POEM

Day at the Beach

I’d like to feel again, my six-year-old self

skimming a long, sea oat-surrounded trail

to the ocean like a skipping stone, the wind

in my dark hair, legs pumping like pistons.

And oh, that first plunge into the water, the

squealing — how it felt to be hit by a wave

and tumble to the shore, as light as a shell.

Now, it’s hard to walk the trails to the beach.

Each step works my calf muscles, my bare

feet sinking deep into hot sand. And the sun

is like a blowtorch, not the gentle source of

warmth that I remember, the ocean rife with

dangers I knew nothing about as a child. So

I settle into a folding chair with a book, my

aging body slathered with the highest SPF,

and watch a couple of kids scoop wet sand

into bright plastic buckets while others splash

in shallow pools, their faces the definition of

delight. If only I could snap my fingers, step

out of a body that has become too weary and

cumbersome, and run to the water like I used

to — limbs weightless as a plover, my thoughts

no heavier than a beach ball, a paper kite rising.

— Terri Kirby Erickson

THE LEAP

The Leap

Fiction by Ashley Walshe

Illustration by Keith Borshak

I’m not from here. Not exactly.

It’s complicated.

My brother and I were the most celebrated circus performers of our day — and not just because we were twins. We were acrobats, famous for our high wire and flying trapeze act, although you’d have loved to have seen us on horseback. As kids, we were fearless — always climbing something treacherous; doing aerial backflips off any and all surfaces; launching from each other’s shoulders to great and ever-surprising heights.

We grew up in Brooklyn, drawing crowds everywhere from the beer garden to the market to the city park, where a big top scout saw us. Since our parents were German, folks called us “The Wúnderbirds.” The name stuck. Even as teenagers, it was always “Wúnderboy” and “Wúndergirl.” Most people didn’t even know we had real names (Lukas and Mia, in case you were wondering).

Life on the road wasn’t always glamorous. It certainly wasn’t easy. But we loved it. Curious as they were, our troupe was our family. The old-timers became surrogate grandparents, especially Madam Clara, the palm reader who gave us French Chews and spoke exclusively in couplets. We shared sleeping quarters with a mute clown named Prattle and a burlesque dancer named Peep, but most of our downtime was spent coddling Smoke and Mirror, the albino elephant “twins” who went bananas for chin scratches and wildflowers.

Did I mention that we also loved to travel?

The circus took us from one glittering city to the next, and eventually to Europe, where the opulent Old World architecture was unlike anything we’d ever seen. Sometimes we revisited our favorite places in our sleep. In fact, it wasn’t uncommon for us to wake up describing the same alleyway or brasserie or limestone garden fountain — as if we’d both been there. Every once in a while, we even popped into each other’s dreams. We never really tried to do it. It’s just something that we did.

As it would turn out, we could travel like this in waking life as well — something we also discovered by accident.

It was 1896. We were gearing up for another tour, had just spent nearly six hours practicing our aerial routine, and were taking a rest, sitting back-to-back with our eyes closed. We weren’t quite awake, but we weren’t quite asleep. Just some hazy space in-between. And then something indescribable happened. We — how do I say it? — jumped through space. One minute we were sitting beneath the high wire, the next we were standing in front of the soda fountain in the middle of town. I guess we’d both been thinking about ice cream sodas when — whoosh!

It was all quite surreal, quite thrilling. A bit like launching off the swinging trapeze. No one saw us, but when we made it back — two sodas and 12 miles later — Madam Clara gave us “the look.” She knew, and we knew she knew. She gave us a handful of Chews, shook her head, then leaned in close.

“Careful dancing between realms,” she whispered, “lest you’re sure you’re at the helm.”

We knew she was right. Still, after our first leap through space, we were eager to do it again. Who wouldn’t be? And it’s not like we were afraid to jump.

After a great deal of trial and error, Lukas and I learned how to travel through space and time. I can’t really explain it, but it had a lot to do with not trying so hard. That, and we had to be touching. Either sitting back-to-back or holding hands. We were vaguely aware that we were completing some kind of circuit. But what did we really know? Not much.

On our off days, we practiced traveling short distances — five miles or five minutes or maybe both — careful to keep our little stunt to ourselves. Although Clara was on to us, Smoke and Mirror were the only souls who ever watched us leave or return. They never seemed too concerned, especially since we brought them treats. Sunflowers were always a big hit.

We weren’t bored with our little adventures, per se, but we were curious to know just how far we could jump. A decade? A hundred years? It seemed like a bit of a risk, but, then again, risks were kind of our specialty.

So, we made a pact. We’d attempt to leap forward one century, buy ourselves an ice cream soda, then jump back.

That was that.

The night before the big launch, once Prattle was mewing in his sleep and Peep was off “entertaining” a guest, we snuck out of our quarters to meet at the elephant barn, where we’d jump at dawn. Knowing we were coming, Madam Clara was there, sitting in the dark. She’d already seen how things would play out, but she never meddled. She knew we wouldn’t listen if she tried.

“I am not here to change your fate. I’m here to kiss you at the gate,” she told us, wrapping her frail arms around each of us before placing her cracked lips on our foreheads.

We promised we’d be back for breakfast.

“How grand to see the future first,” we chimed.

Clara held her tongue. She placed a French Chew into each of our palms, took our hands for a quiet moment, then said something that still gives me chills:

“If one shall remember and one shall forget, begin anew with no regret.”

We hadn’t a clue what Clara meant — her ditties often made sense only in hindsight — but we nodded anyway.

Once Clara left, we climbed into the stall with Smoke and Mirror, whose pink eyes cracked open when they whiffed the treats we brought them. We emptied our tote of the wild sea of ragweed we’d snagged from the roadside at golden hour. The elephants loved it, munching blissfully as we fed them flower spike after delicious yellow flower spike until — achoo!

I sneezed first. Then Lukas. Then me again.

On and on this went until Smoke doused us with a trunkful of water from her trough. What a time to find out we were allergic to ragweed, but if the circus taught us anything, it was the show goes on. Within the hour, at the first blush of light, Lukas and I prepared for takeoff. We held hands, set the intention of jumping 100 years through time, felt that familiar buzz of energy, and — we must have both sneezed — and let go of each other’s hands.

I landed here, in 1989. Seven years shy of a century! Thirty-seven years ago! And Lukas? I still don’t know. We were 18 when we jumped. We’ve been apart longer than we were together.

Sometimes, as I’m drifting off to sleep, I can feel his presence. Like he’s traveling toward me, if only for a visit. But even if we do find each other again, I know now that we can never go back. Not really. Because, here’s the truth: You can’t jump without letting go and beginning anew with no regret.

2026 Feature

The Spirit of ’76

THE SPIRIT OF '76

Hooper, Hewes and Penn

By Warren L. Bingham

It’s 2026 which means it’s time to celebrate America’s semiquincentennial. Since semiquincentennial sounds like a dreaded medical procedure, the celebration’s formal organizers just call it America 250. For this special anniversary, we should do more than the customary overindulgence in hot dogs, ice cream and fireworks on the Fourth of July. We should remember.

Sometime before the last Roman candle brightens the sky, you should consider paying tribute to three important Founding Fathers whom you’ve likely never heard of: William Hooper, Joseph Hewes and John Penn, the trio from North Carolina who signed the Declaration of Independence, which is, after all, the reason for all this merrymaking and bottle-rocketing. The Fourth is about the Declaration.

The three North Carolinians were among a total of 56 signers of the Declaration. Great Britain considered all of them to be traitors, for which they risked their lives. The last line of the Declaration summarizes the gravity of the signers’ commitment: We mutually pledge to each other our lives, fortunes, and our sacred honor. Had the American rebellion failed, the signers would have likely been executed in the public square. Or as Benjamin Franklin, the oldest signer of the Declaration at the age of 70, observed, “We must all hang together or assuredly we shall hang separately.”

In July 1776, the Continental Congress, composed of delegates from the 13 British colonies lining the Atlantic Coast from New Hampshire to Georgia, had been in session in Philadelphia for over a year. Hooper, Hewes and Penn, selected by their peers in North Carolina’s Provincial Congress, represented North Carolina. The primary topic was governance and whether the Colonies should seek independence from Great Britain.

The Colonies had recently ousted royal governors, and now Colonial assemblies were trying to figure out how to best govern themselves — but the people were still subjects of King George III, and a good number of Americans liked it that way. Many felt it was beneficial to remain with Great Britain, and numerous English, Scots and Scots-Irish settlers had known only loyalty to the king. Some historians describe the Revolutionary War as America’s first civil war.

News of deadly skirmishes in New England perpetrated by British troops against local militia, combined with King George III’s uncompromising efforts to tax and regulate the Colonists, increasingly drove Americans to question their loyalty to the Mother Country. The women of Eastern Carolina were notably engaged in their own protest of the crown and the British Parliament. Fifty-one women, led by Penelope Barker of Edenton, lent their names in the fight against tyranny when they staged the Edenton Tea Party in 1774. Parliament had passed several taxes on imported British goods, and the ladies of Edenton called for a boycott of British imports.

As debates about independence crept along in Philadelphia, delegates would come and go, tending to matters at home. Among the dozens of delegates from the 13 Colonies, rarely was everyone present at the same time. Travel was hard — the trip by horse from North Carolina to Philadelphia took two to three weeks.

In North Carolina, momentum for self-governance was growing. In May 1775, Mecklenburg County leaders met in Charlotte and publicly resolved their desire for independence. Then, in April 1776, the North Carolina Provincial Congress put forth the Halifax Resolves in which North Carolina became the first Colony to call for independence from Great Britain. From that action in Halifax comes a significant claim: North Carolina — First in Freedom.

