Newspapers / The Pilot (Southern Pines, … / Oct. 19, 1961, edition 1 / Page 2
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Page TWO THE PILOT—Southern Pines, North Carolina THURSDAY, OCTOBER 19, 1961 ■LOT “Thank^Faias, But I’d Rather Write Freehand!” Southern Pines North Carolina L occasion to use our influence for the public good we wiU try to do it. And we wiu tre&t everybody alike/*—James Boyd, May 23, 19 rrr rr—r Well Organized Industrial Committee , i+c r<isnrt interests be encoi Reorganization of the Southern Pines Industrial Committee, as announced by Mayor Ruggles in making appointments to it last week, indicates that this al ready active group will become even more effective in the coming year. Addition two merchant members of the group, with expectation that they will organize a Merchants Coimcil to operate in cooperation with the commit tee, is commendable. Merchants have an impiortant stake in increased industriali zation, in encouragement of existing in dustries and in other fields of action in which the Industrial Committee has been engaged. The naming of Southern Pines indus trialists (along with W. P. Saunders, for mer director of the N. C. Department of Conservation and Development) to an Industrial Advisory Committee was also a good move, as was the decision that the mayor will be an ex-officio member of the ' full Industrial Committee. There never has been any expectation that the Industrial Committee, formed for the primary purpose of bringing new in dustry here, would produce spectacular results in recruiting new firms. It is the general wish of this community that potential new industries be carefully screened and only those compatible with the character of the community and with its resort interests be encouraged. That has been the line followed during the past several years. The industries that have come to bou- thern Pines in recent years ha,ve proved that selective industrialization is good for the community and in no way detrimental to its function as a resort or to its stand ing as a special sort of residential com munity. Indeed, the “character’ of the town has played a part in bringing m this industry and wiU—-we are confident —be thus influential in the future. Sifch projects as the secretarial school, sponsored and organized by the Indus trial Committee last spring and again this fall, benefit business firms and profess ional men, as well as industry, in training competent secretarial help. This project and others which are not perhaps general ly recognized by the public were cited by the mayor and councilmen last week when they praised the Industrial Com mittee for its work. Southern Pines has benefited greatly from such volunteer citizen groups as the Industrial Committee and the Advertising Committee which also reorganized last wgek, primarily for promotion of resort interests. Both committees should be given full cooperation by merchants and other local business and professional people who benefit, sooner or later, from their efforts. tr .(f mm (T €■ )■ P0UcY\ ft 'Uii--. World Language Proposal Makes Sense . . o TTnivprsitv nrofe .’A-a? tm. -It In contrast to more pressing problems, the question of a common language for the world seems relatively unimportant, yet we wonder if there is not a great deal of sense in this proposal. Certainly, the problem of language dif ferences is now recognized by millions of persons to whom the matter, even 20 years ago, would have been of little or no concern. Broadcasting of speeches in foreign languages (sometimes with an interpreter translating as the speech is being delivered), watching and hearing proceedings at the UN, reading about the fantastic translating problem in that body and at international conferences of heads of state and diplomats—all these have awakened- vast numbers of persons to language barriers. Advocacy of world language has gener ally been viewed as a somewhat hare brained and fanatical pursuit, undertaken by long-haired types who have nothing better to do with their tirne. Yet the proposal is being viewed seriously today by perfectly sensible people who may indeed be on the track of something that would be of untold value in promotion of world peace and imity. In the forefront of these advocates is a Columbia University professor, Mario Pei, whose book, “One Language for the World,” urges that an international com mission of linguists should pick a langu age that would be taught as a second language throughout the world. “By the end of the 20th century,” wrote the professor in a recent Saturday Review article that repeats the proposal, “the world’s language troubles would be at an end.” Each nation’s understandable loyalty to its own language could be maintained under such a system, but there would be the common tongue in which to conduct all kinds of international communication. With English being increasingly taught as a second language in the Soviet Union' and even in China, English might well turn out to be the choice for a universal tongue. For the nations to agree on -what the commission of linguists decided