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.
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World Language Proposal Makes Sense
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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
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Outside Moore County
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Southern Pines, N. C.
Member National Editorial Assn,
and N. C. Press Assn.