In January 1776, Thomas Paine, a theretofore little-known writer and thinker, released his pamphlet, Common Sense, which strongly advocated for American independence from Great Britain. Written for the masses, Paine called monarchies absurd and implored Americans to unite, proclaim independence, and create a democratic government. Paine’s words resonated. Common Sense was a bestseller. As the season turned from spring to summer, throughout the Colonies, the call for independence was as hot as the weather. The delegates in Philadelphia got the message.

On July 4, 1776, the Continental Congress set forth the Declaration of Independence, which spelled out grievances with Great Britain and specifically with King George III. The collective body declared the “united” States of America to be free and independent states, absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown.

The Declaration was the seed of the future, but the lower case “u” in united, as printed in the Declaration, meant that each state was sovereign. For the time being, the states within their new independence would move forward in a loose alliance. That alliance took on the British military, and after eight years of battles and skirmishes from New Hampshire to Georgia and all the land in between, independence was secured in 1783.

Despite their noble role in representing North Carolina in Philadelphia, Hooper, Hewes and Penn are relatively unknown today. They all died in their late 40s, and though they made continued contributions to the fledgling state of North Carolina after July 4, 1776, they never became widely heralded. Though each man is recognized by historical markers and tributes at their graves, there are no places in North Carolina named in their honor.

There are, however, places around our state for some of the big founding names. The town of Washington is on the Pamlico River, and the town of Jefferson is in the Blue Ridge. Franklin County is named for Ben, as is Franklin Street in Chapel Hill. Fayetteville is named for Lafayette, the young French officer who served under Washington. Thanks to a modern Broadway play, practically everyone now knows Alexander Hamilton. Hip-hop has proven to be a Revolutionary educator.

Even though he wasn’t from North Carolina, Gen. Nathanael Greene has several namesakes here, enough to make other Revolutionary leaders green with envy: Greensboro, Greenville and Greene County are all named in honor of the general. Additionally, a Greensboro brewer produces Natty Greene beer. Cheers!

Beyond its signers of the Declaration, North Carolina produced its share of founding heroes. Some of them are honored with county namesakes: Nash, Harnett, Moore, Jones, Lenoir and Sampson were all North Carolinians and founding leaders, but there are no counties named for Hooper, Hewes or Penn.

None of our signatories were originally from North Carolina, but that was not unusual in their day. In the 1770s, it’s thought that over half the residents of North Carolina had come from somewhere else. It was a time of significant population growth and resettlement, and newcomers were plentiful in the state. People came from other states and abroad seeking land and opportunity, bringing new talents and skills, and new ways of thinking.

In 1776, William Hooper was a Wilmington lawyer, but he had previously lived in Campbelltown (present-day Fayetteville) and at one time served in Royal Gov. William Tryon’s legal department. Hooper had been a Royalist, a reminder that everyone in the Colonies was a subject of the king. His wife was the former Anne Clark, daughter of a New Hanover sheriff.

Born to a prominent Boston family in 1742, Hooper’s father was the second rector of Trinity Church. His son graduated from Boston Latin for his prep education, then earned both a bachelor’s and a master’s degree at Harvard University. Trinity Church, Boston Latin and Harvard are all still up and running. In addition to his formal training, Hooper studied law in Boston in the early 1760s under Boston lawyer James Otis, who was known for his strong advocacy of Colonial rights.

At the time of the Declaration, Joseph Hewes was a well-established Edenton merchant who had served in Colonial assemblies for 20 years. Hewes was in import-export trading and was a shipbuilder. Born on his family’s large farm in Kingston, New Jersey, in 1730, Hewes completed his formal studies at Kingston Friends School and was apparently bound for college at Princeton but — in today’s vernacular — turned pro instead. Strong-willed and ambitious, Hewes was drawn to commerce and in lieu of college, sought practical training as an apprentice to a Philadelphia merchant.

After five years of dock work and learning the trading business from the cargo hold up, Hewes struck out on his own, at first in Philadelphia. But by 1755, he was making a life and career for himself in Edenton. Hewes was engaged to marry the well-connected Isabella Johnston of Edenton, sister of Samuel Johnston, a future North Carolina governor. The Johnstons’ uncle was former Royal Gov. Gabriel Johnston. Sadly, Isabella Johnston died after a short illness before her marriage to Hewes could take place, and Hewes never married.

By 1776, John Penn was a known advocate for independence. A Virginia native who grew up on a small farm near the Rappahannock River in Caroline County, Penn was born in 1741 to a hard-working farm family. Though he received little formal education in his late teens, after the death of his father, he could afford to take time to study the law. John Adams famously said, “All Virginia geese are swans.” Yet, despite his Virginia birth and rearing, Penn was more goose than swan — but an ambitious, hard-working, smart goose.

Unlike Hooper and Hewes, he was not of the Eastern North Carolina elite. He lived in Granville County, in the northern Piedmont, where he farmed and maintained a successful law practice. His wife, the former Susannah Lyme, was a native of Granville County, and their marriage is what brought Penn there. He was more typical of back country settlers who lived simpler lives and distrusted both the Crown and the Eastern North Carolina elite.

Though Penn was ready sooner than most to move on from Great Britain, Hooper and Hewes were not early rabble-rousers for independence. In fact, in 1775, Hewes was among the leaders in the Continental Congress that offered the Olive Branch Petition to King George, an offer for a reset in relations between the Americans and British through peaceful means. The offer was rebuffed by George III.

Frustrated by repeated British affronts, heavy taxes and regulations, enforced at times by corrupt officials, the North Carolina signers grew to accept that independence was the inescapable course. Hooper, Hewes and Penn were amiable colleagues, but not close friends. Their bond was a shared belief in the principles of self-governance, democracy and individual freedom — the spirit of ’76.

The North Carolina trio had challenges during the ensuing war. Hooper’s home, Finian, was situated on 100-plus acres on Masonboro Sound south of Wilmington. The British bombed and burned Finian, and Hooper and his entire family were forced to flee to Hillsborough, where they lived out their lives.

Leaving his family, farm and law practice for long periods, Penn attended more days of the Continental Congress than any other North Carolinian. Over the years, he was a member of 15 or more Congressional committees. Back home, Penn was involved in equipping and supplying both the North Carolina militia and soldiers of the Continental Army.

During the war, Hewes was in Philadelphia more than in Edenton, often using his knowledge and skill in trade and shipbuilding to help the American cause. He was in effect the first secretary of the Navy. As the war raged, his health worsened and he grew increasingly weak, probably from malaria. He died in his Philadelphia rooming house in 1779 and was laid to rest nearby in Christ Church Burial Ground, just a few hundred yards from where he signed the Declaration of Independence.

If not the authors, the three Carolinians — Hooper, Hewes and Penn — were witnesses and signatories to what historian Walter Isaacson has characterized as The Greatest Sentence Ever Written. “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and pursuit of Happiness.”

That’s not nothing.

2026 Feature

The Great American Barbecue

THE GREAT AMERICAN BARBECUE

The Great American Barbecue

When the Coastal Plain meets the Piedmont

By Warren Lewis

Photographs by John Gessner

I was in trouble. Marianne, my better two-thirds, had invited friends over for a barbecue. Sounds easy enough — but the couples are from opposite sides of the state: vinegar-based barbecue vs. tomato-based barbecue. I’d rather discuss religion and politics. What’s a chef to do?

How about I begin at the beginning? Let’s talk location, culture and soil.

The Sandhills of North Carolina occupy a band of ancient coastal sediment running through Moore, Richmond, Hoke and Scotland counties — about from Southern Pines and Carthage west toward Laurinburg and Rockingham. The soil is sandy and quick-draining, good for longleaf pine, wire grass and peaches. The heat and sun can be relentless.

Barbecue in the Sandhills sits in geographic and cultural tension. The Eastern North Carolina tradition — vinegar-only, whole hog, hardwood coals — comes from the Coastal Plain counties to the east. The Lexington tradition — tomato-touched dip, pork shoulder, hickory smoke — comes from the Piedmont to the north and west. Aah! The tension of being the middle child. (Did I mention that I’m in the middle of two sisters?)

So here’s my compromise: a local pork shoulder cooked over hickory or oak, pulled and chopped, finished with a sauce that is predominantly vinegar but carries just enough of the Sandhills character — a touch of sweetness and depth. It’s a pretty solid compromise.

Note: With all recipes, read ’em through thoroughly, paying attention to rest periods and timing.

The Meat

Buy a bone-in pork butt, 8 – 10 pounds. This is the upper shoulder — well-marbled and deliciously fatty. It is the right cut for a long, slow cook. Just the right size for a dozen folks or so. Source locally, as Moore County has a fair number of working farms. A pork butt from a hog raised in the Sandhills’ sandy soil pastures will have a cleaner, slightly sweeter flavor than a commodity shoulder. It is worth the effort to seek one out. Plus, it seems like the right thing to do.

The Rub

The Sandhills rub is slightly more seasoned than the near-naked salt-and-pepper of the pure Eastern N.C. tradition, but it does not reach for the spice-cabinet ambition of Western barbecue. The goal is to season the exterior, build a modest bark, and stay out of the way of the smoke and the sauce.

Ingredients

4 tablespoons kosher salt

2 tablespoons coarsely ground black pepper

2 tablespoons brown sugar

2 teaspoons paprika

2 teaspoons garlic powder

1 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1 teaspoon dry mustard

Mix all ingredients thoroughly. Apply generously to all surfaces — fat cap, meat side, bone side, all the sides. Pat it in. Do not rub hard; you want it to sit on the surface, not be worked into the meat.

Wrap loosely and refrigerate overnight. Pull the shoulder from the refrigerator 2 hours before it goes on the smoker.

The Sandhills Sauce

This is where the Sandhills parts ways with the strict Eastern tradition. The sauce begins with vinegar — cider vinegar as the primary acid, white vinegar for sharpness — but it carries a small amount of ketchup for body and color, a touch of brown sugar for the faint sweetness the region’s palate expects, and a measured hand with the pepper.

