No Abbey Makes Me Crabby

Let’s go to the DVD

By Deborah Salomon

I still miss Downton Abbey. Please don’t brand it a posh soap opera. These days nothing plays more soap operatic than cable news, where madmen run around threatening to blow the world to smithereens; where porn stars tell all; where espionage happens right under our noses — as reported by babes in low-cut dresses and guys with four-day beards.

The Abbey had a presence, a sense of place, since the main floor and outdoor scenes were filmed at Highclere Castle; not sure about the bedrooms, but they seemed real enough. The paintings were real, the books and duvets were real. The endless teacups appeared to be fine bone china. But I wondered about wearing sleeveless frocks in vast chambers heated only by fires laid by a scullery maid. You could lose yourself in the plots, which often culminated in shock and were never interrupted by commercials.

That’s what I want from a drama . . . escape. The era should allow fabulous costumes but confront universal situations: single motherhood, rape, infidelity, anti-Semitism, premarital sex, breast cancer, homosexuality, politics, racial tension, women’s rights.

Of course back then women couldn’t vote, but at least the guys stood up when one entered the room. As for war, I read that the World War I bunker scenes were the most authentic ever filmed.

DA offers plenty of sex but no nudity. Six seasons and only one bloody episode, when Robert’s ulcer bursts, during dinner.

The plot had enough scope to allow characters to develop, grow. Mr. Barrow will always be an opportunistic villain, but toward the end we understand, even sympathize. Chauffeur Branson sheds his socialism to become the voice of reason. Butler Carson turns Lothario. Footman Molesley, a lifelong loser, finds his mojo in teaching school. Kitchen maid Daisy finds her voice. Isabel Crawley never lost hers. Dowager Countess Violet — the ultimate snob — softens into a wise and kindly aristocrat. Who thought she would be left standing after the writers killed off Mr. Pamook, Lavinia, Sybil, William, Matthew, Isis (the yellow Lab), Michael Gregson, numerous pheasants and grouse?

Mrs. Patmore, the cook borrowed from Shakespeare, ties everything together with one-line zingers.

Over the six seasons the Crawleys almost became my family.

Trouble is, characters are so engraved on the actors that I cannot watch m’lord Hugh Bonneville play anything else. Heartthrob Dan Stevens (Matthew Crowley) in a flashy action flick, or as Beauty’s Beast, à la Disney? Please.

Part of the mystique falls to British entertainment in general, which owns a certain dry, witty refinement poorly imitated by Madam Secretary and The Good Wife. By contrast, watching the half-dead stagger toward Armageddon is neither escape nor entertainment. So of course I bought the complete Downton Abbey on DVD because my TV has a built-in player. Now, when the world closes in, I pick an episode and escape to Yorkshire.

Which fields another annoyance. My TV isn’t smart enough for streaming. I wouldn’t know Hulu from a Zulu. Purchased in 2008, it is sized perfectly for the room, has an excellent quality picture and good sound. Why should I replace it? I subscribe to premium cable and Netflix DVD. But, unless I purchase and attach another gizmo (not guaranteed to work) I won’t see The Crown until released on disc. But even with the smartest TV I wouldn’t give up cable because the song-and-dance coming out of Washington mustn’t be missed.

Television illustrates the American dilemma: too many choices. Quantity over quality. Twenty Oreo flavors, a dozen Coke varieties, 15 shampoos under the same brand, 3,000 apps and countless short-lived sitcoms that have not progressed beyond canned laughter. Then, repeat the nonsense On Demand.

That’s why British drama on PBS is so precious, including my other addiction, Call the Midwife, with an unlikely plot peopled by Anglican nuns, pretty young nurses and the wretched poor of London’s East End — yet mesmerizing in its seventh season.

Still, nothing compares to the Abbey, which closed its massive doors in 2015. An interactive set re-creation drew crowds last winter in New York. The merchandise continues to sell: Christmas tree ornaments, tea, cookbooks, T-shirts and “companion” DVDs chocked with backstage tidbits . . . all except one, which will forever remain a mystery:

Who really killed Vera and Mr. Green? PS

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

The Long and Winding Bagel Trail

A talisman with veggie cream cheese

By Deborah Salomon

Ancestry.com purports to trace your genealogical map and provide signposts. Recently, while spreading the cream cheese, I realized that my signposts are bagels. In fact, were I Little Red Riding Hood, chewy bagel crumbs would mark my trail.

Bagels? C’mon.

There has never been a bagel like New York bagels of the 1940s. They arrived before dawn at little neighborhood deli-groceries, called commissaries, in huge brown paper flour bags. Such a commissary was tucked into the basement of the apartment building where I lived, accessed by a dark, spooky hallway. How proud I was, at age 8, when my parents trusted me to fetch the Sunday papers and bagels, which cost a nickel apiece. Back then, all bagels were plain with a hard glossy shell (dusty with flour from the bag) and chewy interior . . . fantastic, unmatched.

We moved to Asheville — land of the biscuit-eaters — when I was 10. Nobody knew what a bagel was. Lender’s poor excuse had not penetrated the South. I was devastated.

