add the two vinegars, the butter and parsley.

Season with salt and pepper.

Writer’s Valhalla

Writer's Valhalla

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Writer's Valhalla

Celebrating the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame

By Bill Case

Feature photo: Etching of Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities by Denise Baker

There are 30 rooms, give or take,  in the sprawling Boyd House, and if the walls of those rooms could talk, they would have plenty to say about the country manor’s storied literary history, especially the parade of renowned writers who graced the home as guests of James and Katharine Boyd long ago.

The great room would remember a January morning in 1937 when the nonplussed Boyds found Thomas Wolfe (Look Homeward Angel, among other works) asleep on the sofa. Arriving in Southern Pines on the 4 a.m. train, Wolfe trudged uphill to the estate and, after finding the doors locked, gained entry by scrunching his 6-foot, 7-inch frame through an unlocked window.

The cozy Boyd library witnessed the cringeworthy 1935 incident in which an overserved F. Scott Fitzgerald (The Great Gatsby, among other works) insultingly critiqued his host’s most recent novel. Boyd’s first historical novel, Drums, published by Charles Scribner’s Sons in 1925, was touted at the time as “the finest novel of the American Revolution that has yet been written.” The well-oiled Fitzgerald would pen a letter of apology.

From 1932 until his untimely death in 1944, Boyd dictated his books while standing at the middle window at a built-in writing ledge in his second-floor study. From this elevated perch, he could gaze down on his foxhunting horses and hounds quartered nearby. Fifty-two years after his passing, the spacious study would become the home of the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame, the ultimate embodiment of Weymouth’s literary heritage. The walls of Boyd’s study speak with a decidedly bookish vibe, covered with photos and biographies of the 80 members inducted from its founding in 1996 through this October’s class of 2026.

Revered by those who appreciate great writers and their works, the hall’s biennial induction ceremony at the Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities is an eagerly awaited date on the calendar. Though a fixture of the state’s literary scene for 30 years, the road to the Hall of Fame’s founding and location at Weymouth was full of twists and turns. The idea for a state literary Hall of Fame arose from a program adopted by the Library of Congress in 1977, called the “Center for the Book,” designed to “stimulate public interest in books, reading and libraries.” States were encouraged to participate in the project by centralizing their library and writing programs. National Book Week was initiated under this umbrella.

In August 1992, North Carolina’s then-state librarian, Howard McGinn, proposed that North Carolina enact legislation to designate Southern Pines as the site of the state’s “Center for the Book.” McGinn also recommended that the proposed center house a newly created literary Hall of Fame for North Carolina. It would be the first of its kind in the country.

His plan was tied to the availability of a specific building on Broad Street that, at the time, housed the Southern Pines Public Library. For the project to work, the existing library would need to be relocated. McGinn’s suggestion contemplated the construction of a new public library for Southern Pines at a vacant lot on Connecticut Street. He proposed that following the library’s move to new quarters, the old library would become the home of the Center for the Book and a Hall of Fame situated in the vaulted main reading room and “patterned after the Baseball or Football Halls of Fame.” The state librarian envisioned the hall attracting regional and national writing conferences and the performance of plays.

The old library already possessed a connection to North Carolina’s literary heritage. In 1948, Katharine Boyd contributed funds to add a new wing to the building. It included the James Boyd Room, dedicated to her late husband. McGinn agreed with Southern Pines government officials that the town needed a new public library facility, but many citizens opposed moving from the charming old building designed by Aymar Embury II. They included Sam Ragan, the owner-editor of the town’s newspaper, The Pilot. An affirmative vote of the Town Council was required prior to any such move and, given that certain members of the council and the influential editor of the paper had misgivings, that approval was far from certain. 

Bolstered by McGinn’s support, the proposal to purchase the Connecticut Street property for the purpose of constructing a new library squeaked through the council by a 3 to 2 vote on February 10, 1993. With the prospect of his community (and the old library) becoming the epicenter of North Carolina literature, Sam Ragan jumped on board too. The soft-spoken son of Granville County tobacco farmers would become a tireless advocate for the project.

With McGinn’s proposal for a Hall of Fame heading to the state legislature, Ragan used his formidable statewide influence to assure its passage. In addition to his own writing credentials, Ragan’s clout stemmed from his years as the executive editor of The News and Observer in Raleigh. A country gentleman nattily attired in a fedora hat and bowtie, Ragan was known and respected by North Carolina’s movers and shakers, especially those in state government. Diligently working his contacts, he persuaded key legislators to fast-track the resolution establishing the center and the Hall of Fame in Southern Pines. He arranged for the measure to be introduced under the name of Paul Green, author of The Lost Colony and a great friend of the Boyds.