Ingredients

3 cups apple cider vinegar

1 cup white distilled vinegar

¼ cup ketchup

¼ cup local honey

2 tablespoons brown sugar

2 teaspoons crushed red pepper flakes

3 teaspoons coarsely ground black pepper

1 teaspoon cayenne pepper

1 teaspoon kosher salt

1 teaspoon dry mustard

Method

1. Combine all ingredients in a jar or bottle with a tight lid.

2. Double check that the lid is tight. (No, I don’t want to discuss it.) Shake it like a Polaroid ’til it’s all mixed nice.

3. Let the sauce rest at room temperature for at least 24 hours before using. The pepper blooms in the acid and the flavors knit together. Three days of rest is better. Maybe make a double batch.

4. Taste before using. The sauce should lead with vinegar sharpness, finish with gentle heat, and carry a faint background sweetness that does not announce itself. Adjust cayenne for heat, brown sugar for sweetness, or add a splash of cider vinegar if it needs more edge.

The Cook

Cook this pork shoulder on an offset smoker, a kettle or any setup that allows you to maintain indirect heat and introduce real wood smoke. Use hickory — it is the wood of this region and this style. Oak is acceptable. No fruitwood. No mesquite. No Duraflame logs. (David, I’m talking to you.) Grab a book and settle into your favorite chair. This is gonna take a while. I like to do a barbecue when there is no moon, so I can stare at the stars all night. Barbecue is a real commitment.

Target temperature: 225 to 250 degrees Fahrenheit at the grate. Expected cook time for an 8 – 10 pound bone-in butt: 10 to 14 hours. Plan for the 14 hours.

1. Bring the smoker to a stable 225 to 250 degrees before the pork goes on, fat cap up. Place the shoulder with the thicker end toward the heat source if using an offset.

2. Manage the fire for clean, thin smoke. Hickory is an assertive wood — use it with a measured hand. Two or three fist-sized splits or large chunks at a time, added as needed to hold temperature. You want smoke, not a smudge.

3. At three hours, check the fire and note the color developing on the exterior. You can peek, but not too long as you’ll lose temperature. Take pictures. Let the bark form undisturbed.

4. At around 160 – 165 degrees internal temperature, the stall will set in. The temperature will plateau and hold — sometimes for two hours, occasionally longer in humid Sandhills summer heat. Hold your position. The collagen is converting to gelatin, and the exterior is doing important work. Take more pictures.

5. At the stall, wrap the shoulder in two layers of heavy-duty foil. Return it to the smoker and continue cooking at the same temperature. The foil pushes through the stall by trapping moisture — nothing worse than dry barbecue — while the interior completes its breakdown.

6. Continue cooking until the internal temperature reaches 200 – 205 degrees and the bone wiggles freely. The probe should slide into the thickest part of the flat with no resistance — easy, clean, like butter that has been sitting in a warm kitchen. Use the “bone test.” It’s more accurate than a thermometer.

7. Remove from the smoker. Keep in the foil. Wrap in a towel (Not a bath towel. Again, I don’t want to discuss it.) and rest in a dry cooler for a minimum of 1 hour. Two hours is better.

Pulling and Saucing

Sandhills pulled pork is pulled first, then chopped — somewhere between the long-strand pulled pork of Memphis and the fine chop of the Eastern N.C. tradition. You want medium pieces, roughly torn, with some variation in texture. The bark pieces, the fatty point of the shoulder, and the leaner flat should all be present in the finished pile.

1. Remove the bone. If cooked properly, the bone will have no meat on it. Pull the shoulder apart into large sections with two forks or your hands. Yes, it burns a little. Michelangelo didn’t complain while he spent four years on his back with his arms up painting.

2. Roughly chop the pulled pieces on a large cutting board — 8 – 10 passes with a heavy knife, turning the pile as you go. You want irregular chunks, not a fine mince.

3. While the meat is still hot, add the Sandhills sauce generously — start with a big splash — and toss to coat.

4. Taste. Add more sauce. The pork should be glossy, moist, and tangy with the faint sweetness of the sauce behind the vinegar. Let it rest in the pan for 5 minutes, then taste again. The meat will absorb a surprising amount of sauce while hot.

Serving

Serve on white bread or plain buns — the bread is not a vehicle, it is a participant. It absorbs the sauce that runs off the pork and becomes something you eat deliberately, not a wrapper you discard. A plain white hamburger bun is correct. A brioche bun is not.

Traditional Accompaniments

White bread or plain hamburger buns

Vinegar-dressed coleslaw — cabbage, cider vinegar, a little sugar, celery seed, no mayonnaise

Baked beans — cooked low and slow with a piece of the pork if you have it

Hush puppies or cornbread

Sliced peaches in season — a Sandhills addition that needs no explanation. Maybe pop them on the grill for a moment.

Extra Sandhills sauce on the side

Sweet tea, cold and very sweet

Ice cream

Final Notes

Cook it for a Saturday. Start it Friday night. Let the neighbors smell it in the morning. Invite them over. Serve it at noon on paper plates under the pines with sweet tea and peaches and people who are not in any hurry to be anywhere else.

2026 Feature

Blood in the Sand

BLOOD IN THE SAND

Blood in the Sand

Revolutionary War mayhem at Piney Bottom

By Bill Case

When Lord Gen. Charles Cornwallis, commander of the British Army in the South, invaded North Carolina in September 1780, it marked the end of nearly 4½ years of relative peace in the state. Patriots (also referred to as “Whigs”), whose control had been mostly unchallenged since the early days of the war, suddenly faced potential loss of their lives, property, and their Whig-led state government. Triggered by the theft of a young woman’s bolt of brown cloth, the hostilities would also come to the Sandhills, culminating in a series of attacks and counterattacks marked by grisly and unspeakable cruelty.

Anguished Tarheel Patriots initially feared Cornwallis’ army was unstoppable. The British had subdued Patriot opposition in neighboring South Carolina with relative ease. Lord Henry Clinton, overall commander of the British forces in America, had occupied Charles Town (Charleston) in May 1780 following a seven-week siege of the city. Clinton’s hostile seizure resulted in the capture of 5,000 Patriot soldiers, including many North Carolinians. Three months later, Cornwallis scored a major victory at the Battle of Camden (South Carolina), routing Continental troops mismanaged by Gen. Horatio Gates.

Flushed with confidence, Cornwallis thought it unlikely he would encounter significant Patriot resistance in North Carolina and, in fact, anticipated that thousands of Loyalists, mostly transplanted Scottish Highlanders, would be joining the British in the fight.

North Carolina’s Loyalists (also called Tories) had been laying low since February 1776. That was when a newly formed regiment of kilted Highlanders were crushed in a deadly encounter with Patriot militia at Moore’s Creek Bridge near Wilmington. In their ill-fated charge across the bridge, the Highlanders were greeted with devastating gunfire that nearly obliterated their regiment.

As a result, the Patriots ruled supreme in North Carolina for the ensuing 4½ years. British Royal Gov. Josiah Martin was forced to flee to a Royal Navy ship off the coast. The state’s chastened Loyalists were subjected to a plethora of reprisals: burning of homes, confiscation of property and imprisonment.

Traditionally, the Highlanders had been blood enemies of the Crown, particularly after their clans were annihilated by the English in the 1746 Battle of Culloden in Scotland. The aftermath of that debacle led to the Clearances, in which Highlander clans were unceremoniously uprooted from their ancestral homes.

Several factors were involved in the Highlanders about-face. Most had taken oaths of allegiance to the king as a condition of his permitting their emigration to America, and many of the transplants had received generous land grants in return. Remembering their devastating defeat at Culloden, the Highlanders were understandably reluctant to undertake a second, likely doomed, rebellion against what they perceived was the invincible British Army.

Financial considerations also played a role. The majority of Highlanders were entrepreneurs — farmers, millers, timber and turpentine harvesters, merchants — and loathe to disrupt the marketing of their products to England.

The British invasion got off to a promising start. Cornwallis’ advance guard stormed into Charlotte. After a skirmish, his troops drove the defending Patriot militia toward Salisbury. The Crown scored another major victory in early 1781 when British Maj. James Craig occupied Wilmington. Seizure of the seaport secured for the Redcoats a vital supply depot as well as control of the entrance to the Cape Fear River.

Emboldened by the presence of British troops, North Carolina’s Loyalists re-emerged as a fighting force. British Maj. Patrick Ferguson recruited over 1,000 of them. They joined a militia that protected Cornwallis’ left flank. Ferguson warned settlers west of the Blue Ridge not to resist his troops or else he would “march his army over the mountains, hang their leaders, and lay their country to waste with fire and sword.”

As Cornwallis had predicted, violent Loyalist uprisings started springing up in the state. A notable example occurred in Anson County, near present day Wadesboro, where the commandant of the Anson County Regiment, Col. Thomas Wade, and his brother-in-law Patrick Boggan were victimized by Tory retribution. Wade’s house was burned; the Tories confiscated his crops and personal property.

Fearful for their lives, Wade, Boggan and other members of the Anson County Regiment packed their wagons and fled with their families to the Neuse River, near the Pamlico Sound, an area relatively free of Tories.

The triumphant victory Cornwallis envisioned would stall due to unexpected setbacks elsewhere. Mountain frontiersmen (tagged the “Overmountain Men”), infuriated by Maj. Ferguson’s threats, teamed up with Patriot militia to rout Ferguson’s Loyalists in the Battle of Kings Mountain on Oct. 7, 1780. The major was killed in the clash.

Another blow to Cornwallis’ southern strategy occurred in December 1780, when George Washington appointed Gen. Nathanael Greene to replace Gates as southern commander of the Continental Army. Greene brought to the post new energy, resilience and resourcefulness, notably absent under Gates’ leadership. He adopted a strategy of frustrating the enemy, wearing it down by attrition, rather than risking all in a decisive battle. “We fight, get beat, rise, and fight again,” he wrote Washington.

