Katie L. Redhead Katie.Redhead@trmhomes.com GRI, CRS Broker/Realtor® 336.430.0219
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211 A State St. Greensboro, NC (336) 273-5872
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Greensboro Office 3601 Lawndale Drive Greensboro, NC 27408
336.274.1717 trmhomes.com
Asheboro Office 100 Sunset Avenue Asheboro, NC 27203
Enhance. Envision. Enlighten. A NEW CHAPTER IS BEGINNING AT FRIENDS HOMES – with spacious new homes and more opportunities to maintain and enhance your body, mind and spirit. As part of our exciting expansion, we’ve completely reimagined our wellness program by opening a 32,800-square-foot, state-of-the-art wellness center. The center features an indoor sports court, fitness center, indoor pool, integrative health clinic, salon, art and crafts rooms, a multi-purpose room for lifelong learning and much more. Plus, we’ve updated and added new dining venues to enhance the culinary experience, offering fresh, local specialties, refreshing favorites and inspiring new flavors.
Life Plan Community
It’s all about giving you a greater variety of engaging activities for your physical, intellectual and spiritual wellbeing. Join us for an upcoming event, and experience today’s Friends Homes firsthand. Call or visit us online to sign up for one of our special on-campus events today.
G R E E N S B O R O, N C 2 7 4 1 0 | 3 3 6 . 3 6 9. 4 3 1 3 | F R I E N D S H O M E S . O R G / E X PA N S I O N
August 2022 FEATURES 53
Summer Reading Issue 2022
54
Romantic Fever Fiction By Lee Smith
56
Kephart Fiction By Ron Rash
62
The First Funeral Fiction By Clyde Edgerton
DEPARTMENTS
66
There’s a Book Club for That By Ross Howell Jr. Even better than reading a book is reading a book with friends
13 Simple Life
68
18 Short Stories 21 Tea Leaf Astrologer
Wild Women By Maria Johnson A watery excursion, a strawberry moon and a seed of growth
72
Lavender Field of Dreams By Cynthia Adams
By Jim Dodson
By Zora Stellanova
23 Gate City Journal 25 Life’s Funny
77
Follow your nose to Red Feather Ranch
Almanac By Ashley Walshe
By Maria Johnson
29 The Omnivorous Reader
By Anne Blythe
32 Bookshelf 34 The Creators of N.C.
By Wiley Cash
38 Art of the State
By Liza Roberts
43 The Pleasures of Life Dept.
By Ruth Moose
45 Home Grown
By Cynthia Adams
47 Birdwatch
By Susan Campbell
49 Wandering Billy
By Billy Ingram
98 Events Calendar 112 O.Henry Ending
By Ashley Walshe
Our cover features Greensboro influencer Susel Depinoy (@xoxo_susel) in a dress from L'Avenue Boutique, a European clothier for women with a brick and mortar location coming to Winston-Salem, spring 2023. Visit www.lavenueboutique.com for more information.
4 O.Henry
Cover photograph by Amy Freeman Illustration this page by Meridith Martens The Art & Soul of Greensboro
You’ll Know You Can Reach Us. Having a banker who’s available and easy to reach is important. We make sure we are accessible to the most important people we work for... you. People who bank with us know they can reach us.
Scott Baker • 336-740-1629
802 Green Valley Road, Greensboro
President, TowneBank Triad
TowneBank.com | Member FDIC
Now Showng & Under Contract
M A G A Z I N E
Volume 12, No. 8 “I have a fancy that every city has a voice.”
336.617.0090 111 Bain Street, Suite 334, Greensboro, NC 27406
www.ohenrymag.com PUBLISHER
David Woronoff david@thepilot.com Andie Rose, Creative Director andiesouthernpines@gmail.com Jim Dodson, Editor jwdauthor@gmail.com Cassie Bustamante, Managing Editor cassie@ohenrymag.com Miranda Glyder, Graphic Designer CONTRIBUTING EDITORS
7 STURBRIDGE LANE • UNDER CONTRACT
Cynthia Adams, David Claude Bailey, Maria Johnson CONTRIBUTING PHOTOGRAPHERS
Mallory Cash, Lynn Donovan, Amy Freeman, John Gessner, Bert VanderVeen, Mark Wagoner CONTRIBUTORS
Anne Blythe, Harry Blair, Susan Campbell, Wiley Cash, Clyde Edgerton, Ross Howell Jr., Billy Ingram, Ruth Moose, Jim Mortiarty, Gerry O’Neill, Ogi Overman, Ron Rash, Liza Roberts, Corrinne Rosquillo, Kristine Shaw, Matthew Shipley, Lee Smith, David Stanley, Zora Stellanova, Lyudmila Tomova, Ashley Walshe, Amberly Glitz Weber ADVERTISING SALES
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Marty Hefner, Advertising Manager Lisa Allen 336.210.6921 • lisa@ohenrymag.com Amy Grove 336.456.0827 • amy@ohenrymag.com Larice White 336.944.1749 • larice@ohenrymag.com Brad Beard, Graphic Designer Rebah Dolbow, Advertising Coordinator ohenrymag@ohenrymag.com
O.H
Henry Hogan, Finance Director 910.693.2497 Darlene Stark, Subscriptions & Circulation Director • 910.693.2488
Xan Tisdale, Realtor 336-601-2337
Kay Chesnutt, Realtor 336-202-9687
© 2021 BHH Affiliates, LLC. An independently owned and operated franchisee of BHH Affiliates, LLC. Berkshire Hathaway HomeServices and the Berkshire Hathaway HomeServices symbol are registered service marks of Columbia Insurance Company, a Berkshire Hathaway affiliate. Equal Housing Opportunity.
6 O.Henry
OWNERS
Jack Andrews, Frank Daniels III, Lee Dirks, David Woronoff © Copyright 2022. Reproduction in whole or in part without written permission is prohibited. O.Henry Magazine is published by The Pilot LLC
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Are you interested in • making a difference in your community? • competitive pay? • work-life balance? • hybrid schedules? • a diverse and inclusive workplace?
If so, the City of Greensboro is the right fit for you.
Visit www.greensboro-nc.gov/jobs to view all employment opportunities. Questions? Contact Talent Acquisition at 336-373-2020.
YOUR HEALTH. LET’S TAKE THIS OFFLINE. SEARCH RESULTS ARE NOT HEALTH RESULTS. What’s the first thing we do when we’re not feeling well? For 89% of Americans we symptom search online. It turns out searching is stressful. Turning to a Cone Health Primary Care Doctor isn’t. They get to know you and make managing your care easy. You can even put that search bar to better use by making a virtual care appointment in a few clicks.
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PREFERRED VENDOR SECTION
B’nai Shalom Day School: Rooted and Growing B’nai Shalom Day School is one of the oldest private day schools in Greensboro and the Triad’s only infant-8th-grade Jewish independent school. We foster academic excellence while maximizing each individual student’s potential. B’nai Shalom Day School helps develop students who are strong and confident, empathetic and compassionate. We offer dynamic programming for all students until 6:00 PM to support a widerange of childcare needs. Schedule a tour today to see why B’nai Shalom stands the test of time!
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Restoration Place Counseling will host an annual fundraising gala Featuring Grammy® winning Christian recording artist, Mandisa After appearing on American Idol Season 5 in 2005, Mandisa went on to sell millions of records worldwide. Her first full-length album, True Beauty was released in 2007 debuting at No. 1 on the Top Christian Albums charts making her the first new female artist to debut at No. 1 in the chart's history. In 2014, her album, Overcomer won the GRAMMY® for Best Contemporary Christian Music Album.
Yet, great success still did not shield Mandisa from experiencing a dark night of the soul. After a tragic loss rocked her world, Mandisa withdrew, wrestled with God, and fell into a deep depression. Mandisa is back with a renewed passion, as a champion of Christian counseling and a voice of hope for those struggling with mental illness. RPC organizers share, "Mandisa has a powerful journey to share. Through music and personal storytelling, this intimate concert performance will focus on the intersection of faith and mental health." Ticket information below.
Simple Life
Summer Twilight The brief, magical time between day and night By Jim Dodson
Not long ago as
ILLUSTRATION BY GERRY O'NEILL
a beautiful summer evening settled around us, my wife and I were sitting with our friends, Joe and Liz, on the new deck facing over our backyard shade garden, enjoying cool drinks and the season’s first sliced peaches.
The fireflies had just come out. And birds were piping serene farewell notes to the long, hot day. “I love summer twilight,” Joe was moved to say. “Everything in nature pauses and takes a breath.” He went on to remember how, growing up in a big family of nine children, “my mother would shoo us all outdoors after supper to play in the twilight until it was dark. It was a magical time between day and night. A glimpse of heaven.” “We played Kick the Can and Red Light, Green Light,” Liz remembered. “The fading light made it so much fun.” “And flashlight tag,” chimed Wendy, my wife, sipping her white wine and joining the memories. “We didn’t have to come in until the first stars appeared and my mother called us to come in for a bath and bed.” In a world that increasingly seems so different from the quieter, simpler one we grew up in, we all agreed, something about twilight seems about as timeless as moments get in this harried and overscheduled life we all live. In truth, our ancient ancestors held much the same view of the changing light that occurs when the sun sinks just below the horizon, or rises to it just before dawn, softly stage-lighting the world with a diffusion of light and dust, heralding either the prospect of rest or awakening. Like most rare things, the beauty seems to be in its brevity. Back when I was a small boy in a large world, summer twilight was especially meaningful to me. During my father’s newspaper career, we lived in a succession of small towns across the sleepy, deep South where we rarely stayed in one place long enough for me to
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
make friends or playmates. Because it was a time before mass air conditioning, I lived out of doors with adventure books and toy soldiers for companions, building forts and conducting Punic wars in the cool dirt I shared with our dog beneath the porch. The heat and brightness of midday made my eyes water and my head hurt. In the rural South Carolina town where I attended first grade, a formidable Black woman named Miss Jesse restored my mother, a former Maryland beauty queen, to health following a pair of late-term miscarriages, and taught her how to properly cook collards and grits. Come midday, while my mother rested, Miss Jesse would haul me out from under the porch and make me put on sandals to accompany her to the Piggly Wiggly or to run other errands around town in her baby blue Dodge Dart. Beneath a stunning dome of heat that lay over the town like a death ray from a martian spaceship, it was Miss Jesse who explained to me that daytime was when the world did its business and, therefore, shoes and good manners were necessary in public. Removing my sandals to feel the cool tile floors of the Piggly Wiggly beneath my bare feet — the only air conditioned place in town save for the newspaper office — was a tactical error I made only once, as Miss Jesse had complete authority over my person. Yet it was also she who had me stand on her feet, dancing my skinny butt around the kitchen as she and my mother cooked supper to gospel music playing from the transistor radio propped in the kitchen window. Miss Jesse also informed me that both a good rain and twilight were two of the Almighty’s holiest moments, the former refreshing the earth, the latter replenishing the soul. I often heard her singing a gospel tune I’ve since spent many years unsuccessfully trying to find, a single line of which embedded itself in my brain: “In the shadows of the evening trees, my lord and savior stands and waits for me.” Miss Jesse was with us for only a single summer and autumn. She passed away shortly before we moved home to North Carolina. But I have her to thank for restoring my mom’s health and giving me a love of collards, a good rain and summer twilight. The suggestion of that old hymn she loved speaks to another O.Henry 13
Simple Life perspective on twilight. Some poets and philosophers have used it as a metaphor, indicating the fading of the life force. Others view it as the end of life, a dying of the light that symbolizes the coming of permanent night, a prelude to death. On the other hand, as I read in a science magazine not long ago, all living things would fade and die from too much light or darkness were it not for twilight, that in-between time of day when we see best. For that reason, metaphorically speaking, it’s worth remembering that twilight also comes before the dawn breaks, marking the beginning of the day, the renewal of activity, a resumption of life’s purposes. Tellingly, birds sing beautifully at both ends of the day — a robust greeting to the returning light of dawn and a solemn adieu as twilight slips into dusk. As a lifelong fan of the twilight that exists fleetingly at both ends of the day — someone who is fast approaching his own socalled twilight of life — I take comfort in the words attributed to Saint John of the Cross who wrote, “In the twilight of life, God will not judge us on our earthly possessions and human success, but rather on how much we have loved.” I also love what actress Marlene Dietrich famously said about the summer twilight — namely that it should be prescribed by
doctors. It certainly heals something in me at day’s end. A friend I mentioned this to not long ago sent me a short poem by a gifted Black poet named Joshua Henry Jones Jr., a son of South Carolina who passed away about the time Miss Jesse was teaching me to “feet dance” in my mama’s kitchen. It’s called “In Summer Twilight” and nicely sums up my crepuscular passion. Just a dash of lambent carmine Shading into sky of gold; Just a twitter of a song-bird Ere the wings its head enfold; Just a rustling sigh of parting From the moon-kissed hill to breeze; And a cheerful gentle, nodding Adieu waving from the trees; Just a friendly sunbeam’s flutter Wishing all a night’s repose, Ere the stars swing back the curtain Bringing twilight’s dewy close. Now, if I could only find that sweet gospel hymn that still plays in my head. OH Jim Dodson is the founding editor of O.Henry.
Set on a very quiet cul de sac in the highly desirable Jefferson Wood neighborhood, this handsome transitional offers luxury, comfort and convenience! A stone's throw from the shopping and restaurants of Jefferson Village, 806 Jefferson Wood Lane also offers walking trails leading to Kathleen Clay Edwards Library and Price Park with it's abundance of trails and walkways. The outstanding floor plan offers a large 1st-floor primary suite with genuine hardwood floors and a fabulous renovated spa bath with a heated tile floor. There's much more; please visit www.tomchitty.com/listing/806jeffersonwoodln for complete information!