To explore potential financing for the project, Ragan, together with Marsha Warren, then executive director of the North Carolina Writers’ Network, met with the state’s Secretary of Cultural Resources Betty Ray McCain. She indicated her department would be in a position to make a one-time grant once the center became a reality; a figure of $100,000 was discussed.

On July 23, 1993, the measure establishing Southern Pines and the old library building as the home for North Carolina’s Center for the Book and the literary Hall of Fame was passed by joint resolution of the House and Senate. According to its text, the placement of the center in Southern Pines would “build upon the significant contributions made by Sam Ragan and former Secretary of Cultural Resources Sara Hodgkins [who lived in Southern Pines] and the many other authors and journalists from North Carolina.”

Left: Sam Ragan

Right: The Former Southern Pines Library

Southern Pines Mayor Alex Bowness said, “I am very thrilled that everything is on track and the N.C. Center for the Book is becoming a reality.” In his Pilot editorial, Ragan expressed delight “that the present library building will not only be preserved but will become a distinguished statewide cultural site which is sure to attract nationwide visitors.” Town officials offered to lease the old library for a nominal amount, perhaps as little as $1 a year.

But to run the center like a sports hall of fame, as envisioned by McGinn, more funds would be required. Marsha Warren, who in addition to managing the Writers’ Network was working hand-in-glove with Ragan to make the center and Hall of Fame a reality, recalls their mutual mindset on funding. “Sam and I were aware we could probably count on $100,000 from Betty Ray McCain’s department,” Warren remembers. “Betty was on board with granting the money to the Writers’ Network, because it was a 501(c)(3) organization qualified to receive the funding and manage the project. The grant would get the project started. We hoped Southern Pines might do more also. But we weren’t thinking too far ahead. We’d figure it out as we went.”

The new Southern Pines public library building opened on July 5, 1995. Later that month, Ragan scheduled a tour of the vacant old library for attendees of the North Carolina Writers’ Conference at Weymouth. According to his editorial in The Pilot, the visitors “praised it for the excellent condition in which they found it and its special character and suitability for the Center and Hall of Fame.”

But that same month, Sam expressed uneasiness regarding the direction of the project in correspondence with the town’s new mayor, Mike Fields. “I also hope that the Town of Southern Pines will take action immediately in the necessary steps to make this splendid program a reality,” wrote a concerned Ragan. “I will assist in any way I can. The potential for Southern Pines is so great it would be a tragedy to see the program falter through any delay.”

But it did falter. By October 1995, it had become clear that occupancy of the old library by the Center for the Book and the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame was not going to happen. A Ragan editorial reported one explanation for the jettisoning: the town manager’s determination “that the old library was needed for space to locate several town agencies.” (It would eventually house the town’s utilities office.) Marsha Warren wrote about a second daunting concern — an inspecting engineer had estimated that, “it would cost, conservatively, $250,000 to bring the aging building up to code.” Warren, who was inducted into the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame in 2018, remembers that Ragan was “heartbroken” by the staggering estimate. “We knew raising that kind of money was beyond our reach,” she says.

Without the old library, could the project be salvaged? Warren believed that it could. “Betty McCain indicated she was still prepared to grant the Writers’ Network $100,000 even if we had to scale back the project. With that assurance, we could abandon the larger undertaking of a Center for the Book and focus entirely on a literary Hall of Fame. And James Boyd’s studio at Weymouth was an obvious place to put it.” The term “Center for the Book” would become associated with State Library programming and not a specific physical location.

Ragan welcomed the revised plan. After all, he had played a major role in forming the Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities, as well as saving the Boyd House from the wrecking ball in the 1970s.

After McCain formally issued the $100,000 grant to the Writers’ Network in November 1995, Ragan began greasing the skids with the Weymouth Center board. His efforts resulted in a long-term lease between Weymouth and the Writers’ Network enabling the latter to operate and manage the Hall of Fame at Weymouth. The Writers’ Network tendered a one-time payment of $10,000 to Weymouth and agreed to reimburse its expenses for upkeep of the former Boyd study.