Then on Jan. 17, 1781, a wing of Greene’s Continental Army, led by Brig. Gen. Daniel Morgan, and accompanied by Patriot militia, defeated British and Loyalist troops at the Battle of Cowpens in South Carolina. Morgan’s triumph resulted in the capture of over 500 enemy combatants. With prisoners in tow, Morgan headed north toward Salisbury, to link up with Greene.

Given the unforeseen depletion of his army, Cornwallis deemed it critical to free Morgan’s prisoners and restore them to his own ranks. The general gave chase, hoping to destroy Morgan’s force before it could join Greene. To expedite his pursuit, he ordered the jettisoning of his army’s excess supplies, including, to the soldiers’ dismay, their rations of brandy. But the elusive Morgan escaped Redcoat clutches, successfully linking up with Greene in Salisbury.

Undaunted, Cornwallis continued to stalk Greene’s reunited army, looking to force a battle before it crossed the Dan River into Virginia. Again, Cornwallis came up short. Greene successfully eluded the British, winning the so-called “Race to the Dan.” When he crossed the river into Virginia, 600 Commonwealth militiamen joined his ranks.

Thus reinforced, Greene crossed back over the Dan into North Carolina. His combined forces now outnumbered those of Cornwallis 2-to-1. The savvy Greene was at last ready to meet the British in a pitched battle.

Cornwallis met Greene head-on. The Battle of Guilford Court House near Greensboro on March 15, 1781 was described by author Phillips Russell as the “grimmest ever fought on North Carolina soil.” In his book North Carolina in the Revolutionary War, Russell suggests that the Ides of March confrontation became “a determining factor in the outcome of the American war for independence. . . . It was critical in every aspect.”

While Greene’s soldiers were ultimately driven from the field, Guilford Court House was, at best, a Pyrrhic victory for Cornwallis. His men suffered heavy casualties: 500 killed and wounded — almost a quarter of his remaining army. Many of the general’s best officers were lost, and he himself was wounded. Furthermore, the remaining Redcoats were exhausted and famished, due in part to their commander’s questionable decision to ditch supplies.

To replenish his men, Cornwallis marched them toward Cross Creek (present day Fayetteville), a Loyalist stronghold that supposedly housed a storage facility laden with British supplies. En route the army trekked through Pittsboro and across the Little River. Cornwallis spent one night at a home located at what later became Fort Bragg. When he arrived at Cross Creek, the general found that Patriot supporters had emptied the warehouse. To feed his increasingly desperate soldiers, Cornwallis had no choice but to lead them on to Wilmington, still controlled by the Crown. The bedraggled Redcoats finally arrived at the port on April 7, 1781.

Cornwallis had had enough of the Carolinas. In a communication with Clinton, the general recommended the war be fought elsewhere. “Until Virgina is in a manner subdued,” he claimed, “our hold of the Carolinas must be difficult if not precarious. The rivers in Virginia are advantageous to an invading army. But North Carolina is, of all provinces in America, the most difficult to attack . . . ”

After a two-week rest, Cornwallis marched his reinforced army north to Virginia. When he exited North Carolina, the British no longer posed a significant threat to Whigs in the state’s interior, though a residual force led by Maj. Craig still controlled Wilmington and the surrounding coastal areas.

Cornwallis’ departure was demoralizing to North Carolina Loyalists. They generally viewed his campaign in the state as a failure that had reinvigorated the Patriots’ quest for independence.

But one vengeful Tory leader was undeterred. During the summer of 1781, wily David Fanning led several spectacular raids. His militia captured 53 prisoners at the Chatham County Courthouse in Pittsboro and forced the surrender of Philip Alston’s Whig militia at the House in the Horseshoe in Moore County. He even kidnapped Whig Gov. Thomas Burke in Hillsborough.

With the British Army gone and Loyalist fervor somewhat cowed, Thomas Wade and Patrick Boggan figured it would be relatively safe for their families and militiamen to pack up their wagons and head home to Anson County, 150 miles from their Neuse River hideout. Yes, they would be passing through Tory-dominated areas, but with Cornwallis gone, weren’t Loyalists going to retreat into the shadows again? If Fanning’s militia remained a threat, the seemingly omnipresent Tory couldn’t be everywhere at once, could he?

As a precaution, Wade sent the women and children off first with just a couple of his militiamen to guard them, figuring the innocents wouldn’t be harmed by Loyalists. In addition, the Anson County men, along with Capt. Culp from South Carolina, started their own journey home, crossing the Cape Fear River at present day Averasboro (Hartnett County), where they camped. That night, a few of Wade’s men, off on a personal frolic, raided the home of John McDaniel, a Loyalist who employed a young orphan girl, Marren McDaniel, as a servant. Marren had spun enough rough brown cloth to make a dress, but Wade’s men pilfered the coarse cloth from the loom while the shocked girl stood by. When McDaniel’s Highlander neighbors heard what had happened, their reaction was outrage. They deemed the militiaman’s callous treatment of the defenseless girl as a crime almost worse than house burning. Revenge was suddenly in the air. Wade’s militia would have to pay!

“Cunning John” McNeill stepped forward to play a key role in the Highlander’s response to the pillaging of the poor girl’s cloth. He was one of six sons of Jennie Bahn McNeill, a crafty businesswoman active in selling cattle. When Jennie saw the Revolution brewing, she hedged her bets, insisting that three of her sons (including John) support the Tories while her remaining sons aligned with the Patriots. The gambit enabled Jennie to market cattle to both camps.

However, John’s allegiance to the Tories was no ruse. After the raid of McDaniel’s home, he urged his neighbors to gather at midnight the following day at the Longstreet Church, a log cabin structure in Argyll — a small community of Scottish-born settlers that would ultimately vanish after being incorporated into Fort Bragg, 137 years later.

On the morning of the meeting, Cunning John rode his horse 25 miles to the eastern side of Fayetteville, where he visited Ebenezer Fulsome, a patriotic Whig. Fulsome would later confirm McNeill did not commence his ride back home until around sundown. Cunning John had established a plausible alibi (which later proved useful) regarding his whereabouts during the night.

According to Malcolm Fowler’s book, Valley of the Scots, McNeill, presumably galloping his mount to near exhaustion, did make it from Fayetteville to the meeting at Longstreet Church around 1 a.m. Those he had summoned, bearing Scottish surnames like McDougald, McKay, McLeod, Blue, Black, Monroe, Ferguson and Patterson, had waited anxiously to hear what McNeill had in mind.

The plan was simple: attack Colonel Wade’s sleeping camp an hour before daylight and kill as many members of his militia as possible. Cunning John knew where the Anson County men were likely to be bivouacked — the old campground at Piney Bottom Creek (located within Fort Bragg, 7 miles east of today’s Southern Pines).

Local historian and 20-year U.S. Army veteran Matt Mutarelli has diligently studied the events that unfolded at Piney Bottom and makes presentations locally regarding them. His military service includes a lengthy stint in Special Operations, and he speaks with authority when he commends Cunning John’s foresight in figuring out where Wade would be setting up camp.

“From a military perspective,” says Mutarelli, “McNeill executed a superb job of predictive and terrain analyses. He took into account Wade’s likely path home, his rate of travel, prevailing weather and available resources.” McNeill also proved himself an excellent networker. In the course of a single day, Cunning John assembled 200 to 300 Tories, many of them hailing from far corners of Moore County.

When the conclave at Longstreet Church was over, the assembled Highlanders faced a 10-mile nighttime ride through the woods to Piney Bottom. As they mounted their horses at the church, their scheduled attack was a mere five hours away.

Just before daybreak, the Highlanders came within earshot of Wade’s camp at Piney Bottom. A sentry hailed them, but the attackers remained silent. The lack of response prompted Wade’s sentry to fire. One of the Highlanders, Duncan McCallum, shot back. The attack was on.

There are varying accounts of what followed; the one closest in time to the incident was authored by Rev. E. W. Caruthers in 1854. In his book Revolutionary Incidents and Sketches of Character, he writes, “Then (the Highlanders) rushed upon the sleeping company just as they were roused by the fire of the sentinel’s gun, and shot down five or six of them but the rest (save one) escaped leaving everything behind them.”

Unfortunately, a young boy accompanying Wade’s militia was slow to awaken and was trapped inside his wagon as the Highlanders approached. The youngster’s name is unknown, nor is it reported how he happened to be accompanying the Anson County militia. Caruthers describes the boy as “motherless” and a “protege” of Col. Wade, who had grown fond of him. The author describes what happened next in gruesome detail.

The lad, “before he was fully awake, cried out, ‘Parole me! Parole me!’ Duncan Ferguson, a renegade deserter from the American Army, told him to come out and he would parole him. He came out and dropped to his knees, begging for his life, but seeing Ferguson approaching him in a threatening manner, he jumped up and ran. Ferguson took after him and Col. McDougal after Ferguson, threatening him that if he touched the boy he would cut him down. Ferguson still ran on, however, until he overtook the boy, and then with his broadsword split his head wide open so that half of it fell on one shoulder and the other half on the other shoulder.”

Following the grisly murder, the assailants plundered the wagons, then proceeded to burn them. Had the Highlanders retained the wagons, there was a possibility observant Patriots would later recognize them as Wade’s, and thus link those who possessed them to the “Massacre at Piney Bottom.” The raiders did carry off the charred iron traces of the wagons, a fact one Sandhills man would come to regret.

On his way home, McNeill visited his friend, the aforementioned Loyalist John McDaniel, and bragged about what had occurred at Piney Bottom. In the course of regaling McDaniel, Cunning John brandished a trophy — the notorious piece of brown woven cloth. When Marren McDaniel, standing nearby, saw her cloth, she immediately claimed it. As Caruthers noted, “This was perhaps the only good which resulted from that tragical affair.”