Lots of New York guys showed up at Duke. Parents of the one I picked lived in a fancy Manhattan neighborhood where lo — the corner apartment building had a semi-basement commissary. At dawn, a truck dropped off that heavy paper sack full of still-warm bagels, a quarter each, five for a dollar. Heaven. I was waiting, with the dog that was my excuse for rising early. I married the New York guy.

His employment took us to Montreal, now celebrated as home of the world’s best bagels, of a slightly different ilk: hand-rolled, softer crust, ultra-chewy, baked throughout the day the European way, in wood-fired brick ovens. These irregularly shaped bagels coated in sesame or poppy seeds were truly outstanding. The closest bakery was half a mile away from our apartment. Every morning, I pushed the stroller there, bought one for my teething toddler, one for me. “Bagel” was one of her first words, as she pounded the front door, demanding the walk. Rainy days were hell.

Meanwhile, New York bagels were also going to hell. They became softer, sweeter, sold by franchise bakeries with cute names — Bagel Broker, Bagel Nosh, Yagel Bagel. Add-ins like raisins and blueberries appeared. Green bagels for St. Patrick’s Day, heart-shaped for Valentine’s, pumpkin bagels for Thanksgiving. Heresy! Blasphemy!

Then I moved 90 miles south of the Montreal bagel shrines, to Vermont . . . and guess what? A local attorney of European lineage named Nordahl Brue founded Bruegger’s, which produced a creditable version of the real thing. Bruegger’s turned on-site bakeries into sandwich shops that spread down the Eastern Seaboard, including, coincidentally, walking distance from my apartment in Asheville, where I returned in 2007. By then, hummus, sprouts and asiago were the complements of choice.

Along the way, I researched bagel history. They originated as stirrup-shaped rolls Polish bakers made to shower King Sobieski returning victorious from battle. Eventually, the stirrup was closed into a circle. Jewish bakers brought them to New York’s Lower East Side, where they flourished and moved uptown. In brown paper flour sacks. Incredibly, I discovered a personal connection when my niece married Polish artist Jean Sobieski, a descendant of that same king.

Now, bagels cost almost a dollar apiece. Supermarkets and a few bakeries produce a sweet, mushy imitation in more flavors than Oreos. The only quasi-authentic ones I’ve found are baked at Lidl, the German supermarket chain in Sanford. I read that some fancy food emporium in the Big Apple has resurrected the “original” New York bagel but I doubt it, if they aren’t dropped off in a brown paper flour sack before dawn.

However, I refused to abandon this talisman. Every few months I visit my grandsons, in Montreal, where I buy three dozen bagels (seniors get a baker’s dozen) from a neighborhood bakery with a wood-fired brick oven. After they cool, I pack the 39 gems in bags, freeze and fly them back to North Carolina. One U.S. Customs inspector at the airport smiles when he sees “the bagel lady” approach his checkpoint. I thaw two dozen, warm them a bit, spread with homemade veggie cream cheese and bring to The Pilot/PineStraw office so biscuit-eaters can experience the real thing.

The remaining 15 I hoard, in memory of those long happy walks as a young mother, pushing the stroller through snowy streets, for the ultimate reward. Because, as it happens, this story isn’t about bagels. This story is about a life.  PS

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

Harriet Knows Best

For those indispensable Yak needs

By Deborah Salomon

Catalogs are a plague of modern living, dinosaurs that somehow survived the asteroid, little more than pricey landfill. I dump ’em. But somehow, hidden under a pile of New Yorkers (talk about strange bedfellows), I found old friend Harriet Carter.

How’s that for a retro name?

Harriet and I have been round the barn a few times. Her stuff just begs roasting. But, in the hoopla over Amazon taking over not just Whole Foods but the world, I had sort of forgotten “Harriet Carter’s Distinctive Gifts Since 1958.” Finally, a last chance to own Rodent Sheriff and a Heavy Sleeper Alarm Clock. Like, breathes there a man who doesn’t jolt awake with a regular buzzer? Of course not, because he’s dead.

The real reason I’m addicted to Harriet is for a commentary on life. Her ring-bound paper Internet Address & Password Logbook (regular and large print, $7.95) screams of technology’s failure to thwart hackers/identity thieves. Change your passwords often, we’re told. Make them complicated combinations of numbers and hieroglyphs to challenge the memory of an M.I.T. grad. This means writing them down . . . somewhere. Unfortunately, Harriet’s little address book is itself ripe for stealing, especially with title printed on cover. “Shakespeare’s Complete Works” might be a better camouflage. Either way, lose it and you’re finished.

Harriet finally got herself a website which offers a company history, how she began (in her kitchen, kids helping) with an item or two splashed across the back pages of women’s magazines — along with a photo of a cute blonde, certainly not Harriet, who, if my big-button calculator is correct, must be in her mid-90s.

Anyway, the catalog/website specializes in “useful” items. Were I teaching sociology I’d find an alternate use: Give a catalog to each student, tell him/her to select three items and explore how they illustrate the human condition, circa 2018.