After the financial niceties were resolved, it was determined that the first Hall of Fame induction ceremony would take place on May 18, 1996, beneath the flowering cherry trees on Weymouth’s grounds. Marsha Warren, with input from Ragan, took the laboring oar in addressing the details: the adoption of the hall’s mission statement; determining criteria for election; selection of judges; identifying presenters for the inductees; preparing written materials; staging the ceremony and the reception afterward.

It was decided that the inaugural class should honor the state’s deceased literary figures. On March 13th, 1996, the judges announced their selections: James Boyd, Charles Waddell Chestnut, Jonathan Daniels, Inglis Fletcher, Paul Green, Bernice Harris, O. Henry (William Sydney Porter), George Moses Horton, Randall Johnson, Guy Owen, Thad Stem, Richard Walser, Manley Wade Wellman and Thomas Wolfe.

A proud Ragan, who was scheduled to emcee the event, wrote a glowing editorial following the announcement. “Under the guidance of Marsha Warren and the Writers’ Network, the dream is quickly becoming a reality. . . . The first induction promises to be a lively affair.”

The gathering turned out to be more poignant than spirited. During the month preceding the festivities, the 80-year-old Ragan’s health suddenly deteriorated. He passed away on May 11, one week before the inductions. His generous spirit and unflagging support of the Hall of Fame were mentioned by virtually every speaker at the blisteringly hot ceremony, including newsman David Brinkley, who forwarded a moving video tribute. Ragan had given the famed broadcaster his first job in journalism, hiring Brinkley as a reporter for the Wilmington Star in the late 1930s.

Ragan’s unflagging support for Weymouth and the Hall of Fame barely scrapes the surface of his literary interests. In addition to penning editorials and columns for The Pilot, he authored books of nonfiction and six volumes of verse. His poetry was lauded by Tom Wicker, a North Carolinian who worked at the New York Times, who noted, “It could only have been written out of a Tar Heel’s sense of place.” His poetic achievements (twice nominated for the Pulitzer Prize) led to Ragan being named the state’s poet laureate in 1982, a position he kept the rest of his life.

Ragan also taught creative writing and journalism at local colleges and was a prime catalyst in establishing Weymouth’s Writers in Residence program in 1979. His writing colleagues began referring to Sam as North Carolina’s “Literary Godfather.”

“Sam swam in many literary streams,” says poet and Weymouth board member Pat Riviere-Seel. “Bringing the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame to Weymouth allowed him to channel those streams into one big literary river.”

Six writers were inducted in the Hall of Fame’s second year, 1997, including Ragan. His daughter, Talmadge Ragan, accepted on behalf of her father. After the 1998 ceremony inductions were scheduled every other year and, after three steamy ceremonies during which attendees wilted in the heat, the ceremony was moved to October.

The number of judges who selected the inductees was fixed at 15. All were required to have a strong literary background. A candidate for induction must be a “North Carolina writer,” defined as someone who is, “significantly shaped by his or her time in the state; and/or (b) identified in the public’s mind as a North Carolinian; and/or (c) self-identified as a North Carolinian.”

In 2008, the Writers’ Network approached other literary institutions and requested they collaborate with it and Weymouth in producing the induction ceremony and promoting the Hall of Fame. The Center for the Book at the State Library, the North Carolina Humanities Council, and the N.C. Collection of the Wilson Library at the University of North Carolina all agreed to assist. The resulting collaboration reduced the out-of-pocket costs of the induction ceremony, helping to preserve the fund created by the Department of Cultural Resources grant. Ed Southern became the Writers’ Network’s executive director in 2008, a position he still holds.

The 80 inductees to date have come from virtually every corner of literary life. They include short story master O. Henry; diverse poets like Ragan, Maya Angelou, George Moses Horton, and Shelby Stephenson; news journalists Jonathan Daniels and Tom Wicker; illustrator and children’s book author Glen Rounds; Lincoln biographer Carl Sandburg; historian Wilbur J. Cash; newspaperman (and ambassador to the Court of St. James) Walter Hines Page; and iconic novelists Thomas Wolfe and Lee Smith.

The five newest inductees — D.G. Martin, Shannon Ravenel, David Sedaris, Daniel Wallace and Michael Parker — are to be enshrined in the hall on October 4 and likewise hail from diverse literary backgrounds.