It appears most of Wade’s militiamen were able to fetch their horses to assist their narrow escape. The following morning, Capt. Culp, riding his horse bareback, appeared at the home of an aged Tory named McLean, who lent the captain a saddle. Wade, Boggan, Culp and the remaining regiment members eventually made it back to Anson County, about 55 miles from Piney Bottom.

If McNeill and his band assumed Col. Wade would not retaliate, they were wrong. Caruthers writes, “As soon as Wade and Culp reached home, they collected about one hundred dragoons, or mounted men, under Captain Bogan, and they all came down swearing never to return until they had avenged the death of that murdered boy, who seems to have been a favorite of Wade and, in fact, all that knew him.” The revenge-minded Anson County Patriots then headed to the Sandhills.

Their first destination was the home of Daniel Patterson, an elderly gent known as “the Piper.” He resided adjacent to Drowning Creek near its west bank (thus in Richmond County — the creek would eventually serve as Richmond County’s border with Moore County). It is doubtful Patterson was at Piney Bottom, but Wade believed he would know who was. According to Caruthers, Wade’s militiamen “caught the old man and whipped him until he gave up the names of all who were at Piney Bottom.”

The Patriots crossed over Drowning Creek to the Moore County side, where they paid a visit to the home of Kenneth Clarke. There they found Alexander McLeod, whom they tied up, pinioning his arms behind his back. Alexander’s 11-year-old brother John was placed under guard.

The militiamen then came upon a small field where five men were making “potato hills.” According to Caruthers, two of them, Daniel McMillan and Duncan Currie, were known “accomplices in the massacre.” But the other three, John Clark, Allen McSweene and “an Irishman who was a British deserter and wore a red coat,” apparently had no involvement aside from knowing McMillan and Currie.

But by this time, Wade’s men were past the point of caring whether their captives had participated in the massacre personally or not. All five men were gathered up and taken to Kenneth Clarke’s home, where they were kept under guard.

Since they had not been immediately put to death, the Highlander captives had hopes of surviving their awful plight. Just before sunset, their chances took a turn for the worse when Capt. Patrick Boggan and his Light Horse Company appeared on the scene. They were all enraged, partly due, says Caruthers, to intoxication. Boggan had the prisoners removed from the house, then ordered they be put to death by sword in the same manner as Wade’s young protege at Piney Bottom.

The initial object of Boggan’s wrath was Alexander McLeod. Several of the militiamen, while on horseback, beat McLeod over the head with their swords. With his raised arms absorbing most of the blows, Alexander temporarily avoided fatal injury. When the other terrified prisoners observed Alexander’s plight, they ran. With his captors momentarily distracted, Alexander also tried to escape, only to be shot dead. John Clarke, Currie and McMillan were likewise mowed down by gunfire.

Despite having both hands tied behind him, McSweene sought to make a getaway. “With a last, desperate, almost preternatural effort to save his life,” writes Caruthers, “he leaped a pretty high staked and ridered fence which was round the house.” Though bullet-ridden, McSweene somehow continued running for another quarter-mile before he fell. His tormenters finished him off by splitting open his head. Youngster John McLeod and elderly Kenneth Clarke were spared, though Clarke was told to bury all his compatriots’ corpses by the next morning or he too would be killed.

The Anson County Patriots’ bloodlust was far from sated. On the Sabbath, they arrived at the farm of David Buchan, located where Pinehurst’s half-mile harness racing track is today. Fortunately for Buchan, he was not at home. When the militiamen found charred harness chains at the farm, they viewed it as clear proof they were from Wade’s burned wagons at Piney Bottom. Buchan’s home was set afire as retaliation.

Next, the avengers rode to the farm of another Loyalist, Kenneth Black. It was located where the Morganton Park South shopping area in Southern Pines is today. The Black family cemetery still exists on the property. When Kenneth and his son saw the incensed Patriots approach, they hid a distance from the farmhouse, but Capt. Culp caught sight of them and forced the two men into the house. Culp and several of his men rode their horses inside and herded the Black family into the fireplace.

Female relatives of Scottish heroine Flora McDonald arrived at the Blacks’ home while Culp and his men ransacked the place. A quarter-century before, Flora had gained fame by aiding Bonnie Prince Charlie’s escape from British capture after he led Scottish clansmen to their crushing defeat at Culloden. Ironically, Flora was now allied with the Loyalists, having married a British officer with whom she moved to America. She resided at a home 4 miles away provided by Kenneth Black.

The visiting McDonald females were checking up on Black family members who had recently contracted smallpox. Culp and his men “took the gold rings from their fingers and the silk handkerchiefs from their necks,” says Caruthers. “Then, putting their swords into their bosom, split down their silk dresses and, taking them out into the yard, stripped them of all their outer clothing.”

Standing off to the side was a detached and melancholy Col. Wade. When Mrs. Black inquired why he was not joining in the plunder, he responded there was nothing he wanted except “my son, my son!” — presumably the motherless boy executed at Piney Bottom.

As the Patriots prepared to leave with blankets, clothing and other seized items, Mrs. Black observed, “Well, you have a bad companion with you — the smallpox!” The trespassers immediately threw everything down and fled on horseback.

Later that day, the Whig militia killed Alexander Black at his farm. Then they came to the house of Peter Blue, who was being visited by his friend Archibald McBride, a Whig. Both were shot; Blue survived, but McBride, guilty only by association, did not.

Though frustrated in his efforts to apprehend John McNeill, Wade and the other Whig militiamen finally left the Sandhills and headed home. Caruthers concludes that the Tories had been taught a brutal, cruel lesson that “would deter them from ever attempting such a thing (as Piney Bottom) again.”

Meanwhile, the British military campaign in Virginia resulted in an unmitigated disaster. Cornwallis had currently foreseen that events in Virginia would decide the war, but not in the way he intended. In September 1781, an American force led by George Washington, in tandem with French soldiers commanded by Gen. Jean-Baptiste Donatien de Vemeur, comte de Rochambeau, trapped Cornwallis’ army at Yorktown. A French naval blockade precluded any attempt by the British to evacuate, obtain supplies or secure reinforcements. Outwitted and checkmated, Cornwallis surrendered his army on Oct. 19, 1781.

The outcome at Yorktown had rapid ripple effects for the Crown. Maj. Craig evacuated Wilmington the following month. A year later, the British sailed away from Charles Town, ending 2½ years of occupation. David Fanning was on-board ship. The Treaty of Paris, in which King George finally acknowledged American independence, was signed on Sept. 3, 1783.

The war was over, but Thomas Wade was not done with John McNeill, whom he had arrested for his role in the murders at Piney Bottom. But Cunning John’s long-planted alibi would save his skin. Ebenezer Fulsome’s testimony that McNeill was still visiting him in Cumberland County at sundown the evening before the bloodshed convinced the jury that given the distance of travel involved, it was not probable McNeill would have made it to Longstreet Church, let alone Piney Bottom, in time to take part in the massacre.

It is noteworthy that neither Marren McDaniel nor the man to whom she was indentured, John McDaniel, took the stand. Both could have confirmed Cunning John’s flaunting of Marren’s woven brown cloth, as well as his boasting of how and where he got it.

Only one small monument, well off the beaten path, deep in the confines of Fort Bragg, commemorates the brutality at Piney Bottom. The site of the massacre was determined by the gun flints unearted in the vicinity. The Revolutionary War was not just a conflict between the British and the Americans; it was also a civil war — especially in North Carolina — in which neighbors killed neighbors over their political differences. In their mutual bloodlust, both sides dispensed with the rule of law and due process. Innocent people were murdered. Violence begat further violence. The big engagements like Yorktown secured the promises of the Declaration of Independence, but it’s worth remembering on America’s 250th that war, at any scale, is gruesome and cruel.

A riveting tour of sites on the reservation that are relevant to the bloody episode can be arranged by contacting Fort Bragg. In addition to the monument, a visitor can view remnants of the original Longstreet Church, where the Tories planned their pre-dawn attack. Nearby is the still standing successor Longstreet Church, erected in 1845. The newer church is adjacent to an ancient Presbyterian graveyard, where many of the old Highlanders are buried. Fort Bragg’s Cultural Resource team has also unearthed evidence establishing the site of the home where Cornwallis lodged during his army’s April 1781 march to Wilmington.

To arrange a tour, call Fort Bragg’s Cultural Resources Management Program at (910) 396-6680.

2026 Feature

Going to Extremes

GOING TO EXTREMES

Going to Extremes

Of moths and men and tobacco

Story and Photographs By Todd Pusser

“I remember my grandfather pretending to bite their heads off,” recounts lifelong Eagle Springs resident Tim Martin with a laugh. “In all actuality, he was just pinching their heads with his fingers. But he sure made it look realistic, especially when that green goo poured out.”

Martin is 65 years old and speaks with a soft, earnest drawl, as he reminisces with fond nostalgia and a strong sense of pride about his childhood working his grandfather’s 100-acre tobacco farm. Pulling hornworms off the broad-veined leaves of tobacco plants, in dusty fields during the heat of summer, was once a rite of passage for kids like Martin. The finger-length, bright green caterpillars, with race car-white stripes on their sides, and tall protuberances that stick up from their hind ends (giving them their name), are notorious pests of tobacco. With voracious appetites that would make Eric Carle — author of The Very Hungry Caterpillar — proud, a handful of hornworm caterpillars could decimate the valuable leaves of a tobacco plant in short order.

For decades, North Carolina led the world in the production of tobacco, its signature crop. In its heyday, the state produced as much as a billion pounds of the leaf per year. Talk to any old-timer born and raised in the Sandhills and chances are good they worked the local tobacco fields as a kid, either on a family farm or one that met the tobacco quota set by the U.S. government. The quota system, established by federal law in 1938, strictly controlled the amount of tobacco grown in order to keep prices high for farmers. It was illegal to grow and sell more tobacco than the quota.