For example:

Stuffy nose?  OTC remedies don’t work? You need a Himalayan salt inhaler, called, what else, the Inhealer, to relieve nasal congestion like the Tibetans do at 15,000 feet. Warning: The Inhealer was “as seen on Dr. Oz.” Several of this doc’s recommendations failed the smell test, especially with a stuffy nose.

Ice storm? You need YakTrax, cleats attached to an elastic web that slips over shoes. Not sure about the yak connection except they also live in Tibet.

I’m fascinated by HairPlus, “clinically proven to increase hair growth up to 123 percent in just 28 days!” Wonder what clinic proved that? Trust me, if it worked, Prince William would have a mullet. I voice similar doubt over 24K Gold Firming Face Mask containing a serum “infused with real 24K gold,” for only $9.98.  No wonder those Egyptian sarcophagi were so well-preserved.

On the serious side, to illustrate how technology serves faith, Harriet offers teddy bears that recite the Lord’s Prayer when a tummy button is pushed. Of the same genre, consider Wonder Bible, a “compact audio player” containing complete texts of Old and New Testaments, with automatic chapter and verse finder. Ear buds extra, so not much help aloft, during turbulence.

For dental perfectionists there’s Miracle Teeth Whitener made from activated coconut charcoal powder. Actually, I prefer my coconut in cake and charcoal red-hot under steaks.

All is not laughable — or suspicious. The electric foot warmer (looks like an envelope) works well after peeling off those YakTrax. “The Book of Useless Information” might get you on “Jeopardy!” “3 Second Lash” attaches to natural eyelashes with tiny magnets. That’s right, magnets. Gel Toe Straighteners fix overlappers and outliers while you sleep.

However, I have mixed feelings about the “Information My Family Needs to Know” kit, with 24 pages to list bank records, insurance policies, notifications, where the family jewels are stashed, other valuables the kids can fight over after your demise. How about “Information My Family Doesn’t Need to Know” as a companion?

At times like this I think of the archeologists who reconstructed life (and the dinner menu) in Pompeii from artifacts preserved by lava. Two thousand years hence, what will diggers think of us upon finding a Sock Slider, battery-operated nail file, Pro RX Disc Pill Cutter, a (horrors!) talking scale, electronic dictionary bookmark and, Harriet’s pièce de résistance, the gift every 12-year-old boy craves — a Fanny Bank: This tushy-shaped, flesh-colored receptacle breaks wind (choose from six audio flatulents) with every coin inserted.

J. Jill, J.Crew and L.L.Bean, take note. Cashmere mufflers aren’t everything.

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

Lucky Takes a Hike

The Kitty Chronicles, Chapter 4

By Deborah Salomon

Hello, January. Hello, annual kitty column. Don’t groan . . . my kitties provide enough material to fill a page every month. But, try as I may, I can’t convince the world how intriguing cats are. Also, that you don’t have to be crazy to tune in.

Recap: After a lifetime of rescuing and adopting animals, I had retired. Then, six years ago a coal-black kitty came to my door, friendly and hungry. Black cats are so special, needy and mournful. I fed him outside for months before letting him into my home and my life, later learning that he — a neutered male with front claws removed — had been abandoned when his family moved away.

I named him Lucky because any animal I adopt is.

Then I noticed another cat — mottled grey and white, cross-eyed, lumpy and grumpy — sitting on various porches. Neighbors called her “everybody’s” because she begged more than enough food. Her clipped ear indicated a spayed feral. I added Fancy Feast to the mix. One day she showed up with a bloody paw. I opened the door and that was that — except for her disposition, which prompted the name Hissy. Hisses quickly turned to purrs. Now, she’s Missy, Lucky’s devoted companion who mothers him, fusses over him, wrestles him and pushes into his food bowl.

Whereas Lucky possesses keen intelligence, deductive reasoning, powerful persuasion and the sweetest disposition I have ever encountered in an animal, Hissy’s a dingbat, always underfoot, forever wanting something.

Missy makes me laugh. I adore Lucky.

Both go out, but not far. They are content to luxuriate on porch chairs, and under the bushes. A few months ago, Lucky developed a worrisome habit: disappearing for 12 hours, sometimes longer. The first disappearance happened when a dog got loose and chased him down the hill and into the woods. I frantically combed the area with a flashlight, then made myself a chair bed near the window where he cries to be let in. Morning dawned, no Lucky. He did not appear until suppertime, tired and limping. Since then, he’s been on several jaunts. Could he be looking to retaliate against the dog? Has he found a second home? When he returns Missy goes into a frenzy of licking and rubbing against him. Something’s going on. What is he telling her? Cats meow only to communicate with people; they speak to each other silently, with scents and gestures.

Lucky also speaks with his eyes, which are more expressive than Kate Winslet’s. Sometimes, they look worried, frightened. Other times, content. I’ll never forget the look when I opened the door on a possum. “What the . . . ?” When Lucky wants something he will find me, paw my leg, speak plaintively and lead me to the kitchen, or the door or the sofa.

