Our little farm on the Pamlico River was near Gaylord’s Bay, where the ferry crossed east of Bath. On Friday afternoons after everyone was out of school, we packed up to make our 200-mile drive across eastern North Carolina. It was a strange juxtaposition of worlds. Our home in Irving Park was a block from the Greensboro Country Club, a place where we swam, played tennis, went to parties. Our house was a modest Dutch Colonial, but mansions stood at each end of the block, overlooking the golf course and nearby clubhouse.