VINE WISDOM

Pass the Wine and Hold the Wood

By Robyn James

Have you become a member of the ABC Club? Anything But Chardonnay?

For decades, the most popular glass of wine ordered in a restaurant was Chardonnay. And, in the past, that Chardonnay was usually heavily oaked with a very toasty, movie-popcorn buttery flavor and an almost glycerin mouthfeel. Then, this country of foodies just seemed to get sick of it, falling in love with the slicker New Zealand Sauvignon Blancs and Italian Pinot Grigio that see no oak at all. Consumers found them to be more versatile with a wider variety of menu items. Wine merchants would taste the oak bombs and mimic the Wendy’s commercial, “Where’s the fruit?” We usually felt that wineries were taking inferior grapes and slathering them in oak to hide the quality. If they really wanted to cut costs, cheaper Chardonnay would have oak chips stirred inside the juice.

Now, California winemakers are waking up to what they have known in the Chablis region of France for centuries. Hold the oak and let your fruit and acidity shine as it should.

Australia and New Zealand were the first “New World” regions to introduce their Chardonnays as “Unoaked,” “Unwooded,” or “Naked.” After all, decent small oak barrels are extremely expensive, ranging from $450-$700 a barrel, driving up the price of the bottle. If you have really nice grapes, you can ferment in stainless steel tanks or older neutral oak vats and offer your wine at a reasonable price.

Unoaked Chardonnays, as they are called, are considered an innovation here in the States. Until recently, it was hard to find more than a handful of domestic versions. But more vintners are trying their hand at them — and with stunning results.

Because of the crisp, clean flavors — thanks to more acidity in the wine — these unoaked Chards are a much better match with a wider variety of food than the lavishly oaked Chardonnays. Try them with steamed mussels (a little in the steaming broth would be lovely, too), poultry, baked ham and grilled fish.

How do you know whether the bottle you are buying is an unoaked Chard? They’re still unusual enough that most vintners will say on the label if it’s unoaked. So that’s the easy part.

It’s a fun and simple wine-tasting experience to buy a bottle of unoaked Chardonnay, and one that is oak-aged, invite a few friends over and taste the difference.

Notice upon tasting the unoaked Chardonnay that there is a very straightforward and refreshing taste without the butter-and-vanilla taste of the oaked version. You may also notice that the unoaked version seems a bit more sharply acidic than the oaked version, which surprisingly makes it an interesting and refreshing wine.

Probably one of my favorites from California is the Lioco Chardonnay from California.

It was hand-picked and sorted, and naturally fermented in 100% stainless steel using wild yeast. It underwent natural malolactic fermentation, and was bottled without fining or filtration. This wine showcases the hallmark traits of Sonoma County Chardonnay with lemon blossom, chamomile, and chalk playing leading roles. Another tasty entry is Hess Shirttail Chardonnay from Monterey. It received a “Best Buy” from The Wine Enthusiast, who describes it, “There’s very little if any oak on this wine, which has a classic Central Coast profile of high acidity and bright, intense fruit. The flavors of limes, kiwis, passion fruit and vanilla finish long and bright. Good value in a classy, super drinkable Chardonnay.”

From France, I think the best value in unoaked Chard is the J. Moreau ET Fils Chablis. It has a clean, mineral and perfumed nose, with flinty flavors of grapefruit.

A great New Zealand selection is the Villa Maria Unoaked Chardonnay. It has lemon peel, quince, and green pear flavors with very good depth, ripe peach undertones and savory herb accents.

South Africa has a great value unoaked Chardonnay, Brampton Cellars. It’s bright and fresh, with apple, pear and mineral notes and a nice, lingering finish.

Summertime is perfect for these delicious offerings, so give it a try: grab a Chard and hold the wood!

Robyn James is a local oenophile and proprietor of The Wine Cellar and Tasting Room in Southern Pines. Contact her at winecellar@pinehurst.net.

HITTING HOME

Tale of Too Many Shoes

By Dale Nixon

I can’t carry a tune, nor can I play a musical instrument. (OK, OK, I did take violin lessons for six years, and with bow in hand and fiddle under chin, I can stroke out “Three Blind Mice.”) But music has a great effect on me.

I love music. It doesn’t even have to be good music; just music.

I especially love beach music. Ah, the memories this music evokes – old friends, good times, lost loves and the days in my life when the most important decision to be made was whether to order a cheeseburger or a pizza.