Lucky seldom goes out in cool weather. Instead, he has reclaimed the heating pad. I have severe arthritis in both shoulders. Sleeping on a heating pad helps. Last winter I bought a nice new one covered in flannel. Hmmm, Lucky thought, as he settled down by my shoulder. This feels nice. By morning, there was more of Lucky on the pad than of me. Soon, we were a two-heating-pad family. He loves the warmth so much that he naps there during the day, in a state of bliss.

What about poor Missy? Far as I can tell, Lucky has established an invisible wall around the pad, which she dares not cross, even when he is elsewhere. Trump could use his skills.

Having argued feline intelligence, I must now dispute the aloofness myth. I never met an aloof cat, which suggests the complainant is aloof, not the kitty. The minute I sit down mine come running for my lap. They nuzzle, they purr, they lick and “knead.” Pinned down, unable to move, I pet, rub and scratch under their chins. I have watched an entire Duke basketball game wedged between two happy cats.

Their personalities amaze more than anything else.

Lucky is a sedate gentleman of late middle age who walks rather than scampers, eats slowly, then repairs to his spring-ball toy where I sprinkle catnip, which he enjoys like an after-dinner cigar. He comes when called, welcomes visitors whether they appreciate his attention or not. Missy is a scaredy-cat. She dives under the bed when the doorbell rings or the lawn mower passes by. She’d rather chase her tail than an expensive toy. Occasionally, she lumbers after squirrels, while Lucky assumes a sphinx pose and watches through half-closed eyes. But since she loves lapping my homemade chicken soup I forgive everything.

Cats, obviously, are like snowflakes — complex, no two the same. In my foundlings I see the intelligence of a border collie combined with the devotion of a golden retriever and the loyalty of a German shepherd. But you have to sit still, observe and respond.

Now, if only I could find one of those “My Cat is Smarter than Your Honor Student” bumper stickers.  PS

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

A Case of Twitter Jitters

Forever is a long time in the electronic world

By Deborah Salomon

During end-of-year holidays, whichever you chose to celebrate, people tend to ruminate on this and that, especially what’s wrong with the world and how to make it better. Well, ruminate no more because I’m going to tell you what’s wrong with the world: Twitter. Twitter represents TMC (too much communication), related to TMI (too much information). Not all is accomplished with words, a good thing since Twitter, once limited to 140 characters has doubled to 280. Text messages arrive littered with emojis, essential if one assumes that one emoji is worth, well, a cliché or two. But the problem lies not with Twitter and text alone. Information — whether printable or not — lives forever. Surveillance cameras are everywhere. Cellphone positioning reveals your location. Emails never die, even though they bow to texting. These days, when I want to send my grandson a newsy email I must text him to check it, since communication between young adults employs only essential words, often phonetically spelled minus capitalization and punctuation.

To wit: Secrets no longer exist. Hiding anything — impossible.

This creates a dependence foreign to love letter and diary writers. Your IT guy is more important than dentist, hair stylist, car mechanic, plumber or obstetrician. Because when a system’s down, life, even in the slow lane, comes to a halt.

Not that life before the information super highway (ISH) was much smoother:

First off, we wouldn’t be singing “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” Mary and Joseph lived in Nazareth but, by Caesarean decree, traveled to Joseph’s birthplace for the census. How accurate could it have been? Now, although some census information is gathered on foot everything else happens electronically. Nobody treks back to Ohio.

Then, had Julius utilized electronic eavesdropping he wouldn’t have been blindsided by Brutus. Then again, the world might lack the treasures in King Tut’s tomb had he not suffered (pre-genetic counseling) abnormalities resulting from his mother and father being siblings. The boy pharaoh died at 19, more likely from these abnormalities than a chariot accident, since his club foot would have made the rough ride impossible. Poor boy, the potentates intoned. Let’s bury him surrounded by gold.

With Twitter in place, no need for Paul Revere to take that midnight ride “through every Middlesex, village and farm” immortalized by Longfellow.

On the dark side, Twitter and other instant communications have enabled people to speak “off the cuff.” Incidentally, this expression originated in the 1800s, when men’s shirt cuffs were made of stiff paper — handier for taking notes than even an Apple iPad Air2. The problem is, folks attached to cellphones will devour the tweet immediately, then re-tweet the juicier ones. This spontaneity has proven more ruinous than Prince Charles’ late night phone sex with Camilla. Wars have been fought over less inflammatory remarks than what POTUS tweets daily. Maybe another one will.

Besides, “tweet” (remember Tweety Bird?) is a silly word to be bandied by serious newscasters or in U.S. Senate chambers. To speak of a president’s tweets sounds vaguely disrespectful, as though describing an undergarment. Perhaps this flippant title gives license to insult or demean or threaten.

You think?

Therefore, looking back over 2017, I can postulate that without Twitter, mankind wouldn’t be in such a dither. Humans won a few wars, conquered polio and smallpox, transplanted hearts, cracked genetic codes, broke the sound barrier, landed on the moon and Mars with nary a tweet. The Ten Commandments require more than 140 characters, as does the Pledge of Allegiance. And most political pooh-bahs have learned to count to 10, at least, before pressing “send.”

