Pinehurst No. 2

This is going to sound like I'm boasting, although that's really not my intent.

But I did get to play on Pinehurst No. 2. Twice. For free. (OK, so that part is boasting.)

That happened in 1999 and again in 2005. I was the sports editor for The Dispatch back then, and in those two years the U.S. Open was held in Pinehurst. So I applied for press credentials, was approved, and became part of the international golf media.

One of the perks of the profession — besides all the free food you can eat — was that you got to play in a media tournament on the very course on which the pros played. Although we did not play from the championship tees, the pin locations were the same ones used on championship Sunday both times.

So we had a sense of what the pros were facing. Theoretically, that was the point of the media event — to add perception and understanding of the difficulty of the golf course to our stories. Right.

I saw several of his relatives at Pinehurst No. 2.

 Now, to be truthful, the golf I play is purely recreational. A par for me is like a birdie for real golfers. Bogey golf, for me, is a great day on the course. For example, I regularly shot in the high 80s at Lexington Municipal back in the day, and felt good about it.

So let me tell you that I was tickled to death to card a 111 the first time I played Pinehurst, and a 107 on the second go around. Both times, I had one bad hole that probably kept me from breaking 100, which was my ultimate goal playing on one of the world's most difficult courses. I came close enough, I reckon.

To this day, almost 10 years later, I still carry some great memories of the place — all the sand in the fairways, the pines, the turtleback greens that served as ball returns if you didn't play precision target golf (I don't).

In 1999, our cart's battery died somewhere on the back nine, so my partner and I got to walk a couple of holes before we were brought a new cart. Imagine, walking Pinehurst No. 2 — just like Sam Snead or Ben Hogan or Byron Nelson...

One memory that won't go away are the black squirrels I saw on the course. Technically, they're southeastern fox squirrels, but they have mostly black fur with white noses. I'd never seen one before, but I saw several on each of my Pinehurst visits. They have since become ingrained in my brain. Whenever I think of Pinehurst, it's not Payne Stewart that comes to mind — it's black squirrels. Go figure.

Anyway, as I settle in to watch today's final round of the U.S. Open, I'll savor the memories. I'll celebrate the great shots, chuckle as pros see their imprecise approach shots roll off the greens and back onto the fairways, and look for black squirrels.

Classic Mustang farewell blues

I have to admit, there was a tight little knot in my throat. And while I didn't cry, my eyes did well up a bit.

 Very rarely do I get emotional over inanimate objects, but as our faithful 1966 Mustang 289 convertible was being loaded onto the transporter Thursday morning, I had to keep reminding myself, "It's time."

The Mustang gets loaded onto the transporter for consignment in Charlotte.

It was time. We bought her from a fellow in King 19 years ago. Kim, a lover of Mustangs for as long as she can remember, had just purchased her very first brand-new car, a 1994 Mustang. That was the year Ford reintroduced it's classic (although updated) Mustang body style.

"But, you know," said Kim a few months later, "as much as I like my car, there's nothing like the original Mustangs."

So, after about a year of some casual searching, we found the Wimbledon White classic with the blue interior. Originally from Oklahoma, she needed some work (the car, not Kim), but she was drivable. Money was exchanged and memories were made.

Gradually, little by little, we fixed her up. One day while I was driving, the drive shaft fell off. It needed a universal joint. Then a master cylinder needed to be replaced after brake fluid seeped onto the floorboard.

Shortly after that we decided to have the engine rebuilt. We took it to Jimmy Livengood in Tyro, who sublet the piston work to machinist/stock car driver Ralph Brinkley. There were hairline fractures in several of the old pistons, so Brinkley replaced them with racing caliber bangers.

The car always had impressive pep in her step after that.

Kim said the original '66 Oklahoma plate is the car's birth certificate.

 We even personalized the car with its own license plate: "OUR 6T6." I hope that took a moment to assimilate. "OUR 66" was already taken.

Over the years, more work was done. We revitalized the automatic transmission; we had a new convertible top put on it. Then, in 2001, we took the car to Scott Winfield of The Paint Shop in Winston-Salem, where he did a marvelous frame-up restoration. We even had the bumpers rechromed.

The irony here is that the more work we did to her, the less we drove it. She did serve as a reliable backup car for a while, especially when one of the others was getting serviced, but several things were starting to come into play.