14 O.Henry
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
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of brain growth happens the first of brain in growth of brain growth three years of first life. happens in the happens in the first three years Join theof listlife. three years of of life. businesses helping Join the list of employees navigate Join thehelping list of businesses employees navigate parenthood by businesses helping parenthood by sharing Thenavigate Basics. employees sharing The Basics. parenthood by sharing The Basics.
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Excel to Serve! Bishop McGuinness Catholic High School’s primary mission is to develop students holistically to serve in a world in need of peace, love and justice. We encourage students through academic and co-curricular opportunities to excel personally, academically, spiritually, and to build their own unique mission in life. Bishop McGuinness is fully accredited and a college preparatory high school that is widely recognized for high academic standards and the excellence of their graduates. Students are guided by an exceptional faculty and college counseling team, not only as they work towards college goals, but in all aspects of their experience at Bishop. We offer a full AP program, aviation STEM courses, and a thriving arts program with over 40 courses. We are minutes from Greensboro and have financial assistance and transportation available. Please call the Admissions Office for your private tour. 336.564.1011 or kknox@bmhs.us
1725 NC Hwy 66 | Kernersville, NC 27284 | 336.564.1010 | www.bmhs.us
Short
Stories
Wandering Eye O.Henry’s very own contributing writer, Billy [Eye] Ingram, has recently gone to print with his book, Eye on GSO. The book’s collected essays engage readers in the historical happenings of our beloved city. Writing under the familiar sobriquet of “Wandering Billy,” Ingram reveals what lies beyond the naked eye. Dating back to 2016, Billy’s pieces have informed readers on everything from the epicenter of Greensboro’s underground music and skateboard scene, to the not so innocent happenings of State Street’s sin-ema. Flipping through the pages of Eye on GSO feels more like a comically vulnerable conversation between the past and present than your typical guide to all things Greensboro. Available anywhere books are sold.
Food for Thought This year’s Greensboro Food Truck Festival might just be the best thing since sliced bread — and so much more. Make your way downtown from 3–9 p.m. on August 28 to enjoy the festive celebration of all the revolutionary (and delicious) traveling food mobiles that 336 has to offer. From Queso Monster's Mexican munchies to Smokiin Mac’s Southern fusion of Mac ‘N’ Cheese, stuff your face with local and international cuisine from over 50 different food trucks. After getting your sugar fix with personalized funnel cakes from Cherry on Top or the queen of ice cream sammiches from Ice Queen Parlor, dance away those calories — not that anyone’s counting — while checking out the venue’s live music and craft vendors. Before the kiddos come crashing down from that sugar high, let them jump up and get down in bounce houses, or burn out on the festival’s fire truck rides. We know you have a lot on your plate this summer, so indulge in some food therapy sprinkled along Washington and Greene streets, as well as Federal Place. Info: greensborofoodtruckfestivals.com.
18 O.Henry
Musical Madrigal After seeing Disney’s latest breakout musical motion picture Encanto, we can’t stop talking about Bruno! The Family Madrigal might just be the songbirds of the new generation, delivering record-breaking hits and a beloved soundtrack we’ve been belting out since last November. Give your kids the chance to finally channel their inner musical prodigy at the Encanto Sing-Along Film Concert at 7:30 p.m. on August 13. Who needs fancy surround sound equipment when you have a live band leading the crowd in a performance synced with the showing of the film on the big screen? Audience participation is inevitable and highly encouraged, so fill the White Oak Amphitheatre with the sounds of joyous voices, whether on key or not — we’re not judging you on your perfectly imperfect pitch. Info: www.greensborocoliseum.com. The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Bringing the MCU to U M’Baku certainly stays busy as one of the greatest warriors in Wakanda, but, lucky for us, he’s using one of his nine lives to visit the Triad for UNCG’s Concert and Lecture Series. Winston Duke kickstarts UNCG’s annual celebration of the arts at 8 p.m. on August 26 as the first of many renowned performers and guest speakers. The longest running series of its kind in North Carolina, its 110th season treats you to the sounds of talented musicians such as Joshua Bell and the Indigo Girls. Put on your dancing shoes and join the Urban Bush Women as they bust onto the contemporary dance scene. Music to our ears! Info: vpa.uncg.edu.
Ogi Sez Ogi Overman I don’t know if the fish are jumpin’ or if the cotton balls are high, but I dang sure know it’s summertime. Our air conditioner’s been on the fritz for a month, and the livin’ sure ain’t been easy. My salvation, however, is the hundred or so music venues within driving distance, all air-conditioned. And that’s plenty for me.
• August 5, Greensboro Coliseum: When ZZ Top
bassist Dusty Hill passed away last year, I, like everyone else, wondered if they would be able to carry on. Turns out, he and guitarist Billy Gibbons had prearranged for longtime guitar tech Elwood Francis to take his place. Somehow, that seems comforting.
• August 5, The Crown: Before COVID, I was the
band-booker for Lucky 32’s “Music from a Southern Kitchen” series. Our most popular band, by far, was Graymatter. They had the SRO crowds singing along, standing on the seats and clapping in unison to “Peace Train.” If you’re of a certain age, you’ll love every single tune they play, guaranteed.
• August 17, Ziggy’s.Space: If Michael Franti could
No ifs, ands or putts Bad at golf? Join the club. T.E.A. (Turning Everything Around) Time’s first Annual Charity Golf Tournament encourages all players with a love for the game and a heart for service to support the Serving Seniors Housing Initiative as they hit the Gillespie Golf Course on August 13, beginning at 9 a.m. All proceeds from the event will seek to repair the homes owned or occupied by senior citizens. Put your friend-chips to the test and register as a team of four for $200. Tackle the course solo for $65. The registration fee earns you an un-fore-getabble golfing experience followed by a lunch, plus the opportunity to bring back more than a nice tan in the form of bragging rights with awards and prizes. Sound like your cup of tee? Info: app.eventcaddy.com/ events/t-e-a-time-charity-golf-tournament/register/. The Art & Soul of Greensboro
make time among his dozens of musical, poetic, documentary and social-justice projects, I swear I’d vote for him for President. But, like most idealists, he’d never run. His endless variety of compositions, styles and genres have one thing in common: They leave you wideeyed with wonderment at both his talent and brilliance.
• August 20, Tanger Center: After, lo, these many years, the true legend that is Smokey Robinson is still touring, still has that unmistakable tenor and falsetto, and is still bringing crowds to their feet with both his rapport and repertoire. No wonder people say he’s the life of the party. • August 21 & 22, Haw River Ballroom: For those
of you who missed her opening for Bonnie Raitt at the Tanger, you have two chances this month to see the undisputed Queen of Americana, Lucinda Williams, as headliner. Her epic Car Wheels on a Gravel Road is considered one of the most perfectly constructed albums of all time. It’s still on constant rotation in my car, a quarter century later. O.Henry 19
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336-339-2000 Se Habla Español
L-R: Mary Profitt, Danny Forman, Yuliana Mota-Flores, Kaye Brinkley, Kathy Haines, Yasmaine Croom, Deborah Roberts, Madison Slattery, Emma Skelton
20 O.Henry
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Tea Leaf Astrologer
Leo
wrights v ille
b e ach
BEACH DAYS are the BEST DAYS
(July 23 – August 22)
Here’s what the other signs struggle to understand about Leos: You’re not seeking the spotlight; you are the spotlight. Nothing delights you more than basking the ones you love most in your incomparable generosity and warmth. Unless it’s your birth month. They should know that one day is not enough to celebrate the vastness of your glory; it’s your turn to be pampered and spoiled. That said, if they happen to blow it — very likely — try channeling your wrath into something productive. Like making better friends.
Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you: Virgo (August 23 – September 22)
Digest this: It’s not your problem to fix. Libra (September 23 – October 22)
Take your vitamins. Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)
Just walk away. Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)
The miracle isn’t always obvious. Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)
One word: moderation. Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)
Try giving a tinker’s damn. Pisces (February 19 – March 20)
Watch your step. Aries (March 21 – April 19)
Dust off your dancing shoes. Taurus (April 20 – May 20)
It’s all the same coin. Gemini (May 21 – June 20)
You’re fooling no one. Cancer (June 21 – July 22)
The drawing board is your friend. OH Zora Stellanova has been divining with tea leaves since Game of Thrones’ Starbucks cup mishap of 2019. While she’s not exactly a medium, she’s far from average. She lives in the N.C. foothills with her Sphynx cat, Lyla.
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
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O.Henry 21
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22 O.Henry
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Gate City Journal
Wednesday Afternoon Book Club One of Greensboro’s oldest book clubs is still going strong today The year 1897 was a
pretty big year in America.
Thomas Edison perfected his kinetograph camera, forerunner of the first film projector. William Faulkner and Amelia Earhart were born. Boston opened the first subway system in the nation, and the Library of Congress opened its doors to the public. Here in Greensboro, a city fast approaching 25,000 in population, a dozen prominent Gate City women with names like Bynum, Mebane, Caldwell and Schenck formed the city’s second “study” club for discussion of literature, history and current events, adopting the practice of circulating timely books among its members with the aim of keeping abreast of the day’s key social issues, including the cause of women’s suffrage. “Remember ladies,” club founder Mrs. Sterling Jones advised her colleagues, “the club comes first in your lives, and your husbands second, and never the twain shall meet!” Initially, meeting every fortnight at the home of a member — many of whom, in those fleeting days of the horse and buggy, conveniently resided along North Elm Street — on Wednesday afternoons at 3 p.m., the members soon voted to change its name to the Wednesday Afternoon Book Club. And so it remains to this day — 125 years after the city’s second book club was born. “It really has had a remarkable history,” notes longtime club secretary and incoming president, Chris Garton, “attracting women of the city who had a great interest in improving their minds and the quality of life in Greensboro.” Garton notes that the WABC was one of the early benefactors of the city’s first public library, which opened its doors in 1911, donating research books and other titles from the club’s own library, along with significant funds collected directly from its members. As the 20th century dawned, membership rose to 16. At that
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
time, member Mrs. Frank Dalton presented the club with a handsome monogram and fitting motto: “Nulla Vestigia Retrorsum” (“No retreat/We never go backwards”). Club members studied in depth the works of Shakespeare and Jonson, and printed their first booklet on the history of North Carolina. Club members also sponsored popular monthly lectures by prominent speakers at the original downtown O.Henry Hotel and wrote papers on a range of timely subjects — travel, war, literary biography, poetry and local history were major themes — to share with fellow members at their regular Wednesday afternoon gatherings that ran from May to October annually. “Whatever the topic, these women took a deep dive into their subjects,” says Garton. “It’s amazing what these women lived through. So much was happening in America then — World War I and lots of social change. During the Second World War, club members worked at the Red Cross and presented programs on rationing, a timely subject for everyone.” Today, the Wednesday Afternoon Book Club presents only four or five programs a year, but the spirit of the organization’s fellowship is very much alive among its 27 active members. During the COVID shutdown, members were forced to meet via Zoom but continued paying dues, which led to a significant donation this past spring to the Greensboro Bound literary festival and a return of in-person readings in honor of the club’s 125th anniversary. “We like to say that we’re putting the ‘book’ back in book club,” quips Chris Garton. “Because we have refocused on books that speak to the moment and interest of our members. At heart, though, it is really about the friendship we share — along with good books — that matters most.” “I have belonged to so many organizations in my long lifetime,” early club historian Louise Meyers once wrote. “But none with a sweeter spirit than our club.” OH
O.Henry 23
Life's Funny
The Giving Tree The arms of an old magnolia take a young reader to new heights
By Maria Johnson
When a fellow book lover like Re-
PHOTOGRAPH BY JOHN GESSNER
nee Lewis invites you up to see her favorite reading spot, you go. I confess that I was a little nervous. It had been a while since I’d climbed a tree, so I was relieved when 9-year-old Renee tutored me on the proper way to enter her sanctuary, a glossy old magnolia across the street from her family’s home in Greensboro. Renee walked to the high side of the tree, which grows on a gentle slope, and grabbed a forked branch just above her head. “Feel how smooth the bark is?” she asked like a good coach. I ran a hand over the magnolia’s fine-grained skin, remembering what it was like to be a kid, touch a tree, smell it and realize that it was another living thing — one that could give you shelter and an entirely different perspective if you learned how to feel your way through it. Kind of like a book. Renee — who was dressed for a cool summer morning in fashionably ripped jeans and T-shirt the color of orange sherbet — knew that already. She pulled against the forked branch as her gold-and-silver gladiator sandals walked up the trunk. Her pigtails hung free. Then she grabbed another small branch, vaulted herself to a broad arm of the tree, spun around, seated herself and smiled. She planted one foot against the trunk and dangled the other leg, swinging it for a couple of beats. Then she showed me around the tree, gliding onto neighboring perches, pointing out available seating. On the ground, her dad, Ben, cautioned her not to go higher. The Art & Soul of Greensboro
“This is as high as we usually go,” Renee said, patting a branch above her. “This is the highest one that’ll support us, actually.” Her meaning was subtle: Higher branches had been tried, out of the view of adults. That’s what leaves are for. It was my turn. Dressed in my own tree-climbing jeans and sandals, I latched onto Renee’s pull-up bar and shimmied up to a stout branch opposite hers. We weren’t that high up — our eyes were maybe 6 or 7 feet off the ground — but it felt so different up there. Sunlight filtered through a filigree of green. Creamy magnolia blossoms, as big as salad plates, gave off shy notes of sweet and sour. “Nice,” I said, complimenting Renee on her refuge. “Mmm, hmm,” she confirmed, her dark eyes shining with confidence. “Yep.” Below, everything below seemed smaller. Renee’s mom and dad looked up from an apron of leathery brown leaves spent by the magnolia. Boys coasted by on their multispeed bicycles. Tick-tick-tick-tick. Somewhere down the street, a lawnmower droned toward the heat of the day. Closer, a mockingbird moved through its repertoire by whistling, squawking and chirping. A cardinal sang background — pur-DEE, pur-DEE — and a tortoiseshell cat named Vesper slunk along the curb, thinking we couldn’t see her. But we could. Renee, a rising fourth-grader, has been climbing this tree for two or three years. All the neighborhood kids do, if they have permission from their parents. The couple who own the house O.Henry 25
Life's Funny
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26 O.Henry
and yard — Charlie and Ellen Witzke — are empty-nesters who like having children around. When they hired tree trimmers, they made sure the crew left enough low branches so the kids still could hoist themselves into the magnolia. It’s only for the last few months that Renee has been coming up here to read. Her school, Caldwell Academy, required third graders to read at least 90 minutes a week outside of school. Usually, Renee zoomed through her quota in the car on the way to and from school. Her parents timed her on their cell phones. But if she was really into a book, she’d get home and say, “I’m going to the tree to read.” The magnolia is, as Renee likes to say, “the only serene place” she knows — much calmer than home, with her yellow Labrador retriever, Nugget, romping around, and her old sister, Carter, busy being a teenager, and her parents taking remote meetings for work. Whenever Renee came up here — to a tree not yet populated by after-school kids — her parents could keep an eye on her, and she could have some privacy. Win-win. There was another bonus for her mom. Watching Renee beeline to the tree brought back good memories for Jennifer, who used to play in a magnolia at the home of her grandparents, Kitty and Dr. Sam Ravenel, in Greensboro’s leafy Fisher Park. “Oh my gosh,” Jennifer thought. “That’s just like my brother and me climbing the tree at Pa and Nanny’s.” The first book that Renee took across the street was Ava and Star, the third book in the Unicorn Academy series by author Julie Sykes. Each book pairs a girl with a unicorn, and together they use their unique powers to benefit Unicorn Island. Later, Renee climbed up with The Shimmering Stone, part of The Rescue Princesses series by Paula Harrison. Renee broke her extracurricular reading record that week, logging 200-plus minutes, thanks to the story of Amina, whose mission is to return tiger cubs to The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Life's Funny their mother. “I loved it because that’s where I got my information about tigers,” Renee says, explaining that she’s into big cats — tigers, lions, cheetahs, leopards. Really, Renee says, she loves animals, period. Maybe that’s why she’s enthralled by her current book — and one of my all-time favorites — Charlotte’s Web, by E.B. White. Renee thumbs to a dog-eared page of the paperback. Wilbur has just escaped. The other barn animals are egging him on while humans are trying to lure him back with a mixture of “warm milk, potato skins and wheat middlings.” “Doesn’t sound very appetizing,” Renee’s mom says from below. “Well, he is a runt, Mom. And milk — he’s a baby,” Renee counters. Her mother smiles. “That’s true.” Renee continues. Wilbur has already met Charlotte, the spider and title character. “She said, ‘Hi,’ and he screamed,” Renee recalls. “I thought that was funny.” She guesses — partly from the book’s title — that Charlotte is going to have a big impact on Wilbur’s life. “I think the spider could show something to Wilbur, like bravery or something he hasn’t been through,” she says. “I could see the spider changing the way Wilbur sees things . . . I can see maybe more conflict with Wilbur.” Renee says she likes to read about how people — and animals — respond to the problems that lie at the heart of every riveting story. She knows this already. “It kind of opens up your imagination, when you can relate to a character in some book,” she says. Then she giggles out the precious truth of a nine-year-old reader. “I have a very wild imagination.” OH Maria Johnson is a contributing editor of O.Henry. She reads books and climbs magnolias whenever she gets the chance. Contact her at ohenrymaria@gmail.com.