That said, I’m wishing you all a sweet, tweet-free holiday season and a more conscionable New Year — or else heaven help us all.  PS

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

Let It All Hang Out

On the refrigerator door, of course

By Deborah Salomon

OK, I confess. My refrigerator is still covered with magnets, as gauche as frilly kitchen curtains and rooster wallpaper. Several are meant to be decorative — like the Charlie Chaplin mask (shades of a former Chaplin-themed bathroom, complete with life-sized Little Tramp shower curtain) or sassy, like a ’50s couple bearing the legend “I married Mr. Right; just didn’t know his first name was Always.” Another, by Thoreau, waxes more philosophical, reminding me to “Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you’ve imagined.” Maybe next time, Mr. T. My favorite of this genre has to be the Good Humor Ice Cream truck logo recalling the happier days of a marginal childhood.

I just love those flexible plastic magnets that oil companies, insurance agents, taxi drivers and pizza parlors send at Christmas to keep their names in sight, therefore in mind. I love them so much that I have a 2013 calendar holding up my next dentist appointment card.

Which brings me to the reason for their obsolescence. First, beyond our control, some fridge surfaces no longer attract magnets. The fancier ones are treated with a substance that either protects the metal, or mimics it. Besides, you wouldn’t want a body shop logo on a Sub-Zero, or Chiquita Banana on an Insta-View three-door with glass panel revealing contents, or the Pillsbury Doughboy on Samsung’s four-door with embedded TV/computer screen. Second, all the reminders, photos and calendars previously attached in plain view are now stashed in an electronic device.

Example: photos, in flexible magnetic sleeves that lie flat and neat. I adore them. A dozen cling to my fridge, all taken with film and printed on heavy paper. When was the last time a proud Daddy pulled a photo out of his wallet and handed it around? Usually, folks just whip out the phone.

But mine are in plain sight, year after year, protected, loved and unfaded.

I also put a magnetic frame around the last Mother’s Day card from my daughter Wendy — a simple cartoon figure of a bedraggled mama with cats hanging off her shoulders and a dog rubbing against her legs . . . me, obviously. I have it close by all day, every day, even though Wendy has been gone for 26 years. Another photo was snapped at my 50th high school reunion, of me and three friends. Ten years later one is dead, another hospitalized with Alzheimer’s.

Enough sad stuff. Why three flexible magnets of the same New Yorker cover? Because each time my subscription is up for renewal they ply me with offers I cannot refuse, and “gifts.” Not that a magnet softens the price. But it works. I still affix appointment cards, passwords, emergency phone numbers (who wants to search through a contacts list when the toilet is overflowing?), silly kitty stuff and pithy cartoons from, where else?

But be careful what you post. My husband and I were invited to dinner at the home of a Vermont barbecue sauce producer I had written about. His daughter and son-in-law were there. After a glorious meal we drifted into the kitchen for coffee. The fridge was covered with magnets and clippings. One was the daughter’s wedding announcement, from the New York Times, no less. My husband turned ashen as he read it. The groom, our dinner partner, was the son of his high school girlfriend who, 40 years ago, looked like Elizabeth Taylor I had been told multiple times.

Were I a mental health professional during the fridge magnet heyday I would make house calls so as to read the writing on the wall, er, the refrigerator: a life chronicle, health history, family tree, pet succession, brag-board, unmade recipe trove, heaven knows what else. Whereas today, the only appropriate magnet is a dinosaur held in place with double-stick tape. PS

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

Out of the Blue

Life Behind The Front Door

The lowdown on “Story of a House”

By Deborah Salomon

Talk about a dream assignment. “Would you like to take over ‘Story of a House?’” editor Jim Dodson asked, when I came to The Pilot/PineStraw in November 2008. I had written about houses before, knew something of architecture, construction, furnishings, even plumbing — also that homes reflect their occupants in subtle and not-so-subtle ways.

“Great!” I answered.

That was approximately 110 homes ago, including five in Greensboro for O.Henry. I don’t remember them all but, since this is PineStraw’s annual Home & Garden issue, I thought you might enjoy sharing the process and some standouts.

Houses are selected by PineStraw founder and creative director Andie Rose. I call for an appointment lasting at least an hour, always in daylight, preferably on a weekend, when people are relaxed. I try to learn something of the family and house beforehand. The Tufts Archives at Given Memorial Library help with historic properties.

I work with photographer John “The Genius” Gessner who, honestly, could make Camilla look like Lady Di.

I always carry dog biscuits, for a friendly first impression. This works except the time I left my purse on the floor while the homeowner showed me around. Her sweet Lab puppy emptied it looking for seconds.

First, we sit down (preferably in the kitchen, less formal) while I explain the purpose: how the house relates to its occupants, illustrates lifestyle, travels, tastes and collections. Photos replace lengthy descriptions.

I can usually tell if the house is the product of an interior designer.

Then a walking tour and — now that we’re acquainted — another sit-down for the whole story.