D.G. Martin, who passed away last December, was the host of “North Carolina Bookwatch” on UNC-TV (now PBS NC). Martin was no softball questioner. He probed writers to find out what made them, and their books, tick. He also wrote a syndicated weekly column covering politics, cultural issues, and anything else occurring to his fertile mind. “D.G. had his finger in every pie,” says his close friend Ravenel. A graduate of Davidson College and Yale Law School, he practiced law in Charlotte before joining the University of North Carolina as its vice president for public affairs. A devotee of diners and cafés, Martin authored a chatty book on the subject, North Carolina’s Roadside Eateries.

Shannon Ravenel’s literary journey involved editing and publishing. She provided invaluable exposure for numerous Southern writers, including several fellow Hall of Fame members. Following her graduation from Hollins College in Roanoke, Virginia, the Charleston, South Carolina, native worked for publishers in New York, Boston and St. Louis. She became editor of the annual anthology Best American Short Stories. In 1982, she partnered with her former English professor, Louis Rubin, to start Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill (where she eventually moved), providing an important outlet for the work of Southern writers. Through Algonquin, Ravenel edited another annual short story anthology, New Stories from the South. Fellow Hall of Fame member Jill McCorkle will present Ravenel for induction. She will be returning a favor. It was Ravenel who presented McCorkle at her induction in 2018.

Self-deprecating humorist David Sedaris became a national phenom after his uproarious comedic appearances on a Chicago radio program led to frequent gigs on National Public Radio. In his first NPR appearance, he read an essay titled “Santaland Diaries,” describing his job as a Christmas elf at Macy’s. That smash success led to Sedaris authoring sardonic essays for Esquire and The New Yorker. Several of his essay collections became New York Times bestsellers. His book, Me Talk Pretty One Day, describes many hilarious (though often mortifying) vignettes from his childhood in Raleigh, North Carolina. The book won the 2001 Thurber Prize for American Humor. In explaining why so much of the humor in his writings concerns his own misbegotten experiences, Sedaris says, “There are two types of people: those who pay to tell others about their problems, and those who get paid to tell others about their problems. I prefer to be in the latter group.” Sedaris has resided in Paris, London and New York City, but he retains a seasonal presence in North Carolina, vacationing in Emerald Isle.

Daniel Wallace was born in Birmingham, Alabama. He attended college at UNC-Chapel Hill, but left school early because his father, owner of an import/export company doing business in Japan, persuaded his son to join him in that enterprise. By Wallace’s own admission, his employment in Japan was a bust. Returning to Chapel Hill, he worked in a bookstore and began writing novels. His first five efforts were summarily rejected by publishers, but his sixth, Big Fish: A Novel of Mythic Proportions, became a bestseller and was made into a movie directed by Tim Burton. A 2008 graduate of UNC-Chapel Hill, he teaches creative writing at his alma mater. Of his ill-fated employment in Japan — as well as the rejection of his early novels — Wallace says, “Sometimes, failure is not failure. Perhaps I never would have figured out I could be a writer if Japan had worked out. And the many mistakes in my rejected novels taught me what not to do.”

A product of rural North Carolina, Michael Parker was born in Siler City and grew up in Clifton. His father was a newspaper editor and his mother a teacher. As a schoolboy, Parker woke at 4:30 a.m. to deliver newspapers. His short fiction has resulted in his winning three O. Henry Awards. He has also authored seven novels, including The Watery Part of the World, a haunting tale set on a nearly deserted barrier island off the coast of North Carolina. The book contains an element of historical fiction — the supposed survival of Theodosia Burr, Vice President Aaron Burr’s daughter, lost at sea in 1812. A graduate of UNC-Chapel Hill Parker taught in the MFA writing program at UNC-Greensboro for nearly 30 years. He lives in Durham. “The fact that this state treasures writers so much, particularly in an era when our culture does not support and promote the arts as much as it once did, makes receiving the award especially fulfilling,” he says.

When the new inductees climb the stairs to Boyd’s study they may linger at the bronze bust of Sam Ragan, the man most responsible for making the Hall of Fame a reality. As Marsha Warren wrote in her foreword to Lewis Bowling’s book Sam Ragan: North Carolina’s Literary Godfather, the founding of the literary Hall of Fame was “Sam’s last and greatest gift to the state.” They’ll also find new photographs on display — their own — giving the walls more stories to share.  PS

Pinehurst resident Bill Case is PineStraw’s history man. He can be reached at billcasewrites@gmail.com.