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The Art
of Living
INTRODUCING ALDERSGATE SQUARE Building on our history of beauty and imagination, Arbor Acres is excited to announce Aldersgate Square, our newest residence rising from the center of this invigorating community. Around here, how we evolve our environment is how we renew the vitality of our mission, which means that a splendid home of comfort, convenience, and thoughtful amenities—with lovely views and spacious rooms—is just the start. Because living well is one thing, but living with purpose and passion, among friends in a rare and picturesque setting—this is life in all its shining brilliance. Arbor Acres is forever in a state of becoming—a place where creativity shines, where generosity thrives, where the art of living blooms.
For more information on Aldersgate Square and other independent living options, please call (336) 724-7921. Arbor Acres is a Continuing Care Retirement Community affiliated with the Western NC Conference of the United Methodist Church. 1240 Arbor Road, Winston-Salem, NC 27104 arboracres.org • (336) 724-7921
O.Henry 27
ENJOY YOUR SUMMER. We’re working hard for you.
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28 O.Henry
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Omnivorous Reader
Hanging Judge A Carolina courtroom whodunit
By Anne Blythe
If you spend much time in courthouses
in North Carolina, you begin to see the complex fabric of their communities.
It might be one thread, one story, one case at a time but, eventually, the many threads are stitched together into a complex tapestry. Katherine Burnette, a district court judge from Oxford who rose to the bench as a former federal and state prosecutor, pulls back the curtain on small-town North Carolina and its dramas in her debut novel, Judge’s Waltz. It may be fiction, but the storyline created by the attorneyturned-writer — while seemingly over the top at the start — is rooted in insider knowledge from someone who has been in and out of North Carolina courthouses for much of her career. “Barely audible above the hum of the ancient air conditioner came the creak, creak, creak of the thick rope affixed to the brass chandelier,” writes Burnette in the opening of her mystery. “Swaying ten feet above the intricately carved, pre-Civil War bench, the Honorable Patrick Ryan O’Shea had adjourned to a higher court.” We quickly find out that O’Shea was not universally revered, nor was he a jurist with great legal acumen. His knack was kissing up to a certain professor in his third year of law school and following suit with a wide swath of politicians who helped him get coveted judicial seats. “Not noted for his weighty opinions from the bench, O’Shea had come to be noted for the weighty politicians who stood behind him and his bid for a higher court,” Burnette writes. “Apparently, these politicians had garnered their strength and their favors to foist O’Shea upon the unsuspecting Fourth Circuit court.” O’Shea never got there. His last dance, so to speak, was hanging in a federal courtroom in the Eastern District of North The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Carolina in nothing more than his black robe. “The only thing that O’Shea could do — was doing — was a slow discordant waltz at the end of a long rope,” Burnette says in her prologue. The pages of the novel are sprinkled with humor and wit as we meet Buck Davis, the folksy lawyer from Oxford who is tapped by the chief judge in the Eastern District to sort through O’Shea’s cases as Katie O’Connor, an FBI agent Davis remembers fondly from high school, leads the investigation into the judge’s death. Burnette deftly describes the country roads between Granville County and Raleigh, where the judge’s chambers were. She takes readers into drugstores, restaurants, courthouses and other places that will seem familiar to anyone who has experienced the slower hum of Granville County or the bustling halls of power in the capital city. You can almost smell the drugstore coffee brewing and taste the Southern food being dished up as the suspense builds over how and why Judge O’Shea found himself suspended from that ceiling. “Today’s courtroom deals were made in the few minutes it took to eat a sausage biscuit,” Burnette writes. The cast of characters includes Jeb, Buck’s brother, who battles demons from opioid addiction; Walter A. Johnson, the Granville County detective who went to high school with Jeb; and Mary O.Henry 29
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30 O.Henry
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Omnivorous Reader Frances Margaret O’Shea, the widow of the lifeless judge, who does not seem to grieve her loss at all. Even the relatively minor characters who come and go throughout the mystery are memorable, like the waitress, Wanda, who saunters up to Buck and Katie in the Oak Room with a pencil behind her ear and her weight balanced “on one polyester-clad hip.” The Oxford restaurant is where Buck and Katie often end up as they develop not only their case but also a budding romance. Wanda gives the couple a dose of reality about the menu choices. There is no wine list, Wanda informs Katie. The choice is strictly by color, red or white. And don’t ask for an exotic imported beer, either. Buck settles for a Miller High Life. Burnette writes, “Wanda scribbled something on her pad and strolled away. ‘One red, one champagne,’ she hollered to the bartender, confusing Katie. “‘I didn’t know they served champagne,’ Katie told Buck. ‘No,’ Buck explains. ‘She means the Miller. You know champagne of beers.’” The mystery of what happened to Judge O’Shea twists and turns as Burnette teases her readers with different scenarios. Was it suicide? Was it murder? At whose hand? And why? Katie, Johnson and Buck — with a big assist from Jeb — help pull together the many threads as Burnette takes her readers on a journey to the surprise ending of a novel not only worth picking up but difficult to put down. The verdict is in. It’s a whodunit and a page-turner that belongs on a summer reading list. OH Anne Blythe has been a reporter in North Carolina for more than three decades. She has covered city halls, higher education, the courts, crime, hurricanes, ice storms, droughts, floods, college sports, health care and many wonderful characters who make this state such an interesting place.
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DAY TRIPPERS WELCOME Saturday, Aug. 6 • 10 - 12 pm “Storytelling with Gran’daddy Junebug”
Family series
Mitch Capel / “Gran’daddy Junebug” is a master storyteller, recording artist, published author and poet.
Free Admission / Registration required
Sunday, August 14 • 2 pm
Arts & Humanities Lecture: “James Boyd” Hear about Boyd’s — the author of “Drums” and Weymouth’s founder — view on democracy and the writer’s obligation to speak out in times of civic crisis.
Light Reception to follow. Members: $20/ Non-Members: $25
Sunday, August 28 • 11:30-2 “Come Sunday” Jazz Series
outdoors on our beautiful grounds Bring your own blanket, chairs, and a picnic, cash bar with mimosas, beer, wine, and non-alcoholic beverages available.
Members/Non-Members Tickets: $25/$35 - Kids 12 and under are free Sponsored by FirstHealth Concierge Medicine
For tickets visit: weymouthcenter.org
Just a short drive away, there’s a perfect place to escape for the day. Our 100-year-old historic house is a storied venue for events and programs that will spark your mind, and feed your senses. If you prefer, you are welcome to roam our 26 acres of gardens and grounds, or picnic on our lush lawns. We’re conveniently nestled in the heart of Southern Pines, a quaint town, which boasts a host of restaurants and cute boutiques that also offer something for everyone. So next time you have the urge to get out of town, put us on your GPS. You can experience a real getaway, but still get home in a single day. We’re celebrating 100 years of our historic Boyd House with 100 events in 2022.
To receive 5% off, use promo code: DTOH
Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities 555 E. Connecticut Ave., Southern Pines, NC A 501(c)(3) organization
O.Henry 31
Bookshelf
August Books
Compiled by Shannon Purdy Jones
Back to school? More like back to SCUP!
There’s something bittersweet about August. The heat and humidity aren’t budging, but life is definitely moving on from summer. Whether you’re getting the kids ready to go back to school, returning to one of our many amazing universities or rolling back into town from one last beach trip, it’s easy to feel wistful over the summer that got away. Sometimes all you need to say goodbye to one chapter of life is a new chapter — or a new book — to look forward to, and we’ve got you covered at Scuppernong Books. Our events calendar is already filling up with a stacked list of local and national authors. Summer may be drawing to an end, but a new season to come together over great books is just beginning.
Down the Wild Cape Fear by Philip Gerard (appearing at Scup August 7 at 2 p.m.) In Down the Wild Cape Fear, novelist and nonfiction writer Philip Gerard invites readers onto the fabled waters of the Cape Fear River, guiding them on the 200-mile voyage from the confluence of the Deep and Haw Rivers at Mermaid Point all the way to the Cape of Fear on Bald Head Island. Accompanying the author by canoe and powerboat are a cadre of people passionate about the river: a river guide, a photographer, a biologist, a river keeper and a boat captain. Historical voices also lend their wisdom to our understanding of this river, which has been a main artery of commerce, culture, settlement, and war for the entire region since it was first discovered by Verrazzano in 1524.
32 O.Henry
Antipodes: Stories by Holly Goddard Jones (appearing at Scup September 1 at 6 p.m.) A harried and depressed mother of three young children serves on a committee that watches over the bottomless sinkhole that has appeared in her Kentucky town. During COVID lockdown, a 34-year-old gamer moves back home with his parents and is revisited by his long-forgotten childhood imaginary friend. A politician running for a state congressional seat and a young mother, who share the same set of fears about the future, cross paths but don’t fully understand one another. A woman attends a party at the home of a fellow church parishioner and discovers she is on the receiving end of a sales pitch for a doomsday prepper. These stories and more contemplate our current reality with both frankness and hard-earned hopefulness, realism and fabulism, tackling parenthood, environment and the absurd-butunavoidable daily toil of worrying about mundane matters when we’ve entered “an era of unknowability, of persistent strangeness.”
American Refuge: True Stories of the Refugee Experience by Diya Abdo (appearing at Scup September 8 at 6 p.m.) In this intimate and eye-opening book, Diya Abdo — U.S. immigrant, English professor, activist and daughter of refugees — shares the stories of seven refugees. Coming from around the world, they’re welcomed by Every Campus A Refuge (ECAR), an organization Diya founded to leverage existing resources at colleges to provide temporary shelter to refugee families. The lives explored in American Refuge include the artist who, before he created the illustration on the cover of this book, narrowly escaped two assassination attempts in Iraq and now works at Tyson cutting chicken. The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Bookshelf We learn that these refugees from Burma, Burundi, Iraq, Palestine, Syria and Uganda lived in homes they loved, left against their will and moved to countries without access or rights. They were among the 1 percent of the “lucky” few to resettle after a long wait, almost certain never to return to the homes they never wanted to leave. We learn that anybody, at any time, can become a refugee.