I can hear the crashing waves and feel the gritty sand under my Weejuns as I sway in time to the beach classics. If a partner is not available, I grab a door knob or a bedpost in search of my lost youth.

Music doesn’t come any better than this for me.

I don’t love jazz, but I like jazz. It makes me feel jazzy; real uptown.

I have conditioned myself to listen to classical music. To me, it’s like taking vitamins. It’s just something you have to do every once in a while to make yourself better.

Opera … well, I just wish it were always performed in English. I’m really out of my league here, but I appreciate the talent. So when an opera star is on television, I turn the volume down a little and take in culture.

Gospel music is at the top of my list. You don’t have to know all the words to an arrangement to be able to hit the high notes. You just have to feel it.

I had to acquire a taste for country western music. (It’s kind of like acquiring a taste for olives or sardines — it took a little while.) I refined my country ear on Willie Nelson, and before you start throwing things at me, I know he is considered to be “pop” country, but I had to start somewhere.

Well, I got so involved in the music and the words that I was enthralled for hours. When my husband came home from work, he found me slumped over the kitchen counter, tears streaming down my face and a look that told him I had just lost my last friend.

“What’s wrong with you?” he said.

“It’s not me. It’s Willie,” I choked out between sobs.

“Willie who?”

“Willie Nelson.”

Being the ever-protective male, he demanded, “What has Willie Nelson done to you?”

“Well, Bob, this angel fell from heaven because she was flying too close to the ground. Willie found her, patched up her wings, and then hung around for a while. He tried to keep her spirits up when she was down, but he knew she would eventually fly away.”

Quietly, Bob said, “How did he know she would fly away?”

“Because, don’t you see? Love is the greatest healer to be found.

“It’s a tear-jerker, Bob. He told her to fly on, fly on past the speed of sound. That he would rather see her up than down.”

He tried to soothe me. “Dale, it’s just a song. Just a country-western song.”

I argued, “No, Bob, it’s life. That’s what it is — it’s life.”

He hid all of his Hank Williams (Sr.) records and suggested that I try more opera. At least that way I wouldn’t understand the words.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that when I hear music, any kind of music, I become emotionally involved.

I pop my fingers, tap my foot, cry, feel romantic, laugh, sing, get jazzy, bring back memories, make new ones or feel spiritual.

Who needs to carry a tune or play a musical instrument? All you have to do is enjoy.

Freelance writer Dale Nixon resides in Concord, N. C., but enjoys a slice of heaven (disguised as a condominium) in the Village of Pinehurst. You may contact her at dalenixon@carolina.rr.com.

SOUTHWORDS

My Private Mayberry

By Pat Taylor

We are the Taylors from Mayberry. That is at least what we tell people — only half in jest — when they ask, as Tar Heel natives frequently do, “So where are you from?”

What they really mean, of course, is “Who are your people?” The Taylor roots run deep in the orange clays of rural Surry County, North Carolina. My kin were country folk who scratched out a living in the tiny community of White Plains. Almost in the shadow of Pilot Mountain. Or should I say Mount Pilot? But look sharply. They’re little more than rural crossroads that come and go in a blink of an eye.

Not long after the Civil War, my great-grandfather brought his young bride, one Virginia Elizabeth Stone, via horse and farm wagon to a one-room log cabin at the foot of the mountain. Together they farmed tobacco and reared 11 children, including my grandfather.

The cabin, built in the 1830s, was covered with rough siding by the time our earliest family photographs of it appear, dating from about 1895. It was a typical rural Southern farmhouse – plain and solid. The children slept in a loft over their parents; girls on one side, boys on the other. Water came from a dug well on an open-air back porch/kitchen. In the front yard stood a stone “upping block,” designed to assist ladies more gracefully onto horseback.

Out back was the biggest boxwood shrub ever seen by man — or at least this man — which for decades served as a shady chicken roost.

When they heard about this grandma of Southern boxwoods, the Roosevelt White House actually briefly investigated trying to dig it up and move it to Washington. But because cuttings were rooted and sold for hard money, even in the grip of the Great Depression the Taylors couldn’t bear to part with it, so the great boxwood stayed put. The shrub, once big enough for a dozen children to play in, still lives, though it suffers these days from old age and a lack of children and chicken fertilizer.

This is where my grandfather, Vestal Columbus Taylor, grew up a hundred years ago. I’m named after him, the third Taylor in a row to bear his name. My son is Vestal IV. We call him “O’B” for short.