Old cars need to be driven, otherwise dry rot takes over. Seals deteriorate. Fluids become less fluid. And sometimes we'd go months without taking it on the road. Out of sight, out of mind. Some of that was because as Kim and I got older, it got more tedious to go to where the car was in storage (we don't have our own garage) just to get it.

The 1966 Mustang and the 1994 Mustang. You choose.

Also, because we'd done so much work to it (especially after Winfield's astounding paint job), we were leery of taking it on the road for fear of any collateral damage (read scratch).

And then I recently read a story in Car and Driver magazine that convinced me the time had come to unload it. The baby boomers, of which Kim and I belong, basically created the current classic car market. But we're aging out. And the generations that are following us could care less about the cars we loved as kids.

Right now, the market appears to be heading overseas where classic American metal is now revered — and valued. Our car may have to learn to speak French or German.

Plus, we're approaching an age where it's probably wise to downsize, if not begin to divest yourself, of your assets.

So we made the monumental decision to consign the car, where Streetside Classics in Charlotte will advertise internationally and try to sell it for us.

I suppose there's a chance that it won't sell and the car will be back in storage in 90 days. But I think not. We still have the pictures, we still have the memories — driving with the top down in the county, getting treats at either Sonic or the Barbecue Center, cruising Main, drawing approving glances from friends and strangers —so the time is right.

The time is now.

Me and my meds

About three years ago I was diagnosed with having atrial fibrillation (A-fib), a cardio condition where one of the chambers of my heart simply beats wildly to its own unsyncopated drummer.

I don't know how I got it. It's not necessarily genetic. Apparently, it can show up through stress, or even through exercise. I was taking daily three-mile walks precisely to prevent this stuff from happening to me. Welcome to 60, where not as much makes sense as I'd have hoped. Go figure.

I never knew I had A-fib. I can't feel it, and I never experienced any of the ordinary clues like fatigue or dizziness.

Left untreated, my chances for a stroke increase fivefold over the normal population baseline. That's because the blood in that particular chamber isn't being pumped on a regular basis, can pool up and form a clot, which can then move to my brain. I figure, in the end, a stroke is what's going to get me.

But I am treating the condition. On doctor's recommendation, I take a daily dose of 325 mg aspirin to thin my blood, along with a 25 mg beta blocker known as metoprolol, which I think slows down the rapid, uncontrolled beating of the affected chamber. I don't know what it does to the three good chambers of my heart. I like to think this medication makes me a cool and calculating dude under duress, but I have no scientific — or practical — evidence to prove it.

I was hoping to get through life without a countertop full of pill jars, but apparently that's now out of the question. As med taking goes, I guess I'm pretty fortunate it's not any more complicated than it is.

Anyway, when I was first prescribed metoprolol, I was given a brochure that tells me what it is, how to use it and its potential side effects.

Side effects? You mean like hairy knuckles? Horns growing out of my head? A new tail?

Here are some of the side effects of metoprolol: "Drowsiness, dizziness, tiredness, diarrhea and slow heartbeat may occur."

Huh? I thought that's the stuff it was supposed to prevent. Except for the slow heartbeat. Isn't that what I want? Why is that a warning?

Television commercials are overflowing with pitches for meds, sometimes consecutively, sometimes endlessly. I guess this is targeted at our enormous population of baby boomers, now aging out and ready to consume all the Social Security left in the till. We're able to do this because of all the meds that are keeping us alive longer.

I love listening to the side effects of some of these televised meds. Witness:

• Xarelto (used to treat A-fib): "Easy bruising, unusual bleeding, bleeding from wounds or needle injections, any bleeding that will not stop; loss of movement in any part of your body; feeling like you might pass out; coughing up blood or vomit that looks like coffee grounds." OMG.

• Humira (helps treat Crohn's disease): "Patients treated with HUMIRA are at increased risk for developing serious infections that may lead to hospitalization or death. These infections include active tuberculosis (TB), reactivation of latent TB, invasive fungal infections, and bacterial, viral, and other infections due to opportunistic pathogens." The death part concerns me a little.

• Chantix (helps you to quit smoking): "Chest pain or pressure, tight feeling in your neck or jaw, pain spreading to your arm or shoulder, vomiting, sweating, general ill feeling." Good. A pill to make me feel worse.