Shadowselves by Jason Ockert (appearing at Scup September 15 at 6 p.m.) Speculative and darkly surreal, the stories in Shadowselves examine characters who have stepped dangerously close to an edge they cannot see. A snow plow driver stranded on the roadside during a blizzard finds himself trapped in a riddled memory. A middle-aged man wakes up one morning to find he’s gained 400 pounds overnight. A lonely child sets off to prove the existence of a mythic bird, but uncovers an ugly secret on the other side of town. A comatose teenage outcast traverses the liminal space between life and death. With a sometimes-tenuous grip on reality, and often haunted by mistakes, repressions and alternate versions of who they might have been, the characters in Shadowselves struggle to find meaningful human connections in a world where the most important things always seem just out of their reach.
Circa MMXX by Dan Albergotti (appearing at Scup September 15 at 6 p.m.) Dan Albergotti’s third poetry chapbook, Circa MMXX, examines American life in 2020 and provides a terrifying report on our collective experience of illness, destruction and death. In his startling imagery, the reader may recognize the varieties of ecological, political and personal collapse that came to be associated with that year, but these poems also insist that the trials were not new then and have not gone away now. Circa MMXX is a portrait of how we are and have been that shows a better future is possible if we can find the way.
Nermina’s Chance by Dina Greenberg (appearing at Scup August 7 at 2 p.m.) War sears its imprint on the human spirit in infinite ways. After her family is murdered and her body ravaged by Serbian soldiers, Nermina Beganovic’s only chance of survival is to flee her Bosnian homeland during the Balkan War, circa 1992. Nermina’s Chance by Dina Greenberg is realistic fiction that reimagines the essence of family and plumbs the depths of a mother’s ardent connection to her daughter. OH Shannon Purdy Jones is co-owner of Scuppernong Books.
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O.Henry 33
The Creators of N.C.
The Family You Find The world of Sarah Addison Allen
By Wiley Cash Photographs by Mallory Cash
In Sarah Addison Allen’s new novel, Other
Birds, an 18-year-old woman named Zoey Hennessey returns to her long-dead mother’s condominium on fictional Mallow Island off the coast of South Carolina to reconnect with her mother’s spirit by tapping into the spirit of the place. Upon her arrival, Zoey finds a historic building that houses a collection of mysterious misfits, all of them bearing their own personal stories driven by pain and longing. Although Zoey is heartbroken to learn that virtually nothing of her mother remains in the condo, she is pleased to make a home among the Dellawisp’s eccentric tenants.
Not only is the Dellawisp haunted by the lives of the people who currently live there, it’s also haunted by the lives of the people who lived there once upon a time, for the living are not alone
34 O.Henry
in the old, rambling complex. Spirits hover on the margins of people’s lives just like the tiny turquoise birds that have overtaken the Dellawisp’s courtyard. While navigating the past and present of these myriad lives, Zoey reclaims her own life, and she learns that family is something you can create when you need it most. On a Saturday morning in mid-June, I meet Allen in the lobby of Asheville’s historic Grove Park Inn. While tourists and bellhops bustle all around us — the din of voices and laughter carrying along the great lobby’s stone floors — Sarah and I make our way to the verandah that overlooks the golf course. In the distance, the city of Asheville sits like a pink jewel among the swells of misty blue mountains. If the setting sounds magical it’s because it is. It’s also because my head is still buzzing with the possibility of magic after finishing Other Birds. All of Sarah’s previous novels contain magical elements, beginning with her 2007 debut novel, Garden Spells, which tells the story of the Waverley family, whose garden bears prophetic fruit and edible flowers with special powers. The novel was an instant New York Times bestseller. Since then, Sarah has published five novels that have gone on to sell millions of copies. While Other Birds is certainly as magical as Sarah’s previous novels, it seems much more personal. When I ask her if this is true, she doesn’t hesitate. “Without a doubt,” she says. Just as
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
several characters in Other Birds must confront tragedy and grief, Sarah has had to do the same in her own life. “I started the book, and then my mom had a catastrophic brain injury,” she says. “For four years I watched her die. It was horrible. And then 10 days before my mom passed away, my sister died. I’d put this book on hold while caring for my mom and going through that grieving process.” When Sarah returned to work on her novel, she found that not only had her sense of the novel changed, her sense of herself had changed as well. “I came at it from the point of view of learning a lot about life that I didn’t really want to learn,” she says. “I learned a lot about grief, and I learned a lot about what to let go of and how we hang on.” Sarah explains to me that if this book feels different it’s because she’s different. While Other Birds is just as hopeful as her previous books, it confronts the reality of grief with a stark realism shrouded in elements of magic once ghosts begin to join the chorus of characters. “My grief came out in those ghost stories,” Sarah says. “Even though the characters don’t know the ghosts of their mothers are there, they’re still there. I like that sort of wishful thinking in terms of losing my mom. Maybe I haven’t really let her go, or maybe she hasn’t really let me go. In some way she’s still here.”
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Sarah grows quiet, and I imagine memories of her mother playing through her mind, and I wonder how those memories found their way to the page. “My mom was my best friend,” she finally says. “The characters in the book deal with the losses of the people who are supposed to care for them. But in the end they learn how to let go and move on and find family among themselves.” Grief is not something new to Sarah’s life. Ten years ago she was diagnosed with stage four cancer, but after losing her mother and sister, her own medical journey was put into perspective. “It’s the difference between the fear of leaving and the fear of being left,” she says. Sarah’s readers certainly marked her absence during the seven years between the publication of her last novel, First Frost, and her new novel. Once the publication date of Other Birds was announced, online book chatter erupted in celebration. In her own quiet way, Sarah celebrated her return to the page as well. She tells me that getting back to work on Other Birds after losing her mother and sister was a return to something that felt normal. “Getting back into the swing of things felt good,” she says. Meeting with Sarah in one of Asheville’s most iconic locations feels right because she’s a writer whose identity is inextricably tied to western North Carolina. “My heart is here in Asheville,” she says. “The farther I get away from Asheville, it feels like a O.Henry 35
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36 O.Henry
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
The Creators of N.C. rubber band being stretched taut. I need to snap back. I need to come home. “My sense of belonging is something I want to give to my characters,” she says. “They’re all in search of a place to belong. A lot of times that’s a physical place, but a lot of times it’s an emotional place, and sometimes it’s the people you surround yourself with.” I understand the point she’s making, both because Asheville feels like home to me, but also because my own writing relies heavily on my characters having a sense of belonging to a particular place. But I also understand Sarah’s ties to Asheville because we are alumni of the University of North Carolina Asheville, where we both majored in literature just a few years apart from one another, studying under the same professors and encountering many of the same books that left lasting impressions on us both, books like North Carolina native Fred Chappell’s novel I Am One of You Forever. Sarah sees that novel as one of the first books that introduced her to magical realism while showing her that western North Carolina could be a setting for her own work. She says that reading Chappell’s novel at UNC Asheville was like “cracking open a geode and seeing the sparkle inside.” She still remembers how Chappell’s use of folklore and ballads in the novel resonated with her as a native of western North Carolina. “That was my territory,” she says. “That was something that hit close to home.” I was so affected by Chappell’s novel that I borrowed the name of the main character from I Am One of You Forever for my debut novel, A Land More Kind Than Home. Chappell named his young protagonist Jess Kirkman; I named mine Jess Hall. When Sarah’s debut Garden Spells was published in 2007 I was entering my final year of graduate school in Louisiana, and the fact that an alumnus of UNC Asheville had hit the publishing big time was both emboldening and daunting for someone like me, who desperately wanted to join her. But in talking with Sarah I learn that her 13-year path to publishing Garden Spells after graduating college was long and hard. According to her, during those years she had written dozens of full-length manuscripts and been rejected by scores of literary agents. “I was writing as close to full time as I could get,” she says. “I was doing part-time and seasonal jobs. By the time I wrote Garden Spells I was just about ready to give up. I’d gone back to school, and I hated it, and I thought, ‘Let me give it one more go.’ And I wrote Garden Spells, and suddenly, there it was. I sent off 12 or 15 queries to agents, and only one of them wanted to see the novel. That’s the agent I have today.” Both Sarah’s new novel, Other Birds, and her path to publication prove one thing: If you look, there is a family waiting for you. “Your tribe is out there,” she says. “Your people are out there. Just keep looking. OH Wiley Cash is the Alumni Author-in-Residence at the University of North Carolina at Asheville. His new novel, When Ghosts Come Home, is available wherever books are sold.
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
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O.Henry 37
Art of the State
Fire Dance
Into Being Painter Herb Jackson creates meticulous, vibrant abstracts
By Liza Roberts
“I don’t want you to know how I work
unless I tell you, because I want it to seem spontaneous,” says Herb Jackson. He’s in his Davidson studio, surrounded by the unmistakable works that have made his name; the vibrant, abstract paintings that convey energy and light and appear to have been made with swift, gestural strokes. But in reality, he notes, holding two fingers up in a narrow pinch, “I’m working about that much at a time.” 38 O.Henry
“The tricky thing is to make it not look like that,” Jackson says. “It’s a little archaeological. There’s a lot of drawing that goes on. I can work for hours on an area, and the next day completely cover it.” These palette-knifed layers accumulate, day by day, sometimes into the triple digits; many he scrapes away or sands with pumice. “If it’s not up to what I want it to be, then I just keep working,” he says. Light and shape and color and texture shift and morph, disappear and re-emerge. About two-thirds of the way through, a painting “will begin to assert itself,” and when they’re finished, “they tell me,” he explains. Art has been communicating with Jackson since he was a child. He won his first art award when he was still a teenager as part of a juried exhibition at the North Carolina Museum of Art; his work has now been collected by more than 100 museums, including London’s British Museum, has been shown in more The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Art of the State
Deep Dive
Aeolus
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
than 150 solo exhibitions around the world and has won him North Carolina’s highest civilian honor. After college at Davidson College and an MFA at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, Jackson returned to this college town to teach, eventually serving as chair of the art department at Davidson College for 16 years. Along the way, Jackson created a prolific and ongoing series he calls Veronica’s Veils, all of the same size (60 by 48 inches) and format. The name refers to the historic Christian relic thought to have received an image of the face of Jesus when Saint Veronica used it to wipe his face at the sixth Station of the Cross. Jackson says these works “have nothing to do with Jesus, but have a lot to do with Veronica and her luck, being at the right place at the right time.” When one of his paintings “comes into being,” Jackson says, “that’s basically my Veronica moment.” That moment coheres not any particular concept, but the confluence of everything he’s ever experienced, “which is much bigger than any one idea.” All of that can take some wrangling. “Occasionally, they’ll go beyond what I expected as far as challenging me, and I’ll put them up there and stare at them for several days, to just be absolutely sure,” he explains. “Because once I decide you’re finished, then I don’t go back in.” To do so, he says, would violate a painting’s integrity. “There are paintings from 18 years ago where I spot something I would have done differently — but I was a different artist then.” For the last 50 years, Jackson has had two or three solo exhibitions of O.Henry 39
Art of the State his paintings a year, but has recently decided to curtail those to focus on what matters most: painting for its own sake. “Committing to exhibitions became confining,” he says. “I just want to make my work.” The Raleigh native has been drawing every day since he was a young child and selling paintings since he was 12, time enough to be many different artists. He’s still amazed by the experience and the process: “Where a painting comes from and how it comes together for me is still mystical, and has been for 60 years.” He credits his subconscious, but assumes some of his inspiration must come from art and travel and nature, from exploring the woods and creek and digging in the earth near his childhood home near the old Lassiter Mill. Some also must come, he says, from the pre-Renaissance and Byzantine paintings of the Kress Collection, which formed the foundational basis of the North Carolina Museum of Art in its original downtown home — works he regularly took the bus to go see. “Those paintings were so formative for me. If there hadn’t been the North Carolina Museum of Art, I don’t know what would have happened to me.” OH
Jester's Retreat
This is an excerpt from the forthcoming book Art of the State: Celebrating the Art of North Carolina, to be published by UNC Press this fall.
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Baking Betty Research, research, research
By Ruth Moose
Betty Crocker and I go back awhile, though
I don’t go back as far as she goes. Betty Crocker, icon for General Mills, is 100 years old this year. One of the most recognized advertising symbols in the world, Betty has only gotten younger. Many up-to-date hairdos and wardrobe changes. She has kept up with the times. My relationship with her ended amiably enough and I have my little red spoon of confidence lapel pin to prove it. Many years ago when I lived in Charlotte in a split-level house, carpooled in a wood-paneled station wagon and did all kinds of PTA and Boy Scout stuff, my family was a member of a very exclusive club. We were one of 500 General Mills test families across the country. I tested recipes that ended up on the backs of cereal boxes, flour packages, and General Mills products, excuse the expression, in general. I wasn’t paid but was reimbursed for the cost of recipe ingredients. I figured since I baked and cooked anyway, why not make it interesting? And I like to try new recipes. Helen Moore, my good friend as well as neighbor, was at that time Food Editor for the Charlotte Observer. She invited me and serval other women of various ages and stations to a lunch with two home economists from General Mills. It was a lovely lunch in a nice restaurant, a real treat in the middle of the week. Good food, fun conversation and afterwards I was asked to be part of 500 families scattered across the country. The home economists explained that, though they tested recipes in their laboratory kitchens in Minneapolis, they wanted reactions from real people in real home kitchens. Where the pasta meets the road, so to speak. During the years I tested a variety of recipes, everything from vegetable dishes (carrots cooked in frozen apple juice with fresh ginger was a good one) to cookies made with various cereals, to a whole series of recipes using wine. I saw many of these later in cookbooks. For the most part, my family was good natured about the whole thing. They were used to seeing different things on the table when they sat down to dinner.