As with many Southern clans, family reunions were a big deal to the Taylors. There is a photograph of the Taylor reunion from 1926, held at the Union Primitive Baptist Church just down the road from the home place. There are about 50 starchly dressed people standing behind a groaning board so full of food it sags in the middle. The Taylors never suffered a shortage of talkers, and here is where the family stories were swapped, polished, embellished, and ultimately handed down to the generations. The tales my father loved to tell me came directly from these gatherings. Luckily, he wrote down a lot of them.

These early generations often had lots of kin living nearby. Children grew up with cousins who were as close as their brothers and sisters, and shared many of the same life experiences. It is these extended ties that bind, these family bonds — more than two generations on — that still serve to keep our family together.

Eighty-two years after that reunion of ’26, we still meet annually at the Union Church, about two miles from the old cabin.

We visit, swap stories, trade pictures, and promise to stay in better contact. We eat great home cooking. We visit the graves of loved ones, privately talking as if they were still with us. My father is buried at Union Church, as are his mother and father, who lie at the foot of my great-grandparents’ grave. Nearby are the remains of others who are part of the old family stories. I know their names and a little about most of them.

I’ve gone to Taylor family summer gatherings my whole life; long enough to have seen three generations pass on to their Great Reunion. For decades, we held the reunion at the home place. Going back there was a big drawing card. Children played in the famous giant boxwood and some of us climbed the same cherry tree that my grandfather and his brothers and cousins climbed to toss down ripe cherries onto Uncle Arthur’s new straw skimmer at reunions so many decades ago.

A cousin who inherited the place, unfortunately, didn’t have the money to keep it up. He was too proud to sell it, and it ran down. As a result, it’s no longer safe to hold a big family reunion there; the wood floors and joists of the home place are simply too tired to support a crowd. Now we drop by in small groups to collect private memories.

Sadly, in the decade since moving back to the church, our family reunions have grown steadily smaller. Most of my father’s generation, the sons and daughters of those who grew up in the cabin, are all gone. Part of the magic of these events was lost when we ceased gathering at the old house; part of it vanishes the farther we scatter as a tribe, the harder it is to come home. Our grown children don’t seem bound by the same blood ties that keep us older folk together. Cousins no longer grow up together, and often barely even know each other. Most young folks are not interested in stories about old times they can scarcely imagine.

The very idea of having summer family reunions, in fact, probably seems quaint to many people. But we — the real Taylors of mythic Mayberry — will likely continue for as long as my age group is able to get to the groaning board and swap tales. There is something deeply satisfying about fertilizing your roots and knowing where your people came from — and thus who you are.

Fortunately, I have the family tales my father wrote down. And like Sheriff Andy from that popular television show that defined the solid values of small town North Carolina, I also have a son called O’B to pass them along to.

Pat Taylor is the Advertising Director for The Pilot.

BOOKSHELF

By Kay L. Grismer and Angie Tally for The Country Bookshop

Award-Winning and “Best Books” of 2007

An Arsonist’s Guide to Writers’ Homes in New England, by Brock Clarke. After serving 10 years in prison for accidentally burning down Emily Dickinson’s house, the hapless hero of Clarke’s acclaimed novel must prove his innocence when the homes of other famous NE writers go up in smoke.

Boone, by Robert Morgan. Morgan reveals the complex character of a frontiersman whose heroic life was far stranger and more fascinating than the myths that surround him.

Brother, I’m Dying, by Edwidge Danticat. Danticat’s deeply affecting memoir of home and family was a finalist for the National Book Award and National Book Critics Circle Award.

How Starbucks Saved My Life, by Michael Gates Gill. Gill tells his riches to rags story about how Starbucks and a young African American woman saved his life. A Staff Pick.

The Indian Clerk, by David Leavitt. Leavitt’s novel is based on the true story of the strange and ultimately tragic relationship between an esteemed British mathematician and an unknown—and unschooled—mathematical genius.

Mr. White’s Confession, by Robert Clark. The chief suspect in the 1939 murders of two dime-a-dance girls is an eccentric recluse and hobby photographer in this Edgar Award Winning mystery.

The Thief and the Dogs, by Naguib Mahfouz. The 1961 Nobel Prize Winner, a novella of post-revolutionary Egypt, is this year’s international selection for the National Endowment for the Arts’ BIG READ Program.

