Four months ago, I didn't know what pinestraw was.

I knew pine needles -- that was what Woman's College (now UNCG) called its yearbook when my mother graduated in 1922. Before I moved back to North Carolina from obscenely far north, my regional vernacular ran to potholes (axle-breakers), "slow as molasses (or maple syrup) in January," and mud season -- half of March and most of April, when foot-deep ruts in unpaved roads that freeze and thaw, freeze and thaw, challenged my Subaru.

During those many mud seasons, I identified the perfect conditions and methods for scooping a winter's accumulation of by-now-granular dog poop from the back yard.

Pinestraw defined itself as I observed yards that never need watering or mowing.

However, other things still puzzle:

First came Southern Pines, then Pinehurst -- two demographically distinct (didn't take long to learn that) towns with similar names. Part of a newspaper person's job is to venture out, learn the area and landmarks, most of which are called Pine something-or-other: Whispering Pines, Pinewild, Pinecrest, Pinebluff, Pine Needles, Pine Lake, Pine Trace, Pinelawn, Piney Wood .

Like, around here you can't see the forest for the pine trees.

So I took my problem to the Southern Pines Chamber of Commerce, where I was presented with a lovely canvas bag containing brochures, coupons, fridge magnets, magazines, a water bottle, pens and not-to-scale, for-advertising-purposes maps.

"What I really need is a detailed street map of the area," I explained.

"Sure, we have that," the greeter answered. "It's four dollars."

Now I know that Moore County has 50 streets beginning with "Pine." I'm also sure that no matter how long I'm here, I will never, never learn my way around Pinehurst Village, even on foot.

Second observation: Almost everybody comes from elsewhere.

The best place to find paisanos is The Fresh Market. You can stand at the door with a sign, like they do at airports: Cleveland or Utah, Paris or Big Yellow Knife. Eventually, somebody will approach with a smile and extended hand.

Accidentally, on the day before Thanksgiving I found a better way. As I browsed the bakery department, a beautifully dressed elderly woman with pronounced Brooklyn accent asked an employee why they didn't have lemon meringue pies. I touched her shoulder gently and whispered "Ma'am, you're too far from Ebinger's." Hearing this, she grabbed me like a life raft and cried, "I was just thinking the same thing!"

Most New Yorkers of the 1940s and '50s had an aunt in Brooklyn who brought lemon meringue pies, butter cookies and blackout cake on Sunday visits. Ebinger's Bakery was an institution which, alas, is gone.

As I completed my shopping, two or three people who had watched this exchange stopped me. "We remember, too," was their wistful message.

I have learned, I have adjusted, I am very happy -- until July, at least, when the heat becomes a fire-breathing dragon, a trade-off for temperate winters.

About those winters. A colleague complained that this had been an unusually cold and snowy one for the piney Sandhills. Well, that depends on what you're wearing. I arrived with a closet full of anoraks, ski jackets, pant coats, full-length coats, snow boots, rain boots, scarves, neck warmers, earmuffs, hats, face masks, mittens, sweaters, gloves, tights, leg warmers, turtlenecks and long underwear.

Twenty- five degrees is delightful when you're properly dressed. But Sandhillers run from car to office, store to school in shirtsleeves or, at most, sweaters. No wonder you're cold.

Much has changed since I last lived in North Carolina. Back then, most folks voted Democrat. Tea didn't come sweetened. Smoking was patriotic. People went to the movies for the air conditioning.

But even back then, pinestraw was pinestraw. Lucky me. I'm just discovering what it is.

Contact Deborah Salomon at debsalomon@hotmail.com .