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
After I tested a recipe, I filled out forms that included what I had paid for certain ingredients, whether I had them on hand, how difficult they were to find, how much they cost, and so on. Other forms asked if the instructions on the recipe were clear. Was it hard to follow? How much time did it take to make it? And there was always the question of my family’s reaction. They were the ultimate arbiters. Actual people eating real food in a home kitchen. Nothing complicated. Except the time I was sent a recipe for gumbo. No, I did not have filé powder on hand. No, I did not keep canned okra on my pantry shelf. I didn’t know you could even CAN okra. And it surely didn’t sound appetizing. Breaded and fried okra is food of the gods! But okra in a can? In the South yet? Sacrilege. So, I went in search of canned okra. In those days Amazon wasn’t even a twinkle in Jeff Bezos’ eye. Managers of the A&P, Kroger’s and Harris (before there was Teeter) laughed at me. Was I some kind of nut? Canned okra? I finally found a lonely can on the bottom shelf of a tiny exotic foods market. Exotic for North Carolina, certainly. Then I made my first and only gumbo. My family’s reaction, after a couple of mouthfuls, was to ask if we couldn’t go to MacDonalds. We did, leaving plenty for the garbage disposal and a none too glowing report for Betty Crocker. After that, whenever my sons sat down to something unfamiliar, their immediate reaction was, “Are we eating Betty Crocker?” I probably tested recipes for Betty for six or eight years. The gumbo was the only unqualified disaster. A lot of the recipes I still make — a Wheaties cookie; many of the wine dishes, including a pot roast cooked with Burgundy. The program was discontinued but, as a token of their appreciation, I was given a tiny version of Betty’s trademark, a small, enameled red spoon lapel pin — the Phi Beta Kappa of gumbo, I suppose — and a real conversation piece at dinner parties. OH Ruth Moose taught creative writing at the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill for 15 years and tacked on 10 more at Carolina Central Community College.
O.Henry 43
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44 O.Henry
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Home Grown
Pop-Tarts for Turfnauts The Space Age breakfast pastry continues to orbit By Cynthia Adams
Jerry Seinfeld is making a movie about Pop-Tarts.
What took him so long? Since they first hit grocery shelves in 1964, Pop-Tarts remain a smash Kellogg’s hit. In the brand’s own words, they were the original “breakfast treat!” Who doesn’t like a treat? Flavors, mind you, frequently rotated. As American Frankenfood rose to prominence, the product soared. Because, well, you toast Pop-Tarts (or not) and that’s it! Pop them straight into your mouth or lunch box. It was a hybrid pastry/cookie, which, as Seinfeld says, couldn’t be stale, because it had never actually been fresh. Fresh-ish would suffice. Americans were going places — like the moon! Heading into new frontiers, astronauts needed transportable food-like things that would hold up another 10 lightyears. So did we land-locked turfnauts (a word I just invented), who might have to hit the fallout shelters if the Russians dropped the big one. 1964 was a seminal year for the power of design and expediency. Things in tubes (Pringles!) populated grocery shelves, along with Ruffles potato chips, Doritos and Bugles. A sugary cereal with marshmallow bits and colored charms, Lucky Charms, debuted, branded by a daft Leprechaun. But Pop-Tarts lofted itself into the public consciousness, rocketing off shelves with spacey je ne sais quoi. As Seinfeld said in The New York Times, they expanded possibilities from toast, cereal and frozen-orange-juice-in-a-can. (OJ was passé once Tang hit.) Revert to a childlike POV: Loosened from a space-race inspired wrapper, Pop-Tarts looked like something you could breakfast on while orbiting the cosmos, washed down with a squirt of Tang! Nobody knew what was actually in it, but that stopped no one from eating it — ever. Pop-Tarts, brought to you by the health-nut founded Kellogg’s, The Art & Soul of Greensboro
grasped that youthful desire to start the morning the way any child in the world likes best: sugary dough stuffed with a cornsyrup filling. When Kellogg’s execs heard that Post, their main rival, had a toaster pastry ready for market, they hustled. (Post got lost in the weeds testing names with the lamest focus group ever. Country Squares won.) Kellogg’s understood the stakes, and drew inspiration from Andy Warhol, the king of pop culture. Some say he even consulted on name and packaging. If Warhol did for Kellogg’s pastry-in-a-box what he did for Campbell’s tomato soup, “Why just think!” Kellogg’s people whispered. Country Squares beat Pop-Tarts to the market, and should have beaten the cinnamon-sugar stuffing out of them. But Post’s stodgy name had less panache than Country Crock butter. Post rebranded Country Squares as Toast ’Ems. But too little, too late. Within two weeks Pop-Tarts sold out, and Kellogg’s ran super apologetic ads. “Oops! We Goofed,” read its ads. The breakfast brand had underestimated the power of food with an unlimited shelf life paired with a Pop Art icon’s influence. Kellogg’s later tested a Pop-Tarts cereal. To this day, Kellogg’s sells “billions of Pop-Tarts a year,” according to Andrew Smith in Fast Food and Junk Food: An Encyclopedia of What We Love to Eat. Its best seller? Cinnamon brown sugar, one of four original flavors. In 2001, the U.S. rained free Pop-Tarts and herb rice on Afghanistan by air — a PR effort. The Pop-Tarts? A show of what good will and ingenuity looks like from people who have loved that food-thingy forever. “Sales still soar,” writes Huffington Post. And Warhol? He endures, too, like Pop-Tarts. “Marilyn” just sold for a hot $195 mil. OH Cynthia Adams is a contributing editor to O.Henry. O.Henry 45
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46 O.Henry
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The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Birdwatch
Nighthawks But not the Edward Hopper kind
By Susan Campbell
The common nighthawk is
neither “common” nor a “hawk.” Found in the Sandhills and Piedmont of North Carolina, these large birds feed exclusively on insects and actually do so at night. They use their large mouths to catch prey. Beetles and other insects are instantaneously intercepted and ingested by way of the birds’ oversized mouths. Nighthawks are unique in that they literally fly into large insects. Because their weak feet are designed purely for perching, they do not grab at them as true hawks do.
These medium-sized birds are active mainly at dawn and dusk when beetles and other big insects are also most active. Due to their terrific night vision, nighthawks hunt effectively in darkness, though they may even feed during the day, especially when they have young to provide for. In early summer, cicadas, grasshoppers, larger wasps and true bugs are abundant and, given their aerodynamic prowess, nighthawks are very successful predators at any hour. As one of many survival tactics, common nighthawks spend the day perched horizontally on a pine branch. Invisibility is the goal during daylight hours. Although their vision is not compromised, they have a better advantage when light intensity is low. The mottled black, gray and white feathering is very hard to see regardless of the time of day, but their characteristic low “peee-nt” call and erratic moth-like flight is distinctive. Common nighthawks’ nests are well camouflaged. Females simply scrape a spot to create a nesting area. Their speckled eggs blend in well with the mineral soil and miscellaneous debris typical of native arid terrain. Females are known to perform a feeble “broken wing” display if they are disturbed. This act is the only defense they have to draw potential predators away from the eggs or young. The Art & Soul of Greensboro
More likely, common nighthawks’ presence will be given away by males “booming” in the early morning over high quality open habitat. The unique noise they produce comes from air passing over the wing feathers of breeding males — not vocalizations — as they move through the air. Amazingly, nighthawks are one of a handful of bird species that will also nest on flat rooftops. As large fields become scarce, common nighthawks are more prone to using large artificial spaces. These birds can easily support a family on the associated abundant flying insects found in open foraging habitat such as agricultural fields or some athletic venues, so it’s not unusual to see or hear nighthawks at summer baseball games or early fall football games throughout the region. They are capitalizing on the abundant prey associated with the evening floodlights at stadiums and other outdoor sites. The species is found in many open areas in the eastern United States in summer, and so it is no surprise that common nighthawks begin to move south in late summer in large flocks. They migrate long distances to winter destinations in Central America and northern South America. Large numbers can be seen feeding in the evening in August and early September, so there’s plenty of time left to spot a nighthawk before cooler weather sets in. OH Susan Campbell would love to receive your wildlife sightings and photographs at susan@ncaves.com. O.Henry 47
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The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Wandering Billy
Intentional Working Dr. Tomi White Bryan’s latest book helps organizations develop leaders
By Billy [Eye] Ingram
“You are a magical, creative ball of energy pretending you aren’t.” — Dr. Tomi White Bryan
Over the last few years, Tomi Llama (Dr.
Tomi White Bryan, Ph.D, J.D) has written three self-help books that transcend the medium, definitely not the “I’m OK, You’re OK” type of navelgazing that allows one permission to plow ahead and let the world adapt to whatever underlying, undiagnosed psychosis they may have in play. A quick search for “Karens destroying McDonald’s” on YouTube will show you where that’s led us.
Bryan’s first two books, The Toni Llama Purpose Guide: Emotional Maturity as a Path to Your Divine Purpose and What Is Your Superpower? are essential reading for anyone struggling with understanding why people respond to conflict — or even success — and react the way they do. Her third book, Hating Myself Every Step of the Way, no longer available, is undoubtedly one of the rawest, most honest assessments of a life lived that I’ve ever encountered. (Full disclosure: I typeset and formatted two of those books.) Published by Houndstooth Press under her actual name, Bryan’s latest, Emotional Intelligence 3.0: How to Stop Playing Small in a Really Big Universe, is aimed toward helping organizations, coaching- and talent-development folks to better pinpoint potential and existing employees’ emotional maturity in order to fast track their way to a more satisfying and productive workplace experience, a mindful evolution benefitting everyone in the loop. This blurb from the back cover of Emotional Intelligence 3.0 The Art & Soul of Greensboro
sums it up: “Every human being is born with unlimited creative energy — then life marks us up with red ink, teaching us who we’re supposed to be instead of who we really are. Before we know it, our greatest birthright has been crossed out, leaving most of us believing, ‘It’s not safe to be who I am.’” I was fortunate to talk with Bryan over lunch about her groundbreaking new book, which is really more of a system, and this was one of the most illuminating conversations I’ve had in a decade. Since little of that brilliance was coming from my end of the table, let’s let the author speak for herself . . . Dr. Tomi White Bryan: I left my corporate job in January of 2021 and started working on Emotional Intelligence 3.0, a condensation of everything I’ve ever read on abundance, self help, leadership, Western and Eastern philosophy. My dad was a university professor, I’ve taught at UNCG for a long time, North Carolina A&T and the University of Phoenix. So I approached this as an academician. Life is getting more complex. Societal complexity is far outpacing human complexity right now. Yet we don’t have systems to deal with that because we, as people, need to become more complex to adapt to changing times. How well are we doing at that? Dr. Tomi White Bryan: We have within us what I call an “emotional scrap heap.” When it’s full and you do something to me, you’re going to get the full force and effect of that whole scrap heap because I haven’t cleared any of it out. You have to process those experiences. It used to be that nine little annoyances would happen to you during the day — somebody’d cut you off in traffic or whatever. Now, there’s like 27 or 30 triggers every day. As a result, 70 percent of the population lives in what is called “Protection mode.” What happens when our power is challenged is we go to conflict. What affect does this have on the people around them in the workplace? Dr. Tomi White Bryan: I love companies that say, “We have a values-based culture,” because right now toxic culture is rampant. Here’s the thing. If you, as an organization, want to live by O.Henry 49
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Wandering Billy your values, how do you get your people to do that if they don’t know how? So the first workshop we have is called “Aligning the Culture.” And how does that work?
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Dr. Tomi White Bryan: For people to find a job fit, there has to be a culture fit, which means that each person knows their values and can live by them. If they are aligned, they’re going to be engaged every day. Only one in 10,000 people know their values. Less than that know their strengths and their purpose. If they don’t know their purpose and how to live by it, they certainly can’t do it for the organization. So they hide, they blame, and they shuck and jive. A couple years ago, there was a CEO round table where 250 of those Fortune 500 CEOs signed a statement saying, “We’re going to be Purpose Led.” Wonderful. Do your people know how to get there? Because if they don’t, that’s going to fail. Basically, if someone is hiring a manager, director, vice president or C-suite, can organizations test the applicant’s emotional balance to determine what kind of leader they’re getting?
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50 O.Henry
Dr. Tomi White Bryan: We’ve developed an activity called the Greatness Guide. According to leadership research by Dr. Zenger and Dr. Folkman, they’ve discovered the five fatal flaws that will derail effective leadership every time. One of those is not being accountable for your actions. Another one is not learning from your mistakes. Part of what I did is take those five fatal flaws and, instead of making them negative, I made them positive. That’s why it’s the Greatness Guide, the goal of which is disentangling from one’s adapted identity, but we have to do it in a certain way because, if you don’t, a person that is in Protection won’t hear me. What’s the upside of exploring these behavioral responses? Dr. Tomi White Bryan: With a leadership pre-screening to assess employees, it’ll let you know whether or not this person gets stuck in the drama triangle,
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Wandering Billy what emotional state the person is in and whether or not they’re a good, medium or bad fit for a leadership role. You’ll know what kind of leader you’re getting. So this manifests itself in the workplace how? Dr. Tomi White Bryan: You’ve just had your annual review, a lot of organizations do this. What are you going to work on next year? How are you going to develop yourself? What we’ve done is, the organization can have all of their employees take this assessment and, based on where they are, build a five-year development plan. This is your current spot. Here’s your future spot. Here are the exact steps to get there. Here are the tools.