Farming tobacco was very much a community affair. “Neighbors helped neighbors,” says Martin. Planting, pruning, priming, pulling and drying tobacco leaves instilled a deep love for the land as well as a strong work ethic. That work was frequently grueling and often started well before the crack of dawn. “My brother Mike was the only one of us four siblings old enough to drive,” remembers Martin. “We would get up and leave Eagle Springs in the dark in his 1960 Dodge Coronet and drive 100 mph down Hoffman Road to reach my grandfather’s farm by sunrise.”

Martin chuckles. “My mother would have had a fit.”

Walking the long rows of tobacco, back and forth, over and over, under the intense summer sun, with hands covered in sticky sap from pulling sucker shoots off the tall green stalks, was not for the faint of heart — nor was grappling with sausage-sized caterpillars. Throughout my childhood I heard stories about hornworms and tobacco from my father. He, too, had worked the local tobacco fields as a kid, as did my mom. So did their siblings. And their friends. It seemed everyone I knew of a certain age had worked in tobacco at some point in their youth, and all had a hornworm story. For a nature-obsessed kid, the thought of giant, squishy caterpillars devouring entire fields of tobacco sparked the imagination.

Hornworms are the caterpillars of sphinx moths, a family of mostly large moths that are well-known for rapidly flapping their wings back and forth while hovering in front of flowers. Approximately 1,400 species of sphinx moths are found across the globe, with 46 species having been recorded in North Carolina. Most species are nocturnal, but a few fly about during the day. Perhaps you’ve seen a hummingbird moth, hovering around a flower garden like its feathered namesake. Hummingbird moths are, in fact, a type of sphinx moth.

Catalpa worms, another type of sphinx moth caterpillar with a horn on its butt, feed on the wide green leaves of the catalpa tree. Native to the mountains of North Carolina, catalpa trees were planted throughout the Sandhills for the primary purpose of producing fish bait. My father swears that catalpa worms are the best bass bait around. Dad has no clue how to navigate Google Maps, but he still remembers to this very day, with vivid clarity, the directions to every catalpa tree — at least the ones still standing-around southern Moore County that he visited with his father on weekend fishing excursions over 75 years ago.

Anyone who has tried their hand at growing sun-ripened tomatoes is well acquainted with hornworms. As it turns out, tomatoes are in the nightshade family Solanaceae, just like tobacco. The seemingly vastly different plants attract two of the most notorious sphinx moth caterpillars, the tomato hornworm and the tobacco hornworm. The bane of backyard gardeners everywhere, these two caterpillars are lookalikes. It takes a trained eye to distinguish between the two. Tomato hornworms have eight L-shaped white stripes on their sides. Their characteristic horn is colored black. Tobacco hornworms, on the other hand, possess seven straight white stripes on their sides, each edged in black. Their horns are bright red, like embers in a fire. Despite their large size, hornworms can be surprisingly difficult to see on their host plants. Their green and white coloration acts as perfect camouflage against would-be predators.

Recently, I challenged my 7-year-old daughter, Ella, to a contest of who could spot the most hornworms on a Datura growing in Grandma’s flower garden. Known by many common names, such as Angel’s trumpet or moon flower, Datura is another member of the nightshade family, and is a magnet for both tomato and tobacco hornworms. One reason kids were tasked with worming tobacco back in the day was that they were closer to the ground than adults. Logic dictated that they could see up under the tobacco leaves more easily, and hence, were better at locating those pesky hornworms. With my daughter standing by my side, I decided to put that theory to the test.

One hot June afternoon, we took up positions on either side of the Datura. On a count of three, we stared intently at the plant to see who could find the most hornworms. After a few minutes of closely examining the bright white flowers and light green foliage, I managed to find just three tobacco hornworms. Ella found 10.

That night, after Ella had fallen asleep, I ventured back out into the flower garden with an ultraviolet flashlight in hand. Hornworms fluoresce brightly under ultraviolet light. Shining the flashlight onto the Datura, I counted nearly two dozen hornworms of various sizes, glowing like Christmas tree lights among the leaves — far more than Ella and I had observed earlier in the day. It was a testament to their superb camouflage. “For every bucket of hornworms pulled off tobacco there were probably five others still on the plants,” says Martin.

A 1964 groundbreaking study linking cigarette smoking to lung cancer and heart disease was the beginning of the end for many tobacco farmers across North Carolina. In the decades and lawsuits that followed, tobacco’s public image suffered. Then, in 2004, the government ended the tobacco quota system that had supported high tobacco prices, forcing many farmers to grow other crops or leave the industry altogether. Though North Carolina still leads the nation in tobacco production, it has now been surpassed on the global scale by China. Still, tobacco remains one of the state’s most important cash crops. Drive the backroads of the Sandhills this time of year and you will still see acres and acres of the broad-leaved plants standing tall in the sun.

A couple of years back, while driving to visit my family in Eagle Springs, I found a vast field of tobacco that had yet to be topped, not far from my childhood home. Hundreds of white blossoms, sitting high atop the green stalks, swayed gently in the summer breeze. Topping tobacco is an agricultural technique that removes the crown of flowers from the top of the stalk so that the plant redirects its nutrients into producing larger and thicker leaves, thereby increasing its value for the farmer. Like blood in the water for sharks, I figured that all the nectar-rich flowers would attract sphinx moths, and I decided to stand out in the field that evening to try my hand at photographing them.

Despite all its controversies and poor public image, tobacco is one beautiful plant, with its wide, floppy green leaves and crown of pink and white blossoms. There are roughly 70 species of wild tobacco in the genus Nicotiana found across the globe. The species that is grown commercially in North Carolina, commonly called brightleaf tobacco, is known as Nicotiana tobacum. Native to the Neotropics, it was traded throughout the Americas by indigenous peoples. When the first European Colonists settled in Jamestown, they found the local Native American tribes cultivating and smoking the plant for medicinal and spiritual purposes. By the end of the 17th century, tobacco had become the economic staple of Virginia, making the region the wealthiest of the country’s original 13 Colonies at the time of the American Revolution.

Arriving to the field a half hour before the sunset, I was immediately greeted by the sight of several dozen sphinx moths hovering around the tobacco blossoms like nocturnal hummingbirds. The scent of sweet perfume hung heavy in the air. Unlike the bitter acrid smell of cigarette smoke, tobacco flowers produce a pleasing aroma reminiscent of jasmine and gardenia. Up and down, side to side, forward and backward, the moths zipped about, unfurling their long tongues and inserting them, with surgical precision, into the tubular flowers to sample the nectar reserves nestled deep within. Beating their wings at over 70 times per second, I could actually hear the moths as they hovered over nearby blossoms.

As the sun dipped out of sight on the far side of the field, on the other side, a full moon rose above the horizon. Under the silvery moonlight, the tobacco flowers practically glowed. It was a magical sight.

Reviewing the images on my camera’s LCD, I identified the moths as Carolina sphinx moths. With 4-inch wingspans and furry abdomens covered by six pairs of yellow-orange spots, Carolina sphinx moths seem more like small mammals than insects. On many of the photos, I could make out tiny granules of tobacco pollen stuck to their long tongues. Sphinx moths are important pollinators of plants, though they tend to be overlooked when compared with butterflies and bees. The next time you sip your morning brew be sure and thank sphinx moths. On tropical coffee plantations, sphinx moths supplement bee pollination of coffee flowers.

Another important tropical crop, the delicious papaya, is mainly pollinated by sphinx moths. Closer to home, many orchids, lilies, cacti, evening primroses, four o’clocks, petunias and morning glories are all pollinated by sphinx moths. The list goes on and on. As powerful flyers, sphinx moths disperse pollen over long distances, promoting plant outbreeding and genetic diversity. As I like to tell my daughter, they are the superheroes of the insect world.

After spending several hours among the flowering tobacco, I decided to call it a night. A quick scan of the field with my headlamp revealed numerous sphinx moths still frantically sipping nectar with their giant straw-like tongues, beneath the full moon.

I smiled at the wonders so close to home.

2026 Feature

True to Its Tradition

TRUE TO ITS TRADITION

True to Its Tradition

Preserving a home’s heart and history

By Hazlette Huskins

Photographs by John Gessner

The “Nice Digges” cottage is exactly that. In an era of fast-paced living, retreating to this cottage is like going back to a time when your hometown was your whole world, and that was enough. Built in 1926 in the “community” section of Pinehurst, it was among the workers’ cottages where year-round residents lived, including postal employees, bank tellers, teachers, the Community Church minister and shop owners. Folks walked to work and school on streets named after local families like Everette, Fields, Kelly and Craig.

Van and Julie Mitchell were among the founding members of Forest Creek Golf Club when they purchased land there in 1994. After 10 years of staying in hotels on trips from their home in Southern Maryland, they decided to look for permanent accommodations that would be more comfortable while enjoying time at the club. They reached out to a Realtor friend who knew of a home that had been lightly renovated by a local family. Van came down to look at it the day after it went on the market, immediately made an offer, and the little white cottage on Short Road was theirs.

Once the couple got to know the neighbors and saw how special the block was, they decided to stay in the village full time. Julie credits the village’s National Historic Landmark designation with encouraging preservation through thoughtful restorations of the beloved workers’ cottages. Over the years, the neighborhood has evolved into an eclectic group of new and longtime residents, including folks from Germany, South Africa, Turkey and Australia, who attend the block’s warm weather happy hours they call “neighbor nights.”

Nothing says “welcome” better than the broad, covered front porch with a bespoke rocking chair. Sponsored by the Mitchells as part of the Rock the Village project during the 2024 U.S. Open, it was painted by local artist Vanessa Grebe and includes symbols of their home states of Maryland and North Carolina, along with a portrayal of our area’s most notable passions — golf and horses.