Tree of Smoke, by Denis Johnson. Johnson’s highly praised novel—“brilliant,” “wrenching,” “almost without peer,” a “classic Vietnam war novel,” won the National Book Award.

The Year of Living Biblically, by A. J. Jacobs. The author of The Know-It-All embarks on another improbable adventure: a year spent living, as literally as possible, by the rules of the Bible.

The Zookeeper’s Wife, by Diane Ackerman. A true story in which the keepers of the Warsaw Zoo saved hundreds of people from Nazi hands.

New for September

The Comforts of a Muddy Saturday, by Alexander McCall Smith. Isabel Dalhousie helps a doctor “disgraced” by allegations of scientific fraud concerning a newly marketed drug.

American Lightning, by Howard Blum. A national debate about limits of individual liberty followed the “crime of the century,” the 1910 bombing of the LA Times that was part of a planned assault on 100 American cities.

Bridge of Sighs, by Richard Russo. The author of Empire Falls returns with a novel about small-town America, and a long-married couple who are about to embark on a trip to Venice.

Exit Music, by Ian Rankin. Edinburgh’s DI John Rebus must solve the murder of a dissident Russian poet before he retires.

Gentlemen of the Road, by Michael Chabon. Chabon’s illustrated novel, set 1,000 years ago along the ancient Silk Road, tells the tale of two wandering adventurers and unlikely soulmates.

Guernica, by Dave Boling. An epic novel of love, family, and war set in the Basque town of Guernica, before, during, and after its destruction by the German Luftwaffe during the Spanish Civil War.

Home, by Marilynne Robinson. A woman returns home to care for her dying father and her brother. The prodigal son returns looking for refuge in the new novel by the author of Gilead.

The Lucky One, by Nicholas Sparks. In Sparks’ new novel, a man’s brush with death leads him to the love of his life.

Kiss My Math, by Danica McKellar. The author of Math Doesn’t Suck returns with the next step in the math curriculum—pre-Algebra.

Things I Overhead While Talking to Myself, by Alan Alda. Alda looks back on the turbulence of the 60s through the ache of September 11 and beyond.

Well-Behaved Women Seldom Make History, by Laurel Thatcher Ulrich. The Pulitzer Prize-winning historian explores what it means for women to make history.

Write It When I’m Gone, by Thomas M. DeFrank. In a series of private interviews conducted over 16 years, Gerald Ford reveals himself to be funny, reflective, and strikingly candid.

Children's Bookshelf

Let’s Dance, Little Pookie, by Sandra Boynton. Enjoy a lighthearted spin around the living room floor with Little Pookie and Mom as they hop, march, swirl and sing their way through the day. A perennial favorite on staff pick shelves, Sandra Boynton’s board books are a delight to young readers and their caregivers alike. Ages 1-4.

C39 Clues: Maze of Bones, by Rick Riordan. After the death of their beloved Grandmother, Dan and Amy Cahill are presented with a dilemma regarding their inheritance that may lead them on a journey to discover the secret about their unusual family. This first of a series of ten books comes complete with six trading cards and is the gateway into the world of 39 Clues, a multi-platform experience that includes an interactive Web site where readers can join Dan and Amy on their quest. An absolute MUST for readers and reluctant readers alike. Ages 9-14.

Don’t forget Grandparents’ Day on Sunday, Sept. 7.

Celebrate with a few favorite “Grand” books: What Grandmas Can’t Do, by Douglas Wood; Grandma, Grandpa and Me, by Mercer Mayer; Little Bear’s Visit, by Else Holmelund Minarik; and The Grandpa Book, by Todd Parr.

GOLFTOWN JOURNAL

Man on the Tips

By Lee Pace

Sixty-six hundred yards is a comfortable-length golf course for me. It’s long enough that when I break 80, I feel like I’ve accomplished something. But it’s not so vile that I am hammering fairway woods all day and looking for the nearest Yorkie to wallop with a brogan.

But in honor of the U.S. Amateur coming to Pinehurst and in a ribald theft of the idea from Torrey Pines and this year’s U.S. Open to see if a 10-handicapper can play the ball down, from the tips, and break 100, I invited three golfers to the deep, dark tips of Pinehurst No. 2. One week before the 2008 Amateur, we trekked back to where the goblins and ghouls roam at 7,335 yards.

“What would you shoot on a U.S. Open course under U.S. Open conditions?” Golf Digest magazine asked last December. It took a cue from Tiger Woods, who said at the 2007 Open at Oakmont that a 10-handicapper could not break 100 on the course the pros were playing that week.