EYE EXAMS & DRY EYE TREATMENT
The desired result being…? Dr. Tomi White Bryan: What you’re left with is an employee that’s much more in tune with what’s going on, not only internally with his job and his place in that organization, but also they can take these tools and apply it [them] to the rest of their lives. Emotional Intelligence 3.0 needs to be ingrained in everything we do, bringing human complexity up to where the structural complexity is. There’s an old story that circulates, it was IBM or somewhere. This young kid makes a $10 million mistake and he’s called into the CEO’s office. The young man asks, “Am I gonna get fired?” The CEO says, “No, I just spent $10 million on your education. You’re not going anywhere.” That’s the type of culture that is agile and progressive. OH
GLASSES & CONTACT LENSES
Emotional Intelligence 3.0 : How to Stop Playing Small in a Really Big Universe will be available at Amazon and Barnes & Noble online on September 13. Billy (Eye) Ingram has a new book out called EYE on GSO, a compendium of stories mostly taken from the pages of O.Henry magazine all about The Gate City’s rich history. For instance: When Greensboro, Charlton Heston with a cast of thousands and a camp filled with Nazis won World War II. Oh yeah!
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
AND SO MUCH MORE! O.Henry 51
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Make Your Appointment Today 336.273.2835 52 O.Henry
OUR PROVIDERS Richard J. Taavon, MD, FACOG • Kelly A. Fogleman, MD, FACOG Vaishali R. Mody, MD, FACOG • Susan Almquist, MD, FACOG Cassandra Law, D.O. Daniela Paul, MSN, CNM • Meredith Sigmon, MSN, CNM Amanda Jones, MSN, CNM • Beth C. Lane, WHNP-BC
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
W
illiam Faulkner invented Yoknapatawpha County as a place for his imagination to live, and every Southern writer knew where it was, even if it wasn’t on any map. Ernest Hemingway loaded his readers onto a double-decker bus and transported them to a fiesta in Pamplona, Spain, with its wine skins and dusty plaza de toros. Allan Gurganus created the fictional small town of Falls, North Carolina. In the hands
Lee Smith is the
author of 14 novels, including Fair and Tender Ladies, Oral History, Saving Grace and Guests on Earth, as well as four collections of short stories. Her novel The Last Girls was a New York Times bestseller as well as co-winner of the Southern Book Critics Circle Award. A retired professor of English at North Carolina State University, she has received an Academy Award in Fiction from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, the North Carolina Award for Literature, and the Weatherford Award for Appalachian Literature. Her latest book, Silver Alert, will be available in the spring of 2023.
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
of a fine craftsman, a sense of place in a piece of fiction can be so compelling it almost becomes its own character in the narrative. In our Summer Reading Issue three of North Carolina’s greatest writers deliver on this promise, taking us to West Virginia coal country, the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina, and the bottom of a freshly dug grave. Our guides for these adventures are Lee Smith, Ron Rash and Clyde Edgerton.
— Jim Moriarty
Ron Rash is
the author of seven novels, seven collections of short stories and four volumes of poetry. He has been honored with The Sherwood Anderson Prize and was a finalist for the PEN/ Faulkner Award for Fiction for his collection Chemistry and Other Stories, and for his New York Times bestselling novel Serena. His other novels include Saints at the River, Above the Waterfall and The Risen. He is the Parris Distinguished Professor in Appalachian Cultural Studies at Western Carolina University, where he teaches poetry and fiction writing.
Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels and two books of non-fiction. His novels include Raney, Walking Across Egypt, The Floatplane Notebooks, Killer Diller and Lunch at the Piccadilly. Both Walking Across Egypt and Killer Diller were adapted for the screen. He has been the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship and has also received the North Carolina Award for Literature. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at the University of North Carolina Wilmington.
O.Henry 53
Romantic Fever Fiction by Lee Smith • Illustrations by Matthew Shipley
T
he house I grew up in was one of a row of houses strung along a narrow river bottom like a string of beads. We were not allowed to play in the river because they washed coal in it, upstream. Its water ran deep and black between the mountains, which rose like walls on either side of us, rocky and thick with trees. My mother came from the flat exotic eastern shore of Virginia, and swore that the mountains gave her migraine headaches. Mama was always lying down on the sofa, all dressed up. But there was no question that she loved my father, a mountain man she had chosen over the well-bred Arthur Banks of Richmond, “a fellow who went to the University of Virginia and never got over
54 O.Henry
it,” according to Daddy. Mama suffered from ideas of aristocracy herself. Every night she would fix a nice supper for Daddy and me, then bathe and put on a fresh dress and high heels and her bright red lipstick, named “Fire and Ice,” and then sit in anxious dismay while the hour grew later and later, until Daddy finally left his dime-store and came home. By that time the food had dried out to something crunchy and unrecognizable, so Mama would cry when she opened the oven door, but then Daddy would eat it all anyway, swearing it was the most delicious food he’d ever put in his mouth, staring hard at Mama all the while. Frequently my parents would then leave the table abruptly, feigning huge yawns and leaving me to turn The Art & Soul of Greensboro
out all the lights. I’d stomp around the house and do this resentfully, both horrified and thrilled at the thought of them upstairs behind their closed door. I myself was in love with my best friend’s father, three houses down the road. Mr. Owens had huge dark soulful eyes, thick black hair, a mustache that dropped down on either side of his mouth, and the prettiest singing voice available. Every night after supper, he’d sit out in his garden by the river and play his guitar and sing for us and every other kid in the neighborhood, who’d gather around to listen. Mr. Owens played songs like “Wayfaring Stranger” and “The Alabama Waltz.” He died the year we were thirteen, from an illness described as “romantic fever.” Though later I would learn that the first word was actually “rheumatic,” in my own mind it remained “romantic fever,” an illness I associated with those long summer evenings when my beloved Mr. Owens played the old sad songs while lightning bugs rose like stars from the misty weeds along the black river and right down the road — three houses away — my own parents were kissing like crazy as night came on. II The link between love and death intensified when my MYF group (that’s Methodist Youth Fellowship) went to Myrtle Beach, where we encountered many exotic things such as pizza pie and Northern boys smoking cigarettes on the boardwalk. Our youth leader, who was majoring in drama at a church school, threw our cigarettes into the surf and led us back up onto the sandy porch of Mrs. Fickling’s Boardinghouse for an emergency lecture on Petting. “A nice girl,” she said dramatically, “does not Pet. It is cruel to the boy to allow him to Pet, because he has no control over himself. He is just a boy. It is all up to the girl. If she allows the boy to Pet her, then he will become excited, and if he cannot find relief, then the poison will all back up into his organs causing pain — and sometimes — death!” She spat out the words. We drew back in horror and fascination.
startled him. “I’d love to!” Wayne was a big, slow-talking boy with long black hair that fell down into his handsome, sullen face. He wore a ring of keys on his belt and a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of his T-shirt. He did not play sports. I admired his style as much as I admired his family — or lack of family, I should say, for he lived with his uncle in a trailer out near the county line. Wayne smoked, drank, and played in a band with grown-up men. He was always on the Absentee Hot List, and soon he’d be gone for good, headed off to Nashville with a shoebox full of songs. We jolted up the rutted road through dense black woods. My mother would have died if she’d known where I was. But she didn’t. Nobody did. I was determined to Pet with Wayne even if it killed him. Finally we emerged onto a kind of dark, windy plateau, an abandoned strip mine set on top of the mountain. He drove right up to the edge, a sheer drop. I caught my breath. On the mountainside below us were a hundred coke ovens sending their fiery blasts like giant candles straight up into the sky. It was like the pit of hell itself, but beautiful. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. For some reason I started crying. “Aw,” he said. He screwed the top off a mason jar and gave me a drink, which burned all the way down. “You know what?” He pulled me over toward him. He smelled like smoke, like alcohol, like the woods. “What?” I said into the sleeve of his blue jean jacket “They was a boy killed in one of them ovens last month — fell in, or throwed himself in, nobody ever did know which.” “Was there?” I scooted closer. “Yep, it was a boy from over on Paw Paw, had a wife and two little babies. Gone in the twinkling of a eye, just like it says in the Bible.” He snapped his fingers. “Right down there,” he said into my hair. “That’s awful.” I shuddered, turning up my face for his kiss, while below us the coke ovens burned like a hundred red fountains of death and I felt the fiery hand clutch my vitals for good. Finally, I thought. Romantic fever. OH
III Of course it wasn’t long before I found myself in the place where I’d been headed all along: the front seat of a rusty old pickup, heading up a mountain on a dark gravel road with a wild older boy — let’s call him Wayne — whom I scarcely knew but had secretly adored for months. This was not the nice boy I’d been dating, the football star/student government leader who’d carried my books around from class to class all year and held my hand in study hall. My friends were all jealous of me for attracting such a nice boyfriend; even my mother approved. But, though he dutifully pressed his body against mine at dances in the gym whenever they played “The Twelfth of Never,” our song, it just wasn’t happening. That fiery hand did not clasp my vitals as it did in Jane Eyre whenever she encountered Mr. Rochester. So I had seized my chance when Wayne asked me if I’d like to ride around sometime. “You bet!” I’d said so fast it The Art & Soul of Greensboro
O.Henry 55
Kephart Fiction by Ron Rash
Illustrations by Lyudmila Tomova
56 O.Henry
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O.Henry 57
St. Louis Globe-Democrat, March 25, 1904
Horace Kephart Is Held for Observation FORMER LIBRARIAN ARRESTED AS HE WAS WALKING TOWARD EADS BRIDGE
H
orace Kephart, aged 42 years, residing at 1821 Kennett place, who was succeeded on February 1 last as librarian of the Mercantile library by William L. R. Gifford, after he had held the position for fourteen years, was arrested at 2 o'clock yesterday afternoon and placed in the observation ward at the city hospital, pending an investigation into his mental condition. His arrest was brought about by his peculiar actions in Marre's saloon, 518 Washington avenue. After buying a glass of beer there yesterday, it is said, he engaged the bartender, Edward Wasen, in conversation, during the course of which he placed in Wasen's hands a lengthy letter, written in pencil on rough wrapping paper, in which he expressed an intention of committing suicide. Police Officer Mannion was at once notified. After following Kephart a block or so along Washington avenue toward Eads bridge the officer stopped him and called an ambulance. Kephart is a well-known magazine writer. He is a graduate of both Yale and Cornell universities.
I
n his insanity, he’d believed two of his closest friends were diabolical enemies. They had hired cutthroats from docks and dim alleys to come in the night and murder him. He heard them pry at his window sill, test the doorknob as they searched for a way inside. He stayed up until dawn, talking aloud, sometimes shouting so they knew he wasn’t sleeping. Only a policeman's intervention prevented his ending the torment himself. An overwrought brain. That had been a doctor’s diagnosis. When he had finally been allowed to leave the hospital, all the promise he’d shown in college and graduate school, his time at the Yale library before coming to Saint Louis, were meaningless. He was forty-two years old, his life reduced to prurient fodder for newspapers.
❧ He had first visited wild places as a teenager, camping and hiking in the Adirondacks of upper New York state. When he’d taken a head librarian position in Saint Louis, there had been camping trips to nearby forests. He’d become proficient enough in woodcraft to write articles for outdoor magazines. He’d needed these respites from the library work, the rush and clamor of city life, a marriage that had begun to fall apart. But mere respites had finally not been enough. To find himself, he had to go where he could not be found.
58 O.Henry
Later, when he led the fight to create the Smoky Mountains National Park, he’d write, I wanted to save these mountains because they saved me. But that would be later. When they let him out of the hospital, he sought the solitude of forests. He’d studied a topographical map of the eastern United States, searching for the blank spaces and contour lines that revealed the least inhabited region, the Smoky Mountains of western North Carolina and east Tennessee. He went by train to Dillsboro, North Carolina. Then onward, first by roads, then by trails, and finally following only a narrowing stream into deeper woods. All that he’d brought with him was his tent and an ox sled of supplies. He made a campsite beside the creek, pitched his tent. For three months, he stayed there. Next to his campsite the stream slowed and deepened. He had never seen water so pure and clear. He’d read that in India those with afflicted minds were set beside rivers so that the sound of the water’s passage could restore their sanity. He fell asleep and waked to the rhythms of the water. The insomnia that had tormented him for years lessened. All the wilderness asked of him was to listen. And to see. When he gazed into the pools, he could make out the individual pebbles in the sandy beds. When the midday sun shone on the water, flakes of mica made the white sand spark. The clarity of the water entered his mind. The hallucinations ceased; the melancholy began to lift. One early afternoon he saw The Art & Soul of Greensboro
his own face in the water. Not a reflection but instead a merging, becoming one with the stream, the forests, the mountains. Sometimes he would see speckled trout. They were the most beautiful of fish — their flanks spotted green, red, and gold, their orange fins wavering. They were small, fragile, unable to live anywhere except the purest water. He wondered what it felt like to live inside such weightlessness. Days passed, then weeks. He grew stronger, both in body and mind. As he explored and observed, the woods became so familiar he no longer needed a compass. Instead of a watch, sunlight and shadows showed him when he needed to turn around, make his way back to his campsite before darkness fell. Unlike in the world he’d fled, seconds and minutes no longer mattered. Wasn’t the awareness of time so much a part of what he’d fled, the way it so often directed his mind to obsess on past regrets or future fears? Wasn’t the numbness he’d sought with alcohol an attempt to escape such awareness? In the daylight, he could believe he was shedding the past as a snake sheds its skin. But some nights the old torments came. The sound of the water was not enough. The cold light of the moon, the hoot of an owl, became ominous. On such nights, he felt a deep loneliness; he could not completely rid himself of such a deep-rooted human need. Daylight would come and despair, like the dew, evaporated, but he found himself seeking the companionship of others. He
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
came to know some of the scattered families who also lived in these mountains. He occasionally made his way to the village, even had visitors at his campsite. But only occasionally. As the days passed, senses he had not known within himself awakened. One afternoon he was walking through the woods when a fallen tree lay in his path. He was about to step over it, had raised his foot to do so, when some atavistic impulse made him stop. For a few moments he’d simply stood there, unsure what had happened. What had halted him was nothing seen or heard. For a few moments longer he listened, heard nothing, saw nothing. He walked around, not over, the fallen tree to see what lay where his foot would have stepped. He saw it then, the coiled, satin-black body, the arrow-shaped head, the blunted tail that rattled once, stilled. The snake uncoiled itself and vanished into the underbrush. Another afternoon while he passed beneath a rocky cliff, he felt he was being watched. As with the rattlesnake, he paused, saw and heard nothing. He’d walked on, but the sense of being observed would not leave him. Twice more he stopped and looked behind him. The third time he looked up, not back, and saw the mountain lion on a ledge. The cat swished its black-tipped tail three times, then turned away. How much had we lost, he’d wondered after such moments — not just knowledge but an expansiveness of being? What more might we discover within ourselves if
O.Henry 59
fully attentive to the world? After three months, colder weather came. He moved into an abandoned cabin even deeper into the wilderness. The cabin would be his home for three years. He left for days at a time, made the long journey down Hazel Creek to the nearby village. He wrote and published articles about the wilderness that surrounded him. Other times he shared his cabin with visitors. He had never thought of himself as a hermit, but most days and nights he was alone. The hallucinations did not return, but there were still periods of melancholy, and not always at night. One autumn morning a soft rain fell; fog wreathed the trees. He had not been here long enough to find, as he later would, solace in such weather. The grayness had turned his mind inward, resurfacing the vexations he had come here to escape. Despite the weather, he left his cabin to walk along the stream, hoping movement might help ease his mind. Then the rain lessened, stopped. The fog unknit itself and the strands drifted away. He was passing through a stand of poplar trees when, like a lamp wick being turned up, the yellow leaves brightened and the world shimmered in a golden light. The air was charged, and he felt his heart lift, a sensation beyond words, awe the only word proximate. But that morning it had seemed any attempt to define the sensation with language was such a puny, human thing. Though he would eventually write a whole book about these mountains, describe the plant and animal life in detail, extol the landscape’s pristine beauty, there were moments like this that he would never put on paper.