Houses and their contents write the history of Southern Pines and Pinehurst, especially seasonal “cottages” built during the early 20th century. Most, thank goodness, have been respectfully updated/enlarged. I recall only one blip — a huge Victorian left intact outside, converted to a slick, wide-open Manhattan condo inside. I’ve written about rough cabins in the woods and one modest homestead completely engulfed by a mansion.

The smallest house was hardly bigger than a potting shed — a designer’s pied-a-terre with scaled-down furniture and appliances, a morsel of eye candy. The largest was a compound consisting of main house, guest quarters and jumbo over-the-garage apartment, each with a full kitchen and multiple bathrooms. The second largest had a kitchen long enough for the kids to set up bowling pins on the wood floors.

Speaking of garages, how about the detached triple-wide reimagined as a 1950s soda shop, complete with black and white tiled floor, juke box, tables, chairs and a bar.

Emphasis on kitchens and bathrooms came as no surprise. I’ve peeked into bathrooms with wall-mounted TV and DVD players, two-person 100-jet showers, spa tubs set into bay windows, but none as memorable as the tiny, windowless powder room fashioned as a grotto, with mosaic tiles, low lights and a niche surrounding a saintly statue. Glamour kitchens are a given, but their fittings still amaze me, particularly a built-into-the-wall espresso machine and an old-timey red Coca-Cola cooler salvaged from a gas station, now filled with bottled soda. Pastry and “man-cook” areas are a dime a dozen, as are low-mounted microwaves for kids, but just one kitchen sported a cabinet and drawers reserved for breakfast foods, dishes and cutlery. And just one master suite had a mini-kitchen with sink, fridge and coffeemaker. I adored the kitchen with a red racing bike suspended from a vaulted ceiling but, in another, thought a skylight dome surrounded by Italianate murals (I call it Bacchus does the Sistine Chapel) a bit imposing.

The collections on display — impressive — especially Churchill memorabilia, museum-quality Mayan pottery, autographed photos and posters featuring movie stars the owner knew through business. I’ve seen framed documents bearing signatures I dare not mention for security reasons.

The most impressive TV encountered was custom-engineered, 10 feet wide and nearly 6 feet high, filling an entire wall in a second-story golf-themed man cave overlooking Pinehurst No. 2. During the U.S. Open that lucky guy could, theoretically, watch play from his veranda and on his TV simultaneously. Sports/equestrian motifs are common; one Clemson fan had a giant orange paw painted on her garage wall.

The gadget prize goes to a double-decker closet with motorized hanging rack, dry-cleaners style. But I also wrote about a little charmer with no closets, just pegs.

As if a pool isn’t lovely enough, several properties had free-form “pond” pools, with flagstone borders and Earth-toned liners. The pool house adjoining another was a slave cabin, disassembled and brought from South Carolina.

I admit to being spooked by a dining room painted dried-blood red but found the colorful, angular furnishings in another more fun than the Mad Hatter’s tea party. Equally surprising, but lovely: a Christmas tree made from copper tubing, with tiny lights, which stands year-round in an artist’s living room.

In Moore County new construction leans toward cottage styles, with some Arts and Crafts bungalows and a few Taras. Kudos to young families who adapt and beautify those boring brick ranches popular in the 1950s. Other beauties include new but weathered-looking downtown lofts, also a stunning condo with roof garden over the owner’s Broad Street business.

My favorite? I’ll only reveal that it is of modest size, walking distance to downtown Southern Pines and expresses, exquisitely, the occupant’s talents and personality.

Definitely the most unusual dwelling belongs to owners of champion purebred dogs. Not only do they have an exercise/grooming room with treadmill and refrigerator for special diets, but a covered indoor-outdoor run-potty area and a system of gates within the house to prevent fraternization.

Not that pet rooms are unusual, most with bathing facilities, some with TV and music. One had low windows with twin-sized mattresses positioned underneath so the bull mastiffs could stretch out and watch the world go by.

Mustn’t forget the grandkids. I gasped at an upstairs wing with library area, built-in shipboard bunk beds and a curtained stage for performances.

I’ve discovered topiary gardens and arcade game machines, elevators and secret staircases, basement beer gardens and complete outdoor kitchens, workout facilities and putting greens but, as yet, no bidets or indoor lap pools.

Maybe soon, because you never know what’s behind the next front door.

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

Common Sense Direction

In the age of satellite positioning

By Deborah Salomon

“I don’t have GPS.”

The young woman whom I asked for directions to her house sounded startled, even shocked. I could have announced “I don’t wear underwear,” with less reaction.

GPS is my line in the sand. I don’t have it because I don’t need it. I own a functioning brain — not that getting from point A to point B is rocket science. I have experience. Also what used to be called a “sense of direction,” meaning the most-times ability to point north or south, east or west, by looking up, by memory, or by instinct.

I figure this might come in handy if the Russians or the Martians capture the satellite that tells folks to turn right at McDonald’s.

“So, how do you find places?” she asked.

“A map.”