• Crestor (helps lower cholesterol): "The most common side effects may include headache, muscle aches, abdominal pain, weakness, and nausea. Memory loss and confusion have also been reported with statins." I do take Pravastatin, and I keep forgetting to tell my doctor about my memory loss. Note to self...

• Viagra (well, you know...): "Sudden decrease or loss of sight in one or both eyes... sudden decrease or loss of hearing... heart attack, stroke, irregular heartbeats and death." This one requires serious and thoughtful reflection while weighing the benefit of the intimate moment against, you know, potentially dying. I guess she better be worth it. Do I really want my obit to say "Viagra killed him."?

The warnings (the one for Viagra showed up in my Sports Illustrated), I suppose, are for legal purposes to protect the provider against potential lawsuits for anything that could go wrong. I suspect the odds are slim to nearly none that any of this stuff can happen to you while you're treating something else.

But it is enough to make your heart skip a beat, isn't it?

Memorial Day

I live with a strange dichotomy every Memorial Day.

As a child of the 1950s I was to become eligible to participate in the Vietnam War. But the idea of enlisting in the military, especially then, especially with a war that I opposed and thought to be particularly immoral as wars go, was anathema to me — as it was to hundreds of thousands of others in my generation.

And while I dutifully enrolled for conscription, I was never called. I had a student deferment in my college years and a ridiculously high number in the draft lottery (262) for men born in 1951. It was likely I would never be called for service (I've been told lottery picks rarely got past No. 100 in a given year), so I never made plans to become a Canadian.

I was lucky, and I knew it.

Meanwhile — and here's the dichotomy — I was engrossed by most things military. In 1959, my father — who served a year as a counselor in the American Red Cross — was stationed at Pease Air Force Base in Portsmouth, NH. This was during the growing anxiety of the Cold War era and Portsmouth was no doubt a target on the Kremlin's planning boards. Not only was there an air force base near the city, but a naval base as well. I spent a year of my life surrounded by submarines, B-47s and stockpiles of nuclear bombs.

I soon became a dedicated student of U.S. history with special interests in the Civil War and World War II — interests that I carry to this day. I am fascinated by troop movements, strategy and tactics, the weapons of war. I've held a Spencer carbine in my hands and I've flown in a B-24.

Somewhere between the end of the Vietnam era and the current Iraq-Iran-Afghanistan imbroglios, my respect for the military increased. Part of that may be because I aged out and was no longer a threat to be called to duty. Another reason is that my brother, David, did enlist. He did that during the Vietnam era. (He likes to point out that he enlisted in an all-conscript army. Duh).

My brother, David, during his U.S. Army career. A salute.

That he did enlist is such an un-Wehrle-like thing to do. As far as I know, Wehrles managed to avoid most wars. Grandpa served as a warrant officer (whatever that is) during World War II but never went overseas and never saw combat; Dad was in college during the Korean era, and, well, now you know about me.

David, however, was a middle son and something of a wild child. He enlisted in the U.S. Army and did his basic training at Fort Dix. Turns out, the military was just the thing for him. He was first stationed at Fort Rucker, AL, where he became a military firefighter. If the military are regarded as the ultimate first responders, I figure as a firefighter he became a first responder first responder.

His next deployment, in the military's infinite wisdom, took him out of the sweltering heat of Alabama and into the blistering cold of Anchorage, AK, where he became a firefighter at Fort Richardson-Elmendorf Air Force Base. He's been in Anchorage ever since, preferring to stay there even following his discharge and where he became a firefighter in civilian life. He is our family's own Northern Light.

And I can't tell you enough how proud I am of him for his service. As I am of most veterans I know.

Ironically, military service (at least temporarily) takes away several of the basic Constitutional rights that you swear to protect and defend — try invoking your right to free speech while being dressed down by a superior, you maggot, or leaving your post whenever you feel the urge to roam — AWOL. So for somebody to become GI, either as a conscript or a volunteer, deserves reflection.

There are other ways to reflect as well. One of the most moving moments I can remember came in Gettysburg. I was walking through the National Cemetery where the graves of all the fallen Union soldiers were marked by little American flags, and it fairly took my breath away.

Another moment came in Washington, DC years ago. Kim and I were strolling the grounds near the Lincoln Memorial when we walked down a flight of steps at Constitution Gardens and turned a corner — unexpectedly coming face to face with the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. In a city of monuments, I was taken with its grace and simplicity and almost immediately brought to silent tears by the 58,000 names etched on the stark gabbro walls.