would, of course, present further difficul ties. . ... Taking a long leap ahead in time, m the imagination, one can foresee the day when people will be amused at the stu pidity and backwardness of mankind in those dark days before adoption of an international language. Au Revoir to a Maine Summer Letters and Legislators Letter-writing to Congressmen and senators is now so highly orgariized by pressure groups that it seems likely to become almost totally ineffecti've in the aim of apprising the lawmakers in Wash- ington about ideas and opinions at the grassroots. Sen. Sam Ervin notes in his weekly commentary sent to newspapers that his office receives up to 200 letters per day all of which must be answered. Though the senator does not say so, this is ob viously an impossible task for a legislator and well-nigh impossible even for a corps of secretaries. An absurdity of modern mass; letter writing is noted in a Ralph McGill column which told how letters poured into Wash ington denouncing some one named Alexis deTocqueville and demanding that he be brought before the House Un- American Activities Committee for in vestigation, after Senator Fulbright had quoted deTocqueville (who wrote in the 1830’s) in some connection distasteful to the rabble-rousers of the extreme Right. Many other letters from members of pressure groups of whatever political coloration must go to legislators in a l^s absurd but equally frustrating guise. The recipient official must be constantly forc ed to ask himself: Is this the personal, honest, reasoned opinion of a voter to whom I am responsible or am I being bulldozed by an organized group that doesn’t give a hoot for me or my total frmetion in Washington, except in the light of its narrow interest? But presumably some Congressional secretary must compose a polite, non-com mittal reply to such nonsense as the de Tocqueville letters and others. The knowledge that this sort of thing is going on—that any letter sent to a lawmaker’s office in Washington is buried in mass of trivia and propaganda—must also discourage many thoughtful persons from sending letters of opinion. If there is an answer to the problem, it is to elect to the House of Representa tives and the Senate legislators we can tr-ust to vote on the problems of the day guided by deep convictions which have been made known to constituents during their campaigns. We have noted before that legislators— on whatever level of service in county, state or nation—have a responsibility to lead as well as follow their constituents and, if convinced that they are right, to take stands that may be, at the moment, unpopular at the grassroots. Certainly, we should elect men capable of ignoring pressures by mail, some of which may seem, in a far more sensible way than the de Tocqueville absurdity, to express opinions from the grassroots but actually are traceable to groups with extremely selfish goals. Golf, Golf, Golf! Those old Scotsmen, centuries ago, who used to bang around a bundle of feathers on the moors didn’t know what they were starting. And in the evolution of the game they invented—a game that now is considered by many of its devotees as a preview of heaven on earth—surely the Sandhills must be deemed as at one of the most advanced levels of development. If you see the Sandhills from the air, you wonder how the people manage to find living space between the golf courses. Is there another town anywhere that, like Southern Pines, has two 18-hole golf courses within its city limits and another 18 (plus nine) just outside of town? Where but at nearby Pinehurst (“Golf- town, U. S. A.”) are there five 18-hole courses, all taking off from the same clubhouse and finding their way back again, through vistas ;of longleaf pine and dogwood? And, a few miles north, anoth er new 18-hole course has blossomed at Whispering Pines, in a landscape once traversed on rutted, sandy lanes by Scots settlers (non-golfers?) taking their corn to be ground into meal at the Thagards Pond mill. So, hail to golf—pastime, industry, way of life, depending on how you look at it. And thank goodness those old feather- bangers invented the game! A month on the Maine coast passes quickly. If the place is Sorrento, the small settlement on the point that stretches out into Frenchman’s Bay, time goes extra fast. There is so much you want to do, such old friends to get caught up with, so many spots to visit. They are treasured, these spots; there is a magic about them and you must always visit them every summer if you can. Some are close by, but some need a boat or a car to get there; a few, out along the islands, can only be reached in reasonably fair weather. Those are the quiet places, the places where you only go alone or with one or two of the closest friends. But there are other spots without the magic quality, but dear familiar spots where you must always spend some time. One of these is the town dock, the small float reached by going down the long ramp, with its fringe of bobbing rowboats and generally a cluttered lobsterboat tied up at one side. A few tenders lie on