Not online maps. Paper maps that convey the bigger picture. A map lays out where you start, where you end, everything in between — especially useful when traveling long distances. A map allows selecting alternate routes, or scenic detours. A map doesn’t malfunction, leaving you lost and desperate, especially in an area lacking cell service.

This, like everything else (according to Freud), started in childhood.

New York City is laid out on a grid, with numbered streets. A subway map and a modest sense of direction suffice.

When I was 10 we moved to Asheville and, for the first time, we had a car. Trips were few but before each my job was to pore over maps (free at gas stations, along with windshield washes) to plot the journey. Once underway, while my parents bickered over this and that, I navigated. What fun! I learned that a legend wasn’t necessarily a folk tale, that highways were represented in different colors according to number of lanes and access, and that one inch represented X number of miles so I could estimate distance with a ruler.

How important I felt.

At 16 I became both navigator and driver, often alone, on short trips and long. Before leaving I would plot my course and write the steps on white cardboard with black marker, to prop against the dashboard. I still do, whether the distance be 60 miles or 600. When MapQuest happened, I tried it. You wouldn’t believe how often it’s incomplete or just plain wrong, whereas the stars and planets, on a clear night, aren’t.

I never got that far but gained new appreciation for explorers who sailed uncharted waters with planetary guidance.

Yo, Columbus! Way to go, Marco Polo!

Magnetic compasses weren’t invented until two centuries B.C.; still, you don’t see ancient Egyptians or Greeks wandering around, lost.

Getting back to GPS … seems like certain electronics rob us of actions that develop senses and sensibilities. Nowhere is this more evident than at an airport, where 99 percent of passengers are hooked up to one or more devices, thus missing the world’s greatest people-watching. Security personnel warn “See something, say something.” Fat chance. I’d wager Brangelina and their six kids — let alone a suspicious man wearing hoodie and dark glasses, carrying a rifle case — could waltz through LaGuardia unnoticed.

Fitbit, the latest must-have, may create an obsession, like people who weigh themselves after every meal. Here, gimme your wrist. I’ll take your pulse, and you can too, with a watch that has a second hand and, after a little experience, not even that.

Of course I can’t count your steps, order pizza, spit out text messages or baseball scores.

GPS has also withered another skill: giving directions. Few folks estimate distance correctly. “Go about a mile down the road and turn left at the school bus crossing,” was actually less than half a mile with nothing indicating a school bus which, in that neck of the woods, stops at almost every house. Then, “go right at the church on the corner” in a rural area where every corner has one church, sometimes two.

Traveling snowy, muddy Vermont backroads I was directed to “take the dirt road at the Y and we’re about five minutes from the burned-out barn.”

Five minutes at what speed?

I can’t count the times I’ve been directed to turn the wrong way onto a one-way street. Rotaries are impossible: “It’s the second exit not counting the one you’re at.”

Compared to these, the classic “bridge too far” seems helpful.

“Sense” of direction is different, mostly instinct. Animals travel miles to get home. I once captured a pesky raccoon and relocated him a few miles away, in a lovely wooded area. The next morning, he was, as usual, raiding the bird feeder. Can you retrace your steps, in reverse, in an unfamiliar city? Does your brain automatically absorb and store landmarks? A disturbing study just published indicates that the earliest sign of Alzheimer’s might be disorientation and inability to navigate familiar environs. We are told the importance of keeping the brain alert as we age. Maybe that means besides watching Jeopardy! we shouldn’t delegate common functions to electronic surrogates.

Not that they’re all bad. Heaven knows, without the horn beeper on my car key I’d be walking home from the supermarket just about every day.

But at least I’d know which way to walk.  PS

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

Ahhh-Choo!!!

The sneezin’ season turns summer into suffering

By Deborah Salomon

Spring-fling-April-showers-May-flowers-June-moon-birds-and-bees-and-trees . . . and hay fever.

I do not welcome spring/early summer. I dread it. All that chirping and buzzing means misery. While others are frolicking in the meadow, rolling in the grass, picnicking in the woods I am either binge sneezing or stoned on antihistamines.

That first ominous tickle appears in April, this year earlier, when trees begin budding. I can’t name which tree or grass or weed because it doesn’t matter; I’m allergic to them all. The tickle feels like centipedes doing the hokey-pokey inside my nose. Rubbing only aggravates the dance. Then sneezing commences — consecutive loud ones, eight or nine without a breather. At 10 I get dizzy. Fourteen or more and I’ve been known to faint.

This leaves my besieged nose red, raw and irritated. Years ago, a fellow-sufferer advised against using Kleenex because the fluff further inflames, causing more sneezing. Men’s hankies, she said, only ones that are 100 percent soft cotton. I have dozens but still run the washing machine almost every day, in season.

About the season: Used to be, hayfever would abate in June, return in September, just in time for school, and last until a hard frost killed the leaf molds. What could be more embarrassing than having to flee the classroom consumed by sneezes? I remember some mean kids that, during a grand mal episode, counted them down until I fled, in tears.

Tears? Who could tell, since my eyes commiserate with my nose?