Given the era in which I lived, it was probably a no-brainer that I would never become military. But it was also a certainty that I would hold those who served in a kind of awe.

So thank you, David. And Paul. And Charles. And Eugene. And Roger. And Jerry. And to all the unknown others I'll never meet. Thank you.

Crossing the (state) line

(Fair warning. Asheville's Underhill Rose will be mentioned in this blog post).

Perhaps Kim and I should check our event calendar with a little more care in the future. We planned another three-day weekend for North Myrtle Beach with the object of getting a few personal items attended to. We seem to do this every six months or so, although we'd just done something like this back in April.

This particular weekend was randomly chosen and arrangements were made to get off from work. If we had checked the calendar, I'm sure we would have paid more attention to the words "Harley-Davidson rally" that eventually started hitting us on our heads as we made our way down the road.

Yep, it was Harley week. In truth, it was culture-clash time. Recently graduated college students were also sharing the Strand with the Harley folks, not to mention assorted Baby Boomers (me and Kim), Generation Xers and Millennials.

The place was hopping. But by Friday afternoon, we'd accomplished most of what we set out to do, so we decided to reward ourselves with a run down to Charleston — Mt. Pleasant, actually — to take in another performance of the female Americana trio Underhill Rose, who were booked to play in a neat little knothole called The Southern Bar and Grill.

This was not a planned stop in our weekend. While we knew the girls were performing there, we'd just seen them a couple of weeks ago, and we debated whether or not we really wanted to see them again so soon. Plus, it's a two-hour-plus drive to get to Charleston (110 miles from North Myrtle, according to Mr. Google), most of it on worn-out Rt. 17, which we knew would be jam-packed with bikers.

Who wants to do that to themselves?

Apparently, we do. So in a last-minute decision, we hit the road. And about a half-hour in, we began to have regrets. Traffic was horrible. There was an accident. There was construction. Several times, between Garden City and Murrells Inlet, traffic was at a standstill. To make a long story short, it took us nearly two hours to cover the 50 miles from North Myrtle to Georgetown.

Ironically enough, the trip was a breeze from Georgetown to Mt. Pleasant, with hardly a vehicle in sight. We made The Southern in fine time, exhausted and hungry.

This was an unusual evening for Underhill Rose. They were playing across the Cooper River at the Palmetto Brewing Company in Charleston, with a 6 p.m. start. They would play their gig there, pack their vehicle, head over the river and do it all again at The Southern.

The girls arrived by 8 p.m. and set up. They were performing by 9 p.m. Kim and I wondered if they would do their usual two-hour gig since they'd already played at Palmetto and it was going to be a long night for them in any case.

What did I know? Their first set included several covers of songs I'd never heard them play before. Singer/banjoist Eleanor Underhill told the 40 or so patrons that they were acknowledging their musical influences (like John Prine, Bonnie Raitt and Trio).

Then, in their second set, they did mostly their own original material which had us bobbing our heads and tapping our feet. Their harmonies were as tight as ever. When the set ended, Eleanor announced they were taking a little break.

Huh? Another break? During the pause, upright bassist Salley Williamson came over to chat. "What are you doing?" I asked. I've never seen them do three sets. Holy smokes.

"Robert Greer from Town Mountain is going to sing with us a little bit," explained Salley. Town Mountain, also from Asheville, shared the billing with Underhill Rose at the Palmetto.

Greer sang one tune with them, and the girls cleaned up with four or five more songs. They were finished a little after midnight.

I didn't keep track, but I figured Eleanor, Salley and guitarist Molly Rose Reed must have performed close to 40 tunes in this particular venue, a decent listening room which had no cover charge. Coupled with their gig at Palmetto, they were probably on a stage for nearly five hours.

Kim and I bid our farewells and hit the road. We had no traffic issues on the way back and reached North Myrtle by 2:30 a.m., wondering the whole way how the girls manage to keep producing this magic time after time. It was an awesome night.

 

Yard work

The other day Kim was working in the front yard of our house when she mentioned that a young couple strolled by.

We live in a great walking neighborhood, what with tree-lined streets and sidewalks and not much auto traffic on the road. And when the weather is sunny and warm, we often see dozens of people walking by — or even jogging —in the course of the day.

Sometimes, our house catches their attention.