60 O.Henry
His detractors, then and now, called him a romantic, which was true. He had read Petrarch, Wordsworth, and Thoreau, learned from and been inspired by them. But he did not believe himself a sentimentalist. A part of what had brought him here was to abide in a world without sham. Arrogance and bluster did not impress nature. It did not suffer fools. A heedless step above a waterfall would send the rich and poor, the powerful and the powerless, to their deaths. No bribe or petition would make it otherwise. Wilderness could not be corrupted by humans, but humans often destroyed what they could not corrupt. One summer afternoon he followed the stream beside the cabin to its source, then went farther up the mountain until nothing rose above him but the sky. He looked out at the surrounding mountains and valleys, the virid green of the nearer ridges, the hazy blue of the farther mountains. But he also saw something else, smoke rising from a lumber camp. He knew what would come next, the sound of axes and saws, then the clamor of a train engine bringing more men and axes and saws — a wilderness chained to flat cars and hauled away. Whole mountains scalped, the stumps of felled trees like gravestones. Streams fouled, dead fish clotting the shallows. He had already witnessed such devastation in the nearby Black Mountains, nothing left but a wasteland of stumps and silt. It would soon happen here too if not stopped, was happening. When logging began on Hazel Creek, he was forced to abandon the cabin and move to a boardinghouse on the wilderness’s east-
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
ern flank. So he joined others who understood what was being lost. Following the example of John Muir, who’d garnered nationwide support to establish Yosemite National Park, the coalition sought allies both in and outside the Smokies. For a quarter-century, he and his compatriots fought against the timber companies to create the Smoky Mountains National Park. Though he continued to disappear into the woods, sometimes camping for weeks, most of his energy was focused on helping save the East’s last great forest. He wrote letters and articles, made trips to Washington. What he and others could not accomplish with words, his friend George Masa did with photographs depicting both the forests that had been destroyed and the ones that might soon be. Wilderness advocates across the nation joined the fight. Newspapers in North Carolina and Tennessee furthered the cause. But the timber companies had their advocates too. The attacks against the park’s best-known supporters became personal. He found himself denounced publicly as a Bolshevik, an opium addict, a drunk, a man who’d been deserted by his own wife and family. Because of his Japanese ancestry, Masa was denounced as a foreigner. Attempts were made to deport him. The timber companies tried to bribe and threaten politicians who supported the park, and sometimes they succeeded. There were death threats too. Public meetings brimmed with potential violence. Again and again, it appeared the timber companies had won. By 1920, he wrote a friend that there was no hope. At such times the melancholy deepened. He feared the insanity might return. But each time all had appeared lost, crucial support came. Children gave pennies at school. John D. Rockefeller donated five-million dollars. George Masa’s photographs convinced Grace Coolidge, the First Lady, to join the cause. The governors of Tennessee and North Carolina advocated for the park in their states and in Washington. Newspaper editors in Knoxville and Asheville wrote more editorials. Public opinion became solidly pro-park, even after the stock market crashed, plunging the country into depression. Now it is April 2, 1931. Two months ago, he went to Washington with Governor Horton and Governor Gardner to hand over to the Secretary of the Interior the deeds to the purchased land. It was only 150,000 acres, three-hundred thousand short of officially being a national park, but enough to satisfy the National Park Service. It will happen, he believes, though it may take another year or two to complete the final deeds and sales.
❧ A light knock at his door breaks his reverie. Mr. Kephart, his landlady says. Your friend is waiting in the parlor. Tell Mr. Tarleton I’ll join him shortly, he replies. Earlier today Tarleton congratulated him, believing the park now an inevitability. But the envelope in his hand, which came in the afternoon mail, makes clear not everyone agrees. Kephart, Go back to St. Louis and your asylum or you will be killed, the enclosed note threatens. A newspaper clipping accompanies the note, dated March 25, 1904. Horace Kephart Is Held for Observation, The Art & Soul of Greensboro
the headline proclaims. The timber companies and their minions have not yet given up. He places the clipping and the note back in the envelope. In Saint Louis, a diseased mind had convinced him of all sorts of plots to take his life; now sanity argues not to dismiss this threat. But advocating for the park has brought death threats before, to him and others. In September he will be sixty-nine. He never imagined that he might live this long. Yet his wrinkles and gray hair confirm it. He feels the rheumatism in his knees and back, no doubt in part from decades of hiking and camping. Though still able to hike farther than many men half his age, he knows these ailments may soon force him to spend less time in the forests than he’d wish. But if the time comes when he is confined in this room, he will be able to look out his window and see the mountains, one of which has been named Mount Kephart. He thinks of the cabin on Hazel Creek. Once the park is complete, neither he nor anyone will live there again. It pleases him to imagine the wilderness slowly reclaiming the cabin. There will come a time when the land itself will have forgotten the cabin’s once-presence. By then the scars left by the timber companies will have healed. Even the railroad tracks will rust away. The envelope with the newspaper clipping and threat is still in his hand. He tears it in half, drops it into the trash can. I wanted to save these mountains because they saved me, he’d written. It was a grandiose statement. They had indeed saved him, but others had paid a cost, most of all his wife. As for his children, they are all but strangers. Altruism is invariably a means to conceal one’s personal failures. The spouse of a timber baron had told him that three years ago at a public meeting. The statement haunts him. And for all of his words about the healing aspects of nature, his desire for liquor has never been quelled. There continue to be times he drinks himself into unconsciousness. Perhaps tonight as well. He takes out his pocket watch, checks it. It is almost time to meet his friend Tarleton. They have hired a driver to take them to a bootlegger. They will drink tonight. If, as is his wont, he will be no good in the morning, he will lie in bed most of the day to recover. But even so, by this weekend he will be revived enough to join George Masa for a hike. He has a surprise for George. Last spring as he was hiking alone, he discovered a patch of Oconee Bells. They are found nowhere else in the world except here and a few neighboring counties. Even here they are extremely rare. In all of his years wandering these mountains, he had never come upon them until last spring. Now it is their bloom time once more, the white flowers rising from the dark-green glabrous leaves. This late in life, what wonder to have finally seen them. He rises from the chair, fetches the key he will lock his door with, and will never need again. OH
❧ Coda: Horace Kephart and his friend Fiswoode Tarleton died in a car wreck on the night of April 2, 1931. The driver survived but gave contradictory answers as to what happened. Kephart’s body was discovered forty feet from the car, the cause of death a broken neck. On September 2, 1940, Franklin D. Roosevelt dedicated The Great Smoky Mountains National Park “for the permanent enjoyment of the people.” O.Henry 61
The First
Funeral Fiction by Clyde Edgerton
Illustrations by David Stanley
62 O.Henry
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
A
1977, Hurt, Tennessee
great big lady goes under the funeral tent in her high heels and sings “How Great Thou Art.” She just belts it out. She’s wearing glasses with thick, black rims. And she’s got on a brown hat with a black feather. It’s Mrs. Britt’s funeral and Mrs. Britt is a hundred years old. Or was a hundred years old. This is my first funeral in the Funeral Militia, and I don’t want to do anything wrong. Jimbo Summerlin is the captain and he graduated from high school last year and everybody else in the Funeral Militia is about the same age as him. I’m in the fourth grade. There are seven of us here today. The Quaker’s Son is the head of the Funeral Militia and he works at the nuclear bomb place and had to be there today. He’s the oldest one and his granddaddy was a famous Quaker. The big lady is singing the song in a real big way. If we join the Funeral Militia though we sign a contract about never joining the Army. Mama signed mine. This all started ten years ago, right after some people came home from Vietnam. Jimbo calls cadence when the Funeral Militia marches. Hup, two, three, four. I want to be the caller when I get big enough. A yellow lightning bolt is on the left sleeve of my uniform, like the others. There’s a plow on the right side. Then it says Funeral Militia in a curve on my front pocket. The uniform is dark blue and the writing and stuff is yellow. We stand outside the tent while the funeral goes on underneath it — with the family sitting down. We are at Quaker Field. A lot of people stand around outside the tent listening to the song. The seats under the tent are filled up. The sun is hot, and you can smell the cut grass from where Dennis Warton just finished mowing around the Quaker House and on out here. I will do a drum roll while Lonnie plays the Red River Valley on the trumpet at the very end of everything. Lonnie plays a trumpet instead of a bugle. Jimbo does the foldup-and-present the flag part when it’s a man who has served in the armed forces. The preacher is talking. Preacher Knight. He is almost all the way bald-headed and has this big Adam’s apple and is a little bit skinny. The whole funeral was at the Methodist church where we sat in the balcony, but they brought Mrs. Britt here to get buried. The pall bears loaded her into the back end of the hearse while we stood at attention right there close by. A lot of people get buried out here. A man from Knoxville came to a funeral one time and said the Funeral Militia is against the law. We stand in two rows just outside the tent. Today, it’s three in the front row and four in the second row. I get to stand at the end of the second row. The reason Jimbo is in the Funeral Militia is because his uncle got killed in World War Two and some other people got killed and the Quaker’s Son started the Funeral Militia like it had been started a long time ago but died out with Hitler and them. Everybody has to look straight ahead while we stand here, and I think about how Jimbo can run really fast and he throws a baseball side-armed when he pitches. Sometimes he
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
chews tobacco. He’s kind of a buddy with the Quaker’s Son. I hold my drumsticks in my left hand whether I’m at attention or at ease, and my right thumb has to hold tight against the seam on my pants when I’m at attention. My hands go behind me when it’s “at ease.” I have to keep my drum quiet by not hitting it or scraping against it and all that. The singer lady is real big and like I said has got this brown hat that has a black feather up out of it. She is wearing a tan dress that kind of holds up her front end. She finishes the song. She sang a little bit like a opera singer. She is wearing high heel shoes that I wonder if they are going to stick in the ground. Mama has some shoes that are a little bit high. This is the biggest funeral I’ve ever seen at Quaker Field. Mr. Knight is reading a scripture. When it’s over, Lonnie plays Red River Valley while I do the drum part. It’s not hard. It’s the next day now and I can tell you what happened right after the funeral finished and we did Red River Valley. The opera lady walked right straight into this open grave that was not Mrs. Britt’s grave. That grave was covered up with a great big green rug that looked like grass. Somebody had covered up the open part of the grave instead of the dirt that came out of the grave. They was supposed to just cover up the dirt and put planks over the grave. It was a big mistake. It might have been Dennis or Tiny, or the Mustees. I had just looked at her when she was kind of walking out from under the tent — because you kind of wanted to look at her with her big padded shoulders, and then I looked at something else, and was waiting for “attention,” and somebody hollered, and when I looked back I noticed that she had just disappeared from the earth. Everybody started over toward the open grave, except not the people who were already down where the cars were parked. That’s where Mama was. I slid my drum strap off, put the drum down easy, and ran over to the grave where I got up right to the edge of it. The lady was down in there pretty covered up by the rug. I had thought about how big she was when she was singing “How Great Thou Art.” She had these shoulder pads under her dress on her shoulders like Mama does when she dresses up. She had a big, you know, chest, too. The dress was tan, which I think I said. Then she got part of the rug all moved back and she’s laying on her back looking up. Baby Jesus in swaddling clothes popped in my head. Her head was kind of rolling back and I figured she’d had the breath knocked out of her because she was looking like that, that look, and her hat was still on and it must have been pinned on or something. It is a brown hat with a black feather, if I didn’t say that. But her glasses were gone with the wind. Everybody got quiet and I looked around. Preacher Knight was standing there, and Jimbo was kind of kneeling down across the grave from me. I was wondering about what he was thinking, about what he was going to do. Preacher Knight said to me, “Son, don’t get too close to the edge.” He said it like he might be a little bit mad, so I backed up. Jimbo didn’t say anything to me, though. He didn’t even look O.Henry 63
