Living Under the Pines
Me, the Bibliophile
February 15, 2024
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Bibliophile. At first glance, the word sounds a bit nefarious, doesn’t it? Don’t be alarmed. I assure you it’s harmless. A noun, Webster’s defines bibliophile simply as a lover of books or a book collector. The word originated 200 years ago, in France, from the Greek (what else?) biblion, which means book, and philos, which means friend. So if you consider books to be your friends you are quite possibly a bibliophile.
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I know I am. Long before even knowing what the word meant, I loved books. When I was very young my sister, Babe, would read to me. My favorite was Soda Pop, which told the story of a little goat who came to the aid of a delivery man whose motorbike had given out. The deal was, the goat would pull the soda cart in exchange for bubbly soda pop every day. I can’t explain why I liked that book so much, but I still have it and it takes its place in the “nook” I have for my grandkids upstairs.
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Around age five, I was able to make the four-block journey from our street to the community library, tagging along with my sisters, of course. I’d wait patiently as they flipped through the card catalog then wind their way, more often than not, to the “tall” section. They’d make their selections then help me pick out one or two in “my” section. I don’t remember what titles I’d chosen; I only remember waiting in line to proudly present my books to the librarian who would stamp a return date on the flap glued inside the back covers before handing them back to me.
In second grade my favorites were Betsy books. I imagined that, along with Ellen and Billy, I was one of Betsy’s friends too. At school, since my reading level by then was “advanced,” I breezed through the SRA reading “lab” Miss Zuercher assigned us each week, moving up to the next level as designated by color. For some reason the aqua lab sticks in my head. Over the next year or two, I read chapter books by Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume, carefully placing the bookmark each night before I went to sleep.
My family moved to the country when I was nine, and I was so sad I could no longer make the trek to the library downtown. About this time, I turned to the books on my father’s shelves. Though most of his titles were over my head – war sagas mostly – I found a few that became favorites, including a collection of Aesop’s fables, and The Best Loved Poems of the American People, from which I memorized poems by Ella Wheeler Wilcox, Rudyard Kipling, and Robert Frost.
The summer after sixth grade I tackled Gone With the Wind, all 689 pages of it. My English teacher had encouraged us to keep logs over the summer, tracking the number of books we’d read, along with their page counts to earn extra credit for the next school year. But, guess what? When school started up that fall, she didn’t believe that I’d read the book, telling me I must have made a “mistake” on my reading log and dismissing me back to my seat. I didn’t get the extra credit, but I didn’t let her poor judgment discourage me from reading.
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Fast forward to adulthood, when I tried to instill a love of books in my children, even as my well-intended attempts to read the latest best-sellers ended with my falling asleep mid-page most nights. Gradually, as my offspring one by one flew the coop, and I had more time, I resumed large-scale reading, equally devouring biographies, womens' and historical fiction, and mysteries. I also added to my library accordingly, as my sagging shelves can attest.
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Several years ago I was gifted an e-reader. My initial response, How cool! But the novelty wore off long before the cord stopped charging the device, and I never replaced it. There’s just something warm and familiar about an actual book in hand. The weight of the spine, the smooth paper between your fingers, the turning of the pages. And I’m not alone. I read a study recently about the preference of physical books over e-books and audiobooks. The percentages weighed in at 65, 21 and 14, respectively.
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So I continue in my bibliophile ways, attacking the never-ending stack on my nightstand, attending author events whenever they’re offered in Southern Pines which, given it’s a literary town, is pretty often. And I always buy the book. -Tippy
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The Pines
January 8, 2024
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The Sandhills of North Carolina comprise a 35-mile-wide region in the middle of the state, roughly the area south of Raleigh and west of Wilmington. The region is so named, believe it or not, because it’s where the land once met the sea. That’s right, our terrain of gently rolling hills was once on the doorstep of the Atlantic Ocean. Featuring soft, sandy soil and a temperate climate, the Sandhills boasts unique wildlife in its ecosystem, such as the Pine Barrens tree frog, the fox squirrel, and the red-cockaded woodpecker which roosts in the cavities of living 100-year-old longleaf pines.
Which brings me to “the Pines,” an unofficially-dubbed area within the Sandhills, so named for its prolific stands of old-growth longleaf pine forests. A micro region, you might call it, of picturesque and prospering small southern towns with an interesting mix of century-old tradition and contemporary progress. On one hand you have late-nineteenth-century architecture and a 100-year-old foxhunting club, and on the other you have lively downtowns with eclectic, thriving businesses.
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Let’s briefly explore two of these towns.
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Southern Pines is often described as vibrant, and for good reason. Made up of families, young adults, and a substantial military community – with Fort Bragg less than 30 minutes away – the town has a cosmopolitan feel while still maintaining a hometown vibe. With parks, restaurants, charming shops, and a myriad of local events, there’s always something going on. Southern Pines is known for its horse country, with an active equestrian population, pastoral horse farms and 4000 acres of preserved woodlands and riding trails. It’s also known for its rich literary legacy, attributed in part to the Boyd family who, in the first decades of the last century, established the sprawling Weymouth Estate, and hosted great writers of the day, such as F. Scott Fitzgerald and Thomas Wolfe; and to The Pilot, an award-winning newspaper that got its start 103 years ago and is flourishing today with regional arts magazines and a wonderful bookstore under its wing.
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Pinehurst, ten minutes up the road from SoPi, is a quaint New England-style village, with winding streets, miles of greenway trails and historic houses. In fact, the entire village, mapped out by Frederick Law Olmsted – the designer of New York’s Central Park – is a National Historic Landmark. No description of Pinehurst would be complete, however, without mentioning golf. Pinehurst is golf, with its acres of fairways and storied resorts featuring majestic old hotels. Golfers, vacationers and snowbirds from the Northeast all flock to Pinehurst, but just outside of the village proper, numerous young families and retirees call it home year-round. Great dining, shopping and recreational pursuits abound.
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This overview gives you a snapshot of life in the Pines. It's where I live and where I get inspiration to write. My novels will be set here, under the pines. Stories with lush backgrounds, complex personalities, and elements of mystique. Don't you love how reading a good book can put you dead center in the story? What better setting than the Pines? -Tippy
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