The U.S. Open won’t return to Pinehurst until 2014, but I figured the eve of the Amateur would find No. 2 as close to Open conditions as you’d get for six years. Course officials have left the Donald Ross design much as it was the day Michael Campbell won the 2005 Open.

“After the ’99 Open, we widened the fairways back out,” says course superintendent Paul Jett. “Golfers came that fall and actually complained that the course wasn’t what they’d seen on television. So after ’05, we’ve left the fairways where they were — 23 to 25 yards in width.”

We’d also get Open-style rough — from 1.5 inches in the first cut, 2.75 in the next swath and 3.5 farther than 20 feet from the fairway. What we would miss, however, would be the lightning-quick greens.

“We have about a 60-day period where the greens are a 24-hour priority,” Jett says. “From mid-July to mid-September, keeping them healthy occupies our time and attention. The rest of the year, our biggest worry is not letting the greens get too fast. If they get to 10 (on the Stimpmeter), it adds 30 to 45 minutes a round. But it’s been hot, humid and sticky. You’re just not going to have firm and fast in August like you can in June.”

Jett was the low-handicap player in our group. He was on the golf team at Clemson for one year in the 1980s and still sports a near scratch handicap. “It would be fun to do this if my game were sharp,” he says. “But I’ve played less than two rounds in three months.”

Brad Kocher, Jett’s boss and the Senior VP of Grounds and Golf Course Management at Pinehurst, brought a 12-handicap to the tee. He’s been at Pinehurst since the resort was first bought by Dallas club magnate Robert Dedman in 1984 and said, half jokingly, “I’ll play in the interest of doing my job. It’s important the superintendent play golf and know every inch of his course. He can see things that need attention he wouldn’t otherwise know about.”

Case in point: Jett would find his ball imbedded in the face of a bunker in front of the green on the fourth hole, just under the turf line. He had no shot beyond hacking the ball out sideways with a baseball swing. He dislodged the ball enough for it to fall lamely back into his footprint.

“It would be embarrassing for that to happen on national TV in the Amateur,” Jett says. “A ball isn’t supposed to plug like that in a bunker. We’re probably raking too much sand into the faces. All you really want is enough sand to cover the dirt. I’ll speak to my guys about that.”

Rich Agnew, a Pinehurst Country Club member with a 10-handicap, moved to Pinehurst from Boston in July 2004 with his wife, Anne. He first visited Pinehurst in 2001, then returned in March 2002. On a Sunday morning outside the Villager Deli, he absorbed the sun flickering through the pines, the clarions of The Village Chapel, and said to himself, “Not a bad spot.”

The Agnews visited for a month in 2003, Anne was similarly smitten and they bought at house at course No. 6 a year later.

“It’s an idyllic place,” Agnew says. “All the history … all the things to do … and so many great people. People in Pinehurst don’t care where you come from or what you did before you got here. All they want to know is ‘Can you make the 6-footer when you have to?’”

My index is 6.8 and my goal is to break 85. I figured six of the par-4s playing 445 yards or longer (two, five, 11, 12, 14 and 18) would essentially be par-5s. I figured the one-shotters at 6 and 15 (more than 200 yards each) were 3.5s. The massive 10th at 611 yards would be a par-6 for a pipsqueak golfer. So if I adjusted my expectations, there’d be less pressure.

“We can reinvent the par for the course,” Kocher proposed.

I took the pitching wedge out of my bag (still leaving wedges of 52, 56 and 60 degrees) and added an extra fairway wood, knowing I’d be firing frequently from 230 to 180 yards away. I lectured myself on not trying to hit the ball too hard off the tee and on making conservative recoveries back to the short grass if I drove the ball into the lush rough.

Despite the difficulty of the course from the very tips, the round was a wonderful experience on a beautiful August morning. We were the first group off the tee at 7:50 and by the third hole had left the trailing group, and they never saw us again.

“Bad golf doesn’t mean slow golf,” Agnew said as we moved smartly around the course.

We finished in four hours, five minutes, and had the help of two outstanding caddies, Tim Wright and Thomas Trinchitella. They were sharp reading our putts, kept our clubs and balls clean and had accurate yardages on every approach shot. I highly recommend the caddie experience on No. 2; carts are restricted to the pathways, so the adventure is much richer walking down the fairways than across them.