When the Mitchells decided to renovate their cottage in 2010, they felt it was important to keep the traditional Pinehurst look — white exterior, green roof and shutters — and applied for design approval from the Pinehurst Historic Preservation Committee. Van’s career in building supplies helped them clear hurdles along the way. When their builder suggested using easily available gray roof shingles, Van was able to track down the more elusive green ones. Dissatisfied with stock flooring options, he reached out to an old friend at a hardwood flooring manufacturer to get the lumber they knew would be perfect for creating a cohesive look between the old and new rooms downstairs. This attention to detail was carried up to the loft space, where they repurposed the living room’s original pine floorboards. At the top of the steep, winding staircase is a hideaway fit for Peter Pan, where the grandchildren cherish sleepovers in a space all their own.

Van chose a bright Pantone yellow for the front door — a color he had used in his building supply company branding — but it took some convincing to get it approved and included in the historic village color palette. Julie met with the committee and, armed with a folder of research featuring photos of historic homes graced with doors painted the same color in Annapolis, Maryland, and Alexandria, Virginia, the color was approved.

The seamless expansion of the cottage’s footprint belies the thought and care that went into its planning. When they learned the pin oak in the side yard was one of the oldest in the area, the Mitchells planned around it rather than remove it for an addition.

Maintaining the authenticity of the interior of the historic structure was just as important to Julie as the exterior. Subtle changes included extending the living room wall, adding space to the back of the house for a larger kitchen and primary bedroom, and adding a guest suite they call “the red room” to give the family more space for hosting friends and family.

Pinehurst was like a second home to Van long before he owned one there. A lifelong golfer, he has been a frequent visitor to the Sandhills since childhood. When he was 10, he and his father attended the 1974 opening of the World Golf Hall of Fame. He returned as a member of Campbell College’s golf team and later brought friends and colleagues to play Pinehurst No. 2.

On the way back to Maryland from the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta with their two young daughters, Molly and Megan, the family stayed at the Pine Crest Inn. Even then, Van and Julie knew they would eventually retire in Pinehurst. It’s been their full-time home now for five years, and they feel blessed to have their children and grandchildren in North Carolina as well.

When they began thinking of a name for the cottage, one of their daughters suggested using a paternal family name that was the perfect play on words — Digges. Van’s ancestors emigrated in the 1630s from Scotland to Maryland, where his family has been planted for five generations. “Nice Digges” was a natural. Julie has stayed in touch with the former owners — one grew up in the house, and the other is coincidentally from Julie’s hometown of Cranford, New Jersey — and learned the cottage was previously named Welikit (We like it). True to her dedication to preserving the home’s history, she hung a second nameplate over the porch’s screen door to honor its past.

Sitting humbly under the expansive pin oak, Nice Digges proudly turns 100 this year, lovingly prepared for its future.

2026 Feature House

Poem July 2026

POEM

Fourth of July Night

The little boat at anchor in black water sat murmuring to the tall black sky.

A white sky bomb fizzed on a black line.

A rocket hissed it’s red signature into the west.

Now a shower of Chinese fire alphabets,

A cry of flower pots broken in flames

A long curve to a purple spray, three violet balloons —

Drips of seaweed tangled in gold, shimmering symbols of mixed numbers,

Tremulous arrangements of cream gold folds of a bride’s wedding gown —

A few sky bombs spoke their pieces, then velvet dark.

The little boat at anchor in black water sat murmuring to the tall black sky.

— Carl Sandburg

Drips of seaweed tangled in gold, shimmering symbols of mixed numbers,

2026 Feature Poem

Becoming Goldfinch

BECOMING GOLDFINCH

Becoming Goldfinch

One woman's journey on the Appalachan Trail

By Jenna Biter

“You follow the white blaze,” says Brandi Swarms, uncomplicating the Appalachian Trail. “The white blaze takes you.”

Brandi, trail name “Goldfinch,” is 35 years old, tall as a cornstalk and has eyes as blue as swimming pools. If she was a season, it would be summer. She’s upbeat but thoughtful and a touch romantic, with a quiet vitality bubbling up from her soul. It sprung up in the heartache of a broken childhood home and decades later carried her onto the Appalachian National Scenic Trail, the roughly 2,200-mile-long route that connects Springer Mountain, Georgia, to Mount Katahdin, Maine.

Benton MacKaye conceived of the Appalachian Trail in a 1921 paper. Through the work of trail club members and passionate volunteers, the route was completed in 1937. Somewhere around 3 million people touch the AT every year, on day hikes, long sections of miles lashed together or thru-hikes that push right through all 14 states.

“I heard about the AT from a dear, sweet friend and father figure,” Brandi says, swimming through memories. “I’d heard him talk about it for years. I was probably just enchanted by his stories, but then when I looked it up, I thought, ‘What is this beast?’”

Another five or so years passed, as did her fat, fluffy cat, before Brandi would actually approach the trail. “When she passed, I went to my house, and thought, I can’t live here,” Brandi says, remembering the loss of her beloved hair tie-chasing feline, named Garber. Brandi had gotten the green-eyed kitten when she was in sixth grade, and in turn, the multicolored furball had gotten her through a childhood split between Michigan and North Carolina. Garber died when Brandi was 30, taking her last breath on her owner’s chest.

“These walls are too empty,” Brandi says, recalling the heartbreak. She held a garage sale and came away with $600 to buy hiking gear.

“I had never spent a night alone in the woods by myself before,” she says. “I’m all or nothing. I’m like, all right, I’ll figure it out or I won’t.”

PART I

A plaque at the summit of Springer Mountain marks the official northbound start of the Appalachian Trail. It was March 23, 2021, and Brandi remembers the trailhead humming like a hallway on the first day of school: “Where are you from? What’s your name? Did you hike the approach trail?” Thirty miles to the north, Blood Mountain rises 4,458 feet and is the first real test. “I climbed it and was like, ‘Was that easy? No, but was that completely doable? One-hundred percent.’ And so I realized quickly that hikers are very dramatic.” Brandi laughs, with a voice like bells.

She breezed through Georgia, breaking in her “trail legs,” filtering water from clear Southern streams, and throwing a thumb to hitch a ride to a hostel shower or a resupply in town. She’d always return to exactly the spot she exited even if she had to re-hike miles to get there.

“I was an ‘AT purist,’ so I never skipped a mile,” Brandi says. Purists hike past every white marker, or “blaze,” between Georgia and Maine. That means no “yellow blazing,” bypassing boring or tough sections by car; none of the oh-so-creative “aqua blazing,” floating down nearby waterways; and not even any “blue blazing,” hiking alternate routes due to bad conditions.

The miles climbed into the triple digits, and the characters lined up like a sitcom cast. There was “Little John” and “Homer” and “Purple Haze,” a woman tired of being known as the lady who had been bitten on the butt by a bear. Like the others, Purple Haze is a trail name, the alias a hiker goes by on the AT. A trail name is a gift one hiker bestows on another at some point along the way. Brandi had already passed up lazy attempts like “Legs” and “Sunshine,” until one day, a Florida man burst from a cabin to deem her “Goldfinch.” He’d seen Brandi sharing lunch with the gregarious birds a couple days before.

“I met a lot of Legs and Sunshine and all that,” she says, smiling. “I didn’t meet one other Goldfinch.”

Jeff, trail name unknown, was in his 70s, smoked more weed than he ate food, and was attempting an extended thru-hike from Florida to Nova Scotia for the second time. (Spoiler alert: He makes it.) Jeff taught Brandi how to hike 20-mile days so she could try to traverse the Great Smoky Mountains before snow blew through. The new skill became a superpower.

“I’m hiking consistently 20-mile days at this point, and I’m feeling really good about them,” Brandi says. “Not only is there a freedom, but there’s a ‘well done’ every day.”

She bounced back and forth between Tennessee and North Carolina as the trail snakes north along the state border. She passed through some regular old towns and hiker-friendly towns and often turned bends to find goodies put out by “trail angels.”

“You’ll come around the corner, and there’s a huge chocolate cake, and you’re like, ‘Manna!’” she says.

About eight weeks and 500 miles into the hike, Brandi was approaching the Virginia border town Damascus, a magical but very real land of brambleberry milkshakes and “wild ponies.” (Technically speaking, they’re feral, the descendants of domesticated horses loosed on the mountainside meadows to keep them well shorn.) “Right before I got to the wild ponies, I came off the trail for a week to go to a friend’s wedding, and when I came back, I had gotten a text from my mom that she had found a lump in her breast,” she says. Brandi didn’t hesitate. She left the trail to be with her mom as she battled stage 3 triple-negative breast cancer.

PART II

Two years came and went, and the wild called again. It was June 6, 2023, Mom had beaten the aggressive cancer, and Brandi had a new companion to join her on the trail. “I had a new kind of difficulty with a dog. I had the dog food, and that was very heavy,” Brandi says, patting the red golden retriever at her feet. “Rapture got the trail name ‘Freeloader’ because I didn’t make him carry anything.”

The pair found a like-minded hiker, this one human, in “Happy Feet” — “Happy,” for short. “He was like a little brother,” Brandi says. “It’s weird to find someone on the AT that you want to spend time with because it’s low-key getting married. You have to be able to be silent, and you have to be able to have conversation.”

The merry band was getting along and hiking well through the Shenandoah Mountains. “One day Rapture literally stopped and I looked at him, and he looked at me, and he put his paw up, and I said, ‘You’re done.’” With Happy riding shotgun in a rental car, Brandi drove Rapture to Michigan before flipping a U-turn and gunning it back to the trail. The round trip took two days. “This time, I was like, nothing’s stopping me. I’m coming back right away,” Brandi says. “Nothing could stop me.”

Virginia is a long state. The AT runs 557 miles through it, making Virginia the longest stretch in any state. Many a hiker hangs up their boots. Injuries stack up. People get bored. Others are behind schedule to reach Mt. Katahdin by mid-October, when Baxter State Park closes for the winter. “There’s something called the rollercoaster in Virginia — you hike it in one day — but it is just a constant up and down four or five or six times.” It was hot. Brandi was steaming with sweat. She remembers crawling into her tent at night with a layer of salt crystallized on her skin. She kept hiking.