the float bottomside - up, making a good place to sit. Children' crouch on the ^ge, frozen to the end of fishing-lines, and people come and go, picking their way among the oars and lines and bait-cans to go out to the sailboats at their moorings. The air is crisp with the flutter of sails and the bang and bustle of gear on the lobstermen and the slow voices. The wind blows, the float rocks, and the little green waves slap into the faces of the fishermen and and their inevit able dog companions teetering beside them. It’s a fine busy place to be. Sorrento is a place where mo ments are precious and time goes fast. Last summer, when so much was happening, or threatening, in the outside world, there seemed a special urgency. The day of the war scare, the worst one, I drove down to get the papers. I’d been listening to the radio and reading every re port and every * column. It was impossible to believe this could be the real thing, that once again the horror of war and the un known horror of this war they talked about, might be on the way. 1 drove in around the grass cir cle of the white clapboard house where the T s lived. They wide and handsome in that last blow. There was the chat about babies and weddings, and tales of little boys and animals, climaxed with how Sally had seen that big moose standing by the corner store in Ellsworth when she went shopping “inland,” the biggest tale of the summer. “They fig ured he come down the stream and didn’t know he was walkin’ into town.” Talk of animals led to Dot’s Taffy who’d had the biggest litter yet: fourteen taffy-pussies; and Mike’s pet coon had finally bitten him on the ear the way every body told him he would. ■ There were always fearful tales of acci dents and illnesses and this in evitably brought up the contro versial subject of the new East Coast Hospital. There were those who wouldn’t go there if it was the last act, and the other bunch who hooted and said it .probably would be the last act if they didn’t. One day somebody asked Mert where she’d had her success ful operation and when she said “th.3 osteopathic hospital up’n Bengah,” there was sudden si lence. She stood there four-square with her blooming pink cheeks; and flashing blue eyes, and look ed at them defiantly: “There’s a telephone in every room,” she said, “an’ you can call home any time you want.” That had clinch ed it for Mert. Dogs are always about the post office and sometimes one of Dot’s big cooncats strolls over in a lordly way. If you hear ah awful hullabaloo outside it’s apt to be a cat-and-dog affair with the dogs running. Those cooncats are tigers. You can hear the gulls squabbling from in there, too. The little narrow back bay comes in close to the back of the post office and they’re always carry ing on some kind of outlandish fuss. There’s nothing like gulls for crazy noises. The post office stands so close to the water that on foggy days you’d think it was afloat. There’s a cold saltiness to it then, a wild lonely feeling, with the gulls moaning and calling out there in the whiteness. You’d never guess there were little houses close by. This day I was late getting my mail. Before driving back, I look ed at the headlines: “NUCLEAR BOMB ATTACK POSSIBILITY” one of thein said. I sat in the car looking at the black headline in the paper and then at the sign with its U. S. POST OFFICE, SORREN TO, ME. The flowerlDed by the door was full of phlox and early asters. The green circle of grass had been newly mowed. You could see a glint of the back bay behind the house, and, on a big grey boulder, nasturtiums were bright. Frank had been hauling some of the racing sloops to put away lor the winter and you could see the stern of one through his garage door. Beyond was the little white-fenced cor ral where they kept the pony that Jimmy had won a prize with in the county fair. Behind, the door of the carpen ter shop swung shut and a man called across the road. “Coin’ to the square dance at the town hall, Joe?” he called. “Ay-yah,” said Joe. “You cornin’, Bob?” ■‘Uh-uh,” said Bob, and you knew that he was grinning. “Baby-settin’,” he said. “Hoo!” said Joe. There was the headline in the paper and there was that sign there, and there Twere Joe and Bob and Mert and the rest of us; a small place, not even a store in it, let alone a motel or garage or country club or a movie. Just some families and some dogs and cats, and boats, of course, and the black woods behind stretching to Canada and, in front, the bay and the open sea., I looked at the sign, at the black letters on the white board, and thought: “U. S. POST OF FICE, SORRENTO, ME., oh please hold on.” —KLB Grains of Sand 'Tt Was Wonderful!" That’s what President Ken nedy said according to Column ist Reston of the Times: “It was wonderful!” Well, we knew that long ago, but it’s hice to know the presi dent—this one at least—has found it out. And Reston himself seems to have been touched by the spell. How else account for the burst of good cheer contained in his last paragraph? Sezee: “The Communists have proved to be wrong in their estimate that Europe