Tiger Woods would be interested to know that everyone broke 100, though no one played close to their handicaps. We had two birdies — mine on the par-5 fourth with a 12-footer and Jett’s on the diabolic 15th with an 18-footer. We had bad holes collectively — no one hit the green of the difficult sixth hole. And we had good holes — each of us hit the 17th green off the tee and two-putted for pars.

“Four pars on 17,” Kocher marveled. “You won’t see that very often.”

Throughout the round we marveled at how far the pros and collegiate amateurs can smite the ball.

“I don’t have a club for this shot,” Jett said on the tee for the par-5 fourth hole. The tee, built for the ’05 Open, is tucked into the trees and requires a carry of more than 220 yards to find the short grass.

“Yeah, aim down the walkway,” Kocher suggested.

We played the greens differently—Agnew wielding his long putter from nearly every spot around the greens, me taking a 60-degree wedge and nipping the ball with uncharacteristic precision the entire round.

“That’s one great thing about No. 2,” Kocher said. “You can play the shot that’s comfortable for you. You saw it in the Opens — flop shots, chip-and-runs, fairway woods, putters. There’s a lot of room for imagination on No. 2.”

I carded an 87—including one birdie and a snowman on the treacherous fifth when I drove into the rough, made two more powder-puff swipes from the gnarly Bermuda and shanked one from the side slope of a bunker. I made two double-bogeys, both when I hit drives into the rough. The lesson: Stay out of the thick stuff and take the quickest route back to the fairway when you don’t.

We repaired to the Donald Ross Grill afterward, no bones or clubs broken, egos only slightly bruised.

“We saw every inch of the golf course,” Jett said. “You saw every yard on the scorecard.”

All 7,335 of them. That was a one-off round of golf for me. As the poet William Blake once noted, “The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.” My palace forever is the middle tees.

Lee Pace, an award-winning sports writer, is a longtime resident of Chapel Hill and is the official historian of Pinehurst Resort.

SPORTING LIFE

Vanishing Fields

By Tom Bryant

I always told myself if I ever reached the point of writing about the good old days, I’d call my son Tommy and tell him to get the geezer room ready, I’m moving in. We have a standing joke that when my time comes for assisted living, I’m moving in with Tom. He always replies, “I’ve got your rest home already picked out, Dad.” My wife, Linda, just shakes her head and chuckles.

I guess I was thinking about the good old days, though, when one of my hunting partners called with information that another duck impoundment was available at Mattamuskeet and we should probably look into it. It seems that this hunting spot has the reputation of producing big ducks such as mallards, black ducks and pintails. Our current impoundments, where our lodge is located, has been seriously short on ducks for the past couple of years due to warm winter weather and the drought. Anyway, a fellow can’t have too many places to hunt, kinda like that country western song, You Can’t Have Too Much Fun. So the rest of the duck club commissioned John H. to be our official scout and to look into it.

After I talked to John, I started thinking about all the places I’ve had the opportunity to snap a cap. (For you neophytes, that means fire a gun.) As a kid, it was simple. I hunted the woods on both sides of the railroad tracks from Aberdeen to Addor. I didn’t know who the land belonged to, really didn’t think about it. It was there, it was accessible and, most important, it was free. That was my home hunting base. When I traveled internationally, as it were, I hunted my grandfather’s plantation in South Carolina. There were several thousand acres available to me; and like my home hunting grounds, I didn’t necessarily know who owned the land, I’m sure my grandfather did and he gave me some boundaries; but when I was in the woods, if it looked promising, I went there. There again, this, one of my favorite places, was free.

Later on when I grew up, graduated from college, got a real job and was able to buy shotgun shells by the box rather than by the piece, my hunting locales became more limited. It seemed that the more affluent I became, the fewer places I had to hunt. That’s when I resorted to the Southern good ol’ boy method of “negotiating with the farmer.” I’ve always been able to talk to the rural folks, maybe because that’s who I am. My father was the first in my family’s history who didn’t make a living on the farm. Therefore, I had uncles, aunts and cousins all living in the country. Great people to imitate, and I learned how to get along with these fine people whom my grandfather called the salt of the earth.