Home to the Appalachian Trail Conservancy headquarters, where thru-hikers officially register their hike, Harpers Ferry, West Virginia, is known as the “psychological halfway.” It’s also where Brandi was stung on the ankle by a honeybee. The site swelled to the size of a baseball and oozed green. In Pennsylvania, home to the AT’s actual halfway mark and one of Brandi’s favorite states, she was plagued by mosquitoes and tripped up by rocks. “I remember I hitchhiked with a woman. I got in the car, and I closed the door, and I said, ‘Man, I love Pennsylvania so much.’ And she laughed and said, ‘I’ve never heard a hiker say that.’” Apparently hikers refer to the state as “Rocksylvania.” Still, Brandi kept going.

She crossed into New Jersey and then New York. “The hiker drama is that you don’t know if the rocks are literally going to stop at the state line or pour over, and unfortunately, they keep going for a while,” Brandi says, setting the record straight. She scooched past a protective mama black bear and four cubs and day-tripped to Manhattan with Happy to see the city sights.

“It feels like slow motion now, but I was walking, I looked up and there was a huge hornet’s nest. I looked down and then all of a sudden, I felt like a hot knife on the back of my skull.” Brandi screamed, “Happy help me!” Her throat swelled, and she started to panic. “Will my breath leave me or not?” Brandi dug through her well-stocked first aid kit — “most people have two Band-Aids and a dirty Q-tip” — and popped some Benadryl while Happy found a shortcut off the trail. A hive-covered Brandi knocked on the first door they found. An old woman answered and drove Brandi into Pawling, New York, where she got another ride to urgent care a few towns over. “I had this looming feeling,” she says. Brandi left the trail again.

PART III

Another two years and countless immunotherapy treatments came and went. It turned out Brandi was deathly allergic to yellow jackets, white-faced hornets, yellow hornets and wasps. She also learned that the AT wasn’t her identity. “I think there was some of that wrapped up in me, but I wanted to finish what I started,” she says. Clear-eyed but nervous, she hit the trail again on July 29, 2025.

“When I got dropped off, I re-hiked the miles to where I got stung because I’m a purist,” Brandi says, remembering the overwhelming fear. The fateful spot came and went, but literally and figuratively, Brandi wasn’t out of the woods. Before leaving home, she had forgotten to check the status of her water purifier — it was broken — and the lapse brought her low. “I just felt such turmoil of, what are you doing? You don’t belong here.” She borrowed from another hiker, and his kind words urged her on.

“Next morning, I got stung by a bunch of yellow jackets.” Before starting immunotherapy the strings could have been lethal. She wept for two hours sitting in the front yard of what happened to be a medic’s house. “Then I got up, brushed it off, and just went on,” says Brandi.

She made it into Connecticut and back to 20-mile days. Vermont brought maple syrup everything. This time Rapture stuck with her until “the Whites,” the treacherous but beautiful mountains that run from New Hampshire to Maine. “All the hikers talk about the Whites, and I will say, it’s the one time they’re right,” Brandi says. They’re beautiful, and they’re grueling. “It was hard to leave Rapture, but it was almost full circle, how it would finish was how it had started.”

Brandi missed Happy but found like-minded hikers in a family of nine. “It was the dad, who had wanted to hike the trail since he was like 12 years old, and this incredible mother and seven children. I mean, there was a 5-year-old, his name was Jackson, and when I met him, he literally just jumped from rock to rock.” Brandi tosses her head. “What a childhood.”

She continues, “I got to Maine and something in my spirit blew up. I got so re-energized.” The famous hostel before the Hundred-Mile Wilderness is owned by a legend called “Poet.” “You hear about Poet all the way down in Georgia,” Brandi says. “So, I’m finally meeting Poet, and he’s as cool as you’d think he’d be, and the food is as good as you’d hoped it’d be.” He drives hikers to the wilderness edge for the last stretch of the Appalachian Trail.

I pop out of the 100-mile wilderness, and I just shout, and I holler, and I scream, and I run, and I was just so happy,” Brandi says. “Boy, I was just like, I don’t know, is euphoric the right word? I just felt like a piece of heaven came down and met me.”

Mt. Katahdin was an arduous climb, but she made it to the summit. It was totally gray. “It’s funny because a few days before I was like, I’m going to wait until it’s sunny up there because I didn’t come this far . . . no, I was just pumped to get up there, and then it was over.”

Brandi was at the airport that night: Sept. 25, 2025. Pieced together, it took her about six months to hike the Appalachian Trail from start to finish. “A few months later I was reading a book, and I just stopped and was like, dude, you hiked the whole AT.”

2026 Feature

Surely Home

SURELY HOME

Surely Home

For there the heart can rest

By Jenna Biter

Photographs by John Gessner

“It’s a very, very livable house,” says Ginger Monroe.

She’s standing in the kitchen, the heart of her family’s Pinehurst home. The Southern cottage, wooden clad and painted dove white, measures more than 4,000 square feet but less than five. There’s a guest house out back, and the property sits on a dash less than an acre. It’s the perfect size for the Monroe family of five, seven if you include black Labs Scottie and Bonnie.

“Twin Sycamores” is a real charmer — a home, not just a house — and that’s what drew Ginger to it. An interior designer by trade, she aims for a space that feels like the last stanza of American poet Henry van Dyke’s “A Home Song”:

But every house where Love abides,

And Friendship is a guest,

Is surely home, and home-sweet-home:

For there the heart can rest.

Ginger and Edward Monroe didn’t design the house on Fields Road. From what they’ve pieced together, a European couple built the house in 2009 and clearly had a knack for bringing the Old World to a new build. There are wider-than-wide old knotty pine floorboards, and what looks like a vintage newel post on the staircase and pediment above the stove. With honest-to-goodness historical (or at the very least historically convincing) details, the house hides its youth among the 20th-century cottages that define the Pinehurst Historic District.

“I’m always drawn to houses that just make you feel welcome when you walk in,” Ginger says, “that have the appeal of being old even if they’re not — and loved.”

The Monroes settled into the home in 2019, just in time for the COVID pandemic to lock the family away with plenty of time to make the place their own. The couple laid sod and restained the front porch. Edward defeated diabolical invasive wisteria with “roots that looked like big sweet potatoes.” Ginger points at the wisteria’s replacement. “This garden, this is my husband’s.” It’s a prim little thing off the side of the house, just outside the dining room window. A perky pink rosebush stands out against sunshine ligustrum. “He loves to garden,” Ginger says. It’s a creative outlet, a break from his dental practice in Southern Pines.

Twin Sycamores, named for the couple’s twin boys and two trees out front, features an open first floor good for family time as well as their annual Good Old-Fashioned Cocktail Party. Edward mixes old-fashioneds, and Ginger makes Brunswick stew. Guests flow in and out of the living room, dining space and kitchen, but there are still nooks to cozy into. A table and chairs converse on the covered back porch, and a pair of leather armchairs, mini fridge and TV relax in the “green room,” a moody space called by its Pinehurst-perfect color. “My favorite thing to do for a house is color,” Ginger says. “I’m drawn to the artist’s eye.”

Local works hang on the walls. There’s a painting of rabbits by artist and family friend Bee Sieburg, a gift when Hunter and Charlie were born. There’s a painting of lambs by Ginger’s mom, Cindy Groce, and an artwork by Ginger herself.

“This is my favorite, though,” she says, pointing to a painting above the mantel. “This is from a photo that I took at Biltmore.” Ginger’s friend Lanie Mann painted the scene showing Janie, the Monroes’ daughter, walking hand-in-hand with her younger brothers. “I love it because I remember being right there taking that picture.”

Past the fireplace is the master en suite. When the Monroes moved in, they enclosed the screened-in porch to make the new room, upsizing the main house’s original footprint. The teenagers have the run of the upstairs, each with their own bedroom. “Janie kind of lucked out in this whole situation,” Ginger says, walking into the middle of her 18-year-old daughter’s yawning room, “because this was the master.” Of course, Hunter and Charlie wondered who would move into Janie’s room when she leaves for UNC in the fall. Ginger dodged that one. “It will still be Janie’s room.”

The boys’ bedrooms show “how different they are,” Ginger says. Hunter has a windowsill of plants. There’s a Christmas cactus, aloe and even a crocheted plant on his side table. Like father, like son. Ginger crosses the hall to Charlie’s room. “Night and day,” she smiles. Charlie likes golf and hunting. There’s a hand-on-his-holster cowboy floor lamp that belonged to his dad. Ginger uncovered it in her in-laws’ basement and had it restored.

Back downstairs, Charlie likes the green room. Opposite the entry hall is Hunter’s favorite room, the music room, where he plays piano. Janie spends time in the living room or doing her homework on the back porch.

“I love the kitchen,” Ginger says. “That’s where we gather, and I love it when the kids’ friends come over. It makes me so happy to open our doors and invite people in.”

2026 Feature House

Tag: Feature

POEM

Day at the Beach

THE LEAP

The Leap

THE SPIRIT OF '76

Hooper, Hewes and Penn

THE GREAT AMERICAN BARBECUE

The Great American Barbecue

When the Coastal Plain meets the Piedmont

The Meat

The Rub

The Sandhills Sauce

Method

The Cook

Pulling and Saucing

Serving

Traditional Accompaniments

Final Notes

BLOOD IN THE SAND

Blood in the Sand

Revolutionary War mayhem at Piney Bottom

GOING TO EXTREMES

Going to Extremes

Of moths and men and tobacco

TRUE TO ITS TRADITION

True to Its Tradition

Preserving a home’s heart and history

POEM

Fourth of July Night

BECOMING GOLDFINCH

Becoming Goldfinch

One woman's journey on the Appalachan Trail

PART I

PART II

PART III

SURELY HOME

Surely Home

For there the heart can rest