would fall apart econ omically and politically, they have been wrong about Africa, which has largely chosen inde pendence rather than commu nism. They have not succeeded in the Middle East as they hoped, and their minions are restless in Eastern Europe and in agony in Communist China.” Hooray, for a change! The Lippman Accolade Walter Lippmann’s Saturday column was a paean of praise for Senator Fulbright, chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, who will be running for re-election in Arkansas in the coming election. This is part of what the wisest of columnists says about the man he calls the wisest of statesmen: “The nation is greatly in his debt. The role he plays in Wash ington is an indispensable role. There is no one else who is so powerful and also so wise, and if there were any question of re moving him from public life, it would be a national calamity. Not only has he been the bravest of advisers, he has also been the most far-seeing and constructive . . . The decision must be made by the voters of Arkansas. But what is at stake is important to th.e whole nation.” Limited 'Valor “For many months Life Maga zine’s editorial page has been crusading for the resumption of nuclear tests. It has been doing so with a rollicking spirit of dar ing—almost as if the fellows at Life were sure they knew they had a place to hide. “Their valor, we are pleased to record, has its limits. In its cur rent issue Life publishes a thoughtful, provocative analysis of the perils of sunburn.” —The New 'York Post Speaking of Maine Our cabin in Maine is on an 8-party telephone line so this item rings a bell. . . and rings and rings. A native of a small Maine coastal community—which shall be nameless—finally succumbed to the urging of family and friends and got himself a tele phone. It was on an 8-party line. After trying it out for a couple of weeks and never being able to get a line clear of one or more gabbling women, he cut the in strument from the wall and car ried it out to his bench in the barn. A few days later, a telephone repair man showed up. The fol lowing conversation ensued: “Understand your telephone is out of order.” “No, it ain’t.” “It was reported out of order.” “Well, it ain’t.” “Could I see it?” “Ayuh.” “Where is it?” “Out in the barn.” “Out in the barn! Who put it out there?” “I did. It wa’nt no use to mp in the house.” The PILOT Autumn Sign: Pears Fall at Night Published Every Thursday by THE PILOT, Incorpor^ed Southern Pines, North Carolina had closed in the front porch and divided it into two parts and fixed it up with regular boxes and a counter with a grill. It made a good small post office. When you went in you heard A. in the back room, talking to her sister or the littlest boy trund ling around, or the radio. Or if it was at mail time, she and her sis ter were behind the grill sorting and giving out the mail and the small square space was full of folks waiting. The post office was the place where you met everybody and heard all the news; who’d got a good haul from his pots yester day and who’d had his boat a mite stove up cornin’ in high. (W. E. H. in Tha Sanford Heraldi) Another sign of fall approach ing is the sound of pears, when you’re abed, hitting the ground, ker-plunk! This hasn’t been an especially good season lor pears. Somehow or other, most trees have fallen SUCCESS Recipe for success: Be polite, prepare yourself lor whatever you are asked to do, keep your self tidy, be cheerful, don’t be envious, be honest with yourself so you will be honest with others, be helpful, interest yourself in your job, don’t pity yourself, be quick to praise, be loyal to your friends, avoid prejudices, be in dependent, interest yourself in politics and read the newspaper^. —BERNARD BARUCH victim to disease of blight which has put a rotted spot in just about every pear on every tree. You won’t see as many local pears on market this year as usual on account of this. The farm owner who sits on his porch evenings or lies in his bed gets some sort of inside in formation about fall as he listens to the big pears on his trees turn ing loose from their parent stems and hitting the ground. They make quite a noise; more than you’d expect. The wind doesn’t have to be blowing; pears fall off in a dead calm as readily as in gusts. What with pears falling, ran dom leaves blowing, cockleburrs attaching themselves to your pants legs, and the first discolor ation of leaves on the trees, it’s easy to see autumn’s here. 1941—JAMES BOYD—1944 t : Katharine Boyd Editor C. Benedict Associate Editor Dan S. Ray Gen. Mgr. C. G. Council Advertising Mary Scott Newton Business Mary Evelyn de Nissoff Society Composing Room Dixie B. Ray, Michael Valen, Thomas Mattocks and James E. Pate. Subscription Rates Moore County One Year $4.00 Outside Moore County One Year $5.00 Second-class Postage paid at Southern Pines, N. C. Member National Editorial Assn, and N. C. Press Assn.
The Pilot (Southern Pines, N.C.)
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Oct. 19, 1961, edition 1
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