I had a great formula, and it worked for me for a pretty good while. I would ride around the country checking out flyways for doves, or if in duck season, the creeks and swamps for likely looking duck spots. When I saw a promising area I’d locate the nearest farmhouse, check for dogs; then park a respectable distance from the front door, walk up and ring the bell. I never stood on the porch. That was poor form. I backed into the yard, and if I was wearing a hat, I always took it off. Negotiating with the lady of the house was not done. She was apt to run a stranger off pretty quickly, perhaps thinking that I wanted to sell her something. Here’s how my side of the conversation might have gone when I was just hitting my stride.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. My name is Tom Bryant, and I live over in Alamance County. Wonder if the mister might be at home?

“Oh, he’s plowing the back forty.”

“Well, I’ll just stop back by in a little while if it’s okay. I just wanted to talk to him about perhaps duck hunting down on the creek.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that. I had hoped that he might let me hunt, but I can certainly understand. My grandfather had the same problem when he let some city boys bird hunt his place. They left the gate open to his Angus pasture, and he and his tenant help had to chase cows all afternoon.

“No ma’am, he has a big farm down in South Carolina, raises tobacco mostly, along with some cotton and corn. I did a bunch o’ hunting down there when I was a boy.

“Well, ma’am, have a good day. Tell the mister I said hey. Oh, one last thing, ma’am. I wonder if it would be all right to drive my mother by here next weekend. She’s coming up to visit.

“Yes, ma’am, she lives in the old home place. We wouldn’t get out or anything. I just want her to see your beautiful rose garden. She raises roses herself and would love to see yours.

“No, ma’am, we would probably ride out after church, not bother you a bit, just pull up in the drive and not even get out of the car.

“Well, that’s mighty kind of you. You sure it would be no trouble? Well then, I’ll see you on Sunday, and you think the mister might let me hunt the creek bottom?

“Great! I can’t wait to meet him.”

And that’s how it would go. The casual observer might think that I was employing the traits of a hustler and ne’er-do-well, but I beg to differ. It was a way that I had of meeting new people and building great friendships, finding new hunting areas and, above all, it was free.

The best spot I ever negotiated was a farm located in the northern part of Alamance County. Without a doubt, I’ll never see its like again. The place was mostly rolling hills of about 400 acres dropping off down to a creek that was the source of the city lake. There was more wildlife concentrated in this area than in other places I’ve been fortunate to hunt. Doves, turkey, ducks, Canada geese, deer, otter, beaver, you name it and they were there; and they filled the habitat to the brim. All of this was only about 30 minutes from my home. Unfortunately, this country place has gone the way of many others. The farmer was a big tobacco producer, and when the bottom dropped out of the crop, he decided to sell the entire place to a developer who split it up into 10-acre mini-farms. I hunted there for about 15 years, though, and developed a close friendship with the landowner. He took the proceeds of the sale, bought a place at Morehead along with a great big ocean-going Grady White boat and is now living the good life, fishing whenever he wants.

A few years back, I was fortunate to interview Hugh McColl, the retired CEO of Bank of America. Business North Carolina magazine had a special supplement dealing with the outdoor pursuits of North Carolina’s rich and famous. Hugh McColl more than fit the bill. McColl is a big bird hunter and kind of reclusive when it comes to giving interviews. I believe he let me talk to him because we both grew up hunting the same areas of South Carolina, and his family was acquainted with mine. When I mentioned he’s a bird hunter, I mean he’s a BIRD HUNTER. He leases 150 square miles of hunting land from the King Ranch in Texas and has a full-time caretaker and full-time cook at his lodge. He spends most of the bird season there.

McColl gave me an insight that I remember to this day: “Tom, if things keep going the way they are now, only the wealthy will be hunters because only the wealthy will be able to afford the land. If you’re not a member of a hunting club or have no access to family land or the wherewithal to buy or lease hunting areas, you’re going to be out of luck. I hate to see that happen. The way you and I grew up hunting about wherever we wanted is gone forever.”

It was a great conversation and I enjoyed our time together. As a matter of fact, when our talk concluded, I decided to pitch my best farmer negotiation effort, hoping for an invitation to join him on one of his hunts in Texas.

“You know, Mr. McColl, I get out to Texas every now and then.”

We were walking out the door of his office that was located on the top of the Bank of America building in Charlotte, and I gave him my best good ol’ boy smile.

“If you ever need anybody to tote your guns around for you, I’ll be happy to oblige.”

“That’s okay, Tom, I’ve got people to do that.”

And he closed the door to his office, business as usual.

Yep, my old boss, Frank Daniels, was right, I thought as I punched the elevator button heading down. You don’t negotiate a negotiator.

Tom Bryant, former advertising director of The Pilot, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.