 "Your house is beautiful," the woman told Kim, who had been doing some weeding in the front garden. Kim works diligently to make the area resemble an English cottage garden after she once heard our house described as a "cottage." Technically, I believe it's a bungalow, but I don't think there's such a thing as an English bungalow garden. So she faithfully tends to the pansies (in winter), foxglove, tulips, black-eyed Susans, snap dragons, daisies, peonies, hostas and whatever else she puts in there.

The English cottage garden gives a nice accent to our house.

Some statuary, including a concrete cat, helps accent the garden area.

We usually have hanging baskets on the porch, too. In most years, we prefer ferns because they're so, so...umm...Southern. This year, we opted for double ruffled petunias just for something different. We do have a couple of ferns sitting in wrought-iron stands on either side of the front door.

There is a certain oddity to all of this, however. We have two large maple trees growing out front and we simply love them. In the summer, they provide ample shade to help keep our cooling costs down. The oddity is that the trees generally offer shade to the right side of the house, but allows sunlight to flow freely on the left.

We expect even more sunlight this year after this past winter's ice storm brought down two large branches on the left maple as nature decided it was time for a little pruning. All of this means when Kim buys things to plant in the garden, we have to be wary of whether or not they thrive in sunlight or shade. Consequently, it's sometimes difficult to keep a certain aesthetic balance to the house because of the sun-shade conflict.

But we carry on. One time, we were at our neighbor's house directly across the street from ours, just chatting away. I happened to glance at our house and it genuinely surprised me how cute it was. I don't usually see our house from our neighbor's front-porch perspective and it was an enlightening experience.

So right now, we're in the middle of spring cleanup. We're busy pulling weeds. There's a pile of mulch waiting to be delivered, and I may do some spot painting here and there as summer approaches.

I just want to keep the eye-appeal alive.

Derby day tradition

Kim and I successfully munched our way through another family tradition Saturday:

We shared a hoagie while watching the Kentucky Derby.

What? What? You mean you didn't? You mean you've never heard of this tradition?

That's OK. I don't think my own brothers are aware that eating a hoagie during the Derby is traditional for the Wehrles. It just might be a tasty figment of my own fertile imagination.

However...

I do remember my previous life in the early 1970s back in Pennsylvania. I was a college student still living at home, and every first Saturday in May, we'd settle in to watch the Derby. I'm not quite sure how this all started, but it was just a simple walk down the street to the neighborhood grocery store, tucked in among the other houses on the block, to pick up several hoagies for an easy meal. The Derby, after all came on at dinner time.

There's nothing better than a properly stacked Philadelphia hoagie.

For some reason, we did the same thing the following year. And the year after that. I think the thing really took hold after Secretariat won the Derby, and for Derbys after that, we'd actually plan to have our hoagies by post time.

When I left Pennsylvania for North Carolina, eventually to find a wife, I told her about the Wehrle's hoagie-Derby fixation. Kim seemed somewhat amused but agreeable, and so, over the years, we've either brought home hoagies from restaurants or Subway, or even bought the fixings to make our own.

I'm sure we've missed a few Derbys through the years, but for the most part, we've been pretty consistent about making this something traditional.

This year, until I read my Sports Illustrated last week, I never heard of California Chrome. I usually don't pull for favorites, but there was something compelling about this story of a thoroughbred whose mother was purchased for a mere pittance, about a pair of first-time co-owners who repeatedly refused to sell the promising colt for millions in hopes of reaping even bigger rewards later (the ultimate wager), and about a 77-year-old trainer whose only previous Derby appearance was in 1955. It was good stuff.

So Kim and I went to the second-floor sports bar at Christo's about a half-hour before post time. This in itself is kind of a break in the tradition, since we almost always ate our hoagies at home in front of the TV. But not this time. We ordered a large Italian Supreme hoagie, no mayonnaise but with oil and vinegar please, chips and a small pitcher of draft beer. We made ourselves comfortable in front of the big screen HDTV and settled in. We were set.

I was halfway through my half of the hoagie when post time arrived. And they're off! The race was on. The field was large and the weather was perfect. As the horses made the final turn, California Chrome, keeping pace in third place, forged into the lead and never looked back. It was all great fun. It was all perfect. And I don't even really care about horse racing.

The rest of the Triple Crown is up for grabs. I seem to remember pizza being involved somewhere along the way, but I'm not as sure about that as I am about the hoagies.

But then, that's the neat thing about family traditions. You can make them up as you go along.