Every region is different, according to the flora. My hayfever is awful in Manhattan, where there’s little, but better near the ocean. I thought the Sandhills would be OK, since I’m not allergic to that gold dust emitted by longleaf pines. Bad guess. Not only is it present, but unpredictable, since plants never really die here. Last year I suffered bouts into December.

Oh, you’ve just got a cold, an allergy-free friend said, not understanding the telltale tickle.

After a few weeks of sporadic attacks comes sinus involvement, when turning my head side-to-side pains more than walking on red-hot stones.

Do something, Deb!

As a teenager I took then-popular Chlor-Trimeton, which worked OK until I became immune. One year I had shots, twice a week, all winter, with minimal results.

Since then I’ve tried every new “non-drowsy” OTC remedy. They calmed the sneezing and, as advertised, didn’t make me drowsy, more like comatose — awful, since my job requires putting one word in front of another. At least I’m not a cat burglar. Or a neurosurgeon. And, I’m equipped to play either Sneezy or Dopey for Walt Disney.

Recently the doctor prescribed a nasal spray that would treat all my symptoms without inducing stupor. Which it did, for a few glorious days, followed by blurred vision and headaches — two possible side effects listed in the tiniest print on the package.

Look, hay fever isn’t serious or life-threatening; maybe life-altering, but not enough to live in Arizona. There’s no magic pill or abracadabra spray. I overreact to insect bites but don’t have food allergies, thank goodness. Best of all, I was excused from the 10th grade botany class wildflower field trip.

But if you plan to invite me to a garden party, a lawn wedding or a picnic, please wait until January.  PS

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

ETA: Early

When on time is too late

By Deborah Salomon

Why am I always early?

My mother used to say, “If Deb is late don’t call the police . . . call the undertaker.”

I cannot ever remember missing a deadline or a flight except when the plane I’m on is delayed and I miss the connection. Then my tummy does more somersaults than an Olympic gymnast. I pay bills the day they arrive. My taxes are done a month in advance but I mail the checks in April because I don’t like how the government spends my money.

That’s me, sitting in the car outside an office or house, not wanting to arrive for an appointment ahead of time.

Exception: the dentist. I get there early on purpose because they have great magazines.

I purposely overestimate travel time, especially rush hour at the Pinehurst Traffic Circle, where a five-minute wait amid lovely scenery turns people who have never dealt with Boston, New York, Charlotte or Atlanta into whiners.

This is not something I’m pleased about — nor do I seek a cure. But, since nothing comes from nothing, before the fat lady sings I might investigate.

Blame my name. Deborah, in Hebrew, means bee. Bees are characterized as busy. You don’t see bees sleeping late, making (up) excuses or procrastinating.

Sleeping late? People frequently reply that my computer clock is off when emails arrive with a 4:45 a.m. time stamp. Lucky-the-cat is only partly responsible. The habit of early rising began in middle school. My father traveled for business, weeks at a time, and my mother had vague health issues which kept her abed until at least 8. Fine with me. I enjoyed studying for a test in the dark and quiet, ironing a blouse, eating whatever I pleased for breakfast while watching the new Today show. By 8:15 I was waiting on the corner for my ride. The only problem — super-early risers want lunch at 10 a.m.

This carried over to college, much to my roommate’s dismay. We parted after a semester, but the habit continued to motherhood, when that witching pre-dawn hour was spent drinking coffee, folding laundry, skimming the newspaper, even cooking.

“Why do I smell onions at 7 a.m.?” my son would ask.

As a full-time reporter I ran 3 miles, stopped at the supermarket, baked a coffeecake or muffins and still got to work before 9.  When I visit my grandsons in Canada the return flight leaves at 6 a.m., which means getting to the airport at 4 a.m., which means leaving the apartment at 3:30 a.m., which means getting up to shower and eat breakfast at 2:30 a.m., which means going to bed at 8 p.m. Wary of alarm clocks, I wake every 20 minutes or so to check the time.

I respectfully disbelieve in astrology, but learned that Capricorns “like to plan and rehearse everything in advance.” Hmm.

This chronic earlybirditis has not waned with age, except now I indulge in an afternoon nap.

So far, nothing adequately explains the pathology. There’s no such thing as being “fashionably early” either, although I read that fashionably late people are insecure. Or the opposite. Marilyn Monroe used to keep film crews waiting for hours. The Clintons, chronically behind schedule, joke about it.

Not that any of this really matters, except for one disaster. I was invited to a dinner party by a very chi-chi hostess. The invitation said 7 p.m. I drove up 10 minutes early but sat outside pretending to talk on my phone. When I rang the bell at seven sharp she came bustling to the door, hair in giant rollers, smoke billowing from her ears.

“A bit early, aren’t you, dear?”

“You said 7,” I murmured.

“That means 7:30,” she hissed.

The last guest arrived around 8.

Needless to say, I never got invited back.

Surely there are worse things than not being first in line for hot theater tickets. Or missing a flight. Or showing up late for a job interview. Or arriving with a crucial deposit after the bank closes.

I wouldn’t know. I’m that bird up front, feasting on the worm.  PS

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