at me. He started talking to the lady. “Are you okay?” he says. And she breathes kind of deep and says, “Hell, no. I’m not okay. Jesus God.” With her talking like that, I looked up at Preacher Knight. He said to her, “Can you stand up?” “I wouldn’t be on my ass if I could stand up,” she says. She’s from Nashville, and that’s probably why she talks like that. The preacher just said, “Well . . . “ Some other people were coming back up from down where the cars were parked. But I didn’t see Mama. All the Funeral Militia were standing around and I wondered what Jimbo was going to do. The preacher says, “That was a wonderful rendition of ‘How Great Thou Art.’” Floyd says, kind of quiet, “I’ll say how great thou art.” More people were standing around now, and some more people were coming up. Mr. Knight says, “Somebody needs to get down in there and get her out.” I thought about me. I wondered if Jimbo thought about me or about hisself or somebody else. Lonnie says, “There ain’t no room down there, man.” Lonnie is the biggest one in the Funeral Militia. “We need a ladder,” said Kenny. I thought about me going down in there, but I didn’t know if I wanted to or not. I might do something wrong. And I didn’t know the lady. Then I thought about Jimbo maybe choosing me to go down in there and help her out. “Just pull her up with the tractor bucket,” said Lonnie. “What?” said Jimbo. “We can get one of those kids’ swings,” said Lonnie, “from behind the Quaker House and hang it on the bucket with some S hooks. She sits in it and we pull her up.” “Go get the tractor,” said Jimbo. “The keys is in it.” He was getting to be in charge. I figured he would. I looked at the preacher and wondered what he would say. Jimbo said to Carl, “Go get a swing down off that swing set.” Lonnie was walking on toward the tractor. It sits under a shed in the edge of the woods. Preacher Knight said, “Can’t we just get a ladder?” “We’re going to rig up a swing,” says Jimbo. “That way she don’t have to climb out.” “Wouldn’t a ladder be simpler?” says Preacher Knight. “I’d be nervous on a ladder,” says the lady up to the preacher. “I might be hurt.” Everybody was quiet and we heard the tractor crank up down at the edge of the woods. She was still on her back. I looked around. Some people still didn’t know about what happened because they weren’t coming over. “This will be easy, ma’am,” said Jimbo. I was across the grave, watching him talk down to her. “We got a tractor coming with a bucket on the front, with hydraulics, and we are going to hang a swing set on it.” “A bucket?” she says. “Yes ma’am. Kind of like a big shovel. Like a bulldozer blade,
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sort of. We are going to hook a swing to it. So you can just sit in it and get lifted right up and out.” Floyd quiet-like started singing, “Love lifted me.” Him and Lonnie get goofy sometimes. Now the crowd is a little bigger and pretty close up to the grave. “I think we better get somebody down in there and help you stand up. Is that okay?” said Jimbo. But he didn’t look across at me. “It’s too bad she didn’t land sitting up,” said Lonnie. “What?” said the lady. “I was just talking to Floyd,” Lonnie says. Then Mrs. Knight, the preacher’s wife, walks up from down where the family cars were — where Mama still was. “What happened?” she says. Then she sees and says, “Oh, my goodness.” “She fell in the grave,” says Jimbo. “Oh my goodness,” says Mrs. Knight again, and then she says down into the grave, “Are you okay, Myrtle?” “I don’t know. I don’t know if I can get up. Is that you, Pauline?” says the lady. “I can’t half see. My glasses fell off. I hope to hell they’re not broke.” “These boys will get you out,” says Mrs. Knight. “Lord knows they do everything else around here. Where is the Quaker’s Son?” Lonnie said, “He’s at Oak Ridge today.” “They’re getting a tractor,” said Mr. Knight. “The boys are getting a tractor.” “A tractor?” says Mrs. Knight. Jimbo says, “We’re going to drop down a swing, number one. She sits, number two. We lift her right out. Bingo.” “Oh,” says Mrs. Knight. “The song was beautiful, Myrtle.” “Well, thank you. Then I busted my ass.” I looked up at Mr. Knight. I wondered why she kept saying bad words. I wondered who put the rug over the grave. Mr. Knight said, “Maybe you could just turn over on your stomach and then get up on your knees and hands?” Floyd said, “That’s easy for you to say.” The tractor was coming up with the front-end bucket that you can lift up high. Then in the next minute or two they got it all rigged up so the bucket was up high and the swing was hanging from it. “How about letting the boy down to help her get set, get that carpet off her?” said Mr. Knight. Jimbo looked at me, and then at Mr. Knight. And I wondered what he was going to say. But he didn’t say anything. He was going to pick somebody else, I figured. Then he looked straight at me and here’s what he said, “Go ahead, Gary.” Gary is my cousin’s name. He didn’t know who I was. He said, “Try to get that grass rug — carpet — off her first.” “Okay,” I said. I wished he’d called me my name, Ozzie. I thought about what if I messed up. “Can I ride the swing down?” I said. “Good idea,” said Kenny. “Get on there.” I got in the seat and they let me down and I got off right beside her so I wasn’t standing on her, but I was on the grass rug, and I could smell the inside of the earth and it smelled like fishing worms down in there and mixed in was her perfume. They pulled the swing back up. The Art & Soul of Greensboro
The top of the ground was up above my head. I started pulling back on the rug to get it from around her waist and around her feet, but I had to kind of go slow and keep my balance because the grave was so narrow. “What’s your name, son?” she said. “Ozzie,” I said. I looked at her and she had makeup on her eyes. I looked up for Jimbo, but he was over at the tractor, I guess. I could hear the tractor motor. She was helping me kind of get the rug-carpet thing from around her and kind of working herself out of it, and she was on her side, starting to turn over. She stopped moving and looked at me and said, “Ozzie, where did you get that uniform?” “I’m in the Funeral Militia,” I said. “What is that?” “We do military funerals but they ain’t military funerals. They are CC’s. Commemorative Ceremonies, but they are kind of like military funerals, except that’s not what they are.” She got all the way out from under the rug thing, and while she was getting out, she said, “Did you know Mrs. Britt?” “Yes ma’am.” “She was my aunt. She was my daddy’s sister. She was one hundred years old.” Then she looked at her feet. “Can you pull off my damn shoes?” “Yes ma’am.” “Thank you, Ozzie. I hope I don’t last a hundred years,” she says. She was working herself up to a sit-up position. “Do you think you can find my glasses?” she said. “I think they might be under me. I hope they’re not broke. Hell, I could just go ahead and get buried now.” She was looking at me and smiled and I liked her even after she said those words. I looked around, and there were her glasses in the corner nearest by. “Here they are,” I said. I got over to them and picked them up and handed them to her and all the while I was smelling the damp dirt and the perfume. “Who the hell would dig a grave and then cover it up with a carpet?” she said. “I don’t know,” I said. Jimbo said down to her, “If you can sit in the swing, we’ll lift you right out.” She reached out toward me and I grabbed her hand. “Grab my elbow,” she said, and I did. She almost pulled me right down on top of her, but she got up to sitting, and then worked her way up to standing. She brushed off the bottom part of her dress. Somebody up top said, “Can she maybe sing a song from down there?” Somebody else said, “Sentimental Journey.” “Ha, ha,” she said, but she wadn’t laughing. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I’ve got some pain in my shoulder,” and she gets in the swing, and is just sitting there. “Mercy, Lord,” she says. The swing starts up and it gets her feet almost up to my knees and one of them S hooks starts slipping up at the top of the bucket thing, sliding down the edge of it, and the swing goes crooked and she’s got one foot on the ground and one in the air and she starts turning in a little circle, holding on to the chains with that one foot The Art & Soul of Greensboro
on the ground. “Shit,” she says. “What the hell?” She looks up at the tractor. “My fault, my fault,” yells Kenny. He was driving the tractor. He let the swing down and she slipped out of the swing and stood up there beside me up close, and I smelled the perfume and she turned toward me and I was sort of looking right at her chest, and I remember dancing with Mama at the Ruritan club one time. Carl told us the S hook was fixed. “I don’t think she’s going to get out for awhile,” said Lonnie. They tried again and lifted her up slow with everybody quiet, and you could hear the seat make a tiny cracking sound, and I heard some crows, until she was up there clear of the grave. Then Kenny turned it and swung her slow over the ground and she did a odd thing right then. I could see her top half over the edge of the grave from where I was — she started swinging like you do in a swing, and then she started singing, “Gonna take a sentimental journey. Sentimental journey home.” I kind of liked her, except she said those ugly words. They dropped the swing back down and I got in and rode up and out. We didn’t march I formation back to the Quaker House because it was like a whole different day once we got her out. What happened was they got the rug out and we all started walking back to the Quaker House and just when we started, Jimbo walked over to me and didn’t say anything. He turned me around and put his hands under my armpits and lifted me up till I was on his shoulders and he walked me like that all the way to the Quaker House. I held onto his head under his chin. I felt like it was okay that he got my name wrong. I would ask Mama to tell him who I was. It was the end of my first day in the Funeral Militia. It’s tonight, and all that happened yesterday, and tonight I take Addie out to pee. It’s kind of warm and cloudy. Addie is our dog that stays in the house. I sit on the steps and wonder about what would happen if Addie fell into an open grave. I wonder how many dogs have ever fell into open graves. I get to thinking about all the stars that I can’t see because of the low clouds that are covering up everything. OH O.Henry 65
There’s a Book Club for That Even better than reading a book is reading a book with friends By Ross Howell Jr. • Photograph by Bert VanderVeen
W
ant to find a local book club? A great resource is the Greensboro Public Library. I did my snooping at the downtown Central Library, where I met Amy Bacon, 30-something library associate, book lover and avid reader. “Book club participants, by nature, are voracious readers,” Bacon says. “I’ll read a couple books a month, maybe three or four, maybe five in a good month,” Bacon continues. “But there are people in the clubs who read a book every day or so!” Bacon acquired her reading appetite from her mother, Michelle Masters, an English teacher at Mendenhall Middle School. “She encouraged reading early on,” Bacon says. “She wouldn’t say, ‘Now you have to read for 30 minutes.’ She’d say, ‘Now you get to read for 30 minutes.’” J. K. Rowling was also a big influence. Given Bacon’s age when the Harry Potter novels were published and the fact that her mom was teaching in middle school, the books really resonated. “When they did the midnight releases,” Bacon says, “there we’d be at Barnes & Noble bookstore, waiting. Mom always bought two copies, because neither of us could wait to read!” Bacon’s a proud advocate for libraries and book clubs. “Every time I meet someone new, I ask if they have
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a library card,” she laughs. Bacon earned her bachelor’s degree at Appalachian State University in psychology, and her master’s degree in library and information science at UNCG. Shortly after she became a full-time librarian in 2018, Bacon was put in charge of the book club collection, curating it with two other staff librarians. It’s a big job. For starters, there’s the plethora of new releases each year. Bacon consults places such as Oprah’s Book Club selections, reviews and lists in The New York Times, or Goodreads for new books. Sometimes the leaders of local clubs will email her about forthcoming titles in their particular focus areas. And the library always tries to spotlight local and North Carolina authors. It’s not an exact science. “Sometimes we have titles that get really popular out of nowhere,” Bacon says. When the novel Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens was released, it checked several book club boxes — good summer read, North Carolina setting, nature, coming of age. The Art & Soul of Greensboro
“I thought it would do well, but I didn’t anticipate its fantastic popularity,” Bacon says. The library ended up ordering six book club sets of 12–15 copies per set, and they’re still circulating widely. Then there’s the matter of branch locations. There are book clubs that meet not only at the Central Library, but also at the Blanche S. Benjamin branch, the Glenn McNairy branch, the Glenwood branch, the Hemphill branch, the Kathleen Clay Edwards Family branch, the McGirt-Horton branch and the Vance H. Chavis Lifelong Learning branch. There are about 20 library-sponsored book clubs with a branch library staff person facilitating meetings scattered among these locations. And there are dozens of independent book clubs that also need support, some through retirement homes and senior services, and many through neighborhood and church groups. Bacon estimates that there are more than 250 book clubs using Greensboro Public Library collections. That’s a lot of serious readers! “When someone requests a title for a book club set, staff members and I have to consider if other clubs might use it,” Bacon says. “We don’t want to order 15 copies of a book that might only be used once.” She passes along her buy list based on requests and recommendations, along with her own research and experience. The final decision, of course, is made based on consensus with library colleagues and budget allocations. Library volunteers play a key role in getting book club sets out to readers. “I don’t know what we’d do without our volunteers,” Bacon says. Since the pandemic, Bacon has seen a rise in book club participation. While most clubs still meet in person, the library also developed a Zoom hybrid meeting format. “We’re seeing a lot of people participating now who weren’t before,” Bacon says. “Because we have such a diverse collection,” she adds, “there’s a book club for anybody.” Bacon herself recently joined a new sci-fi/fantasy reading club. Other clubs focus on mystery, nature and environment, books by or about women, international, African American literature and history, young adult, literary fiction and more. “And if there’s not a book club you want to join, you can start your own,” Bacon says. “I can help you either way.” OH For more information, visit www.library.greensboro-nc.gov/booksmedia/book-clubs or contact Amy Bacon, phone 336-373-7878, email Amy.Bacon@greensboro-nc.gov. Ross Howell Jr. is a contributing writer. Email ross.howell1@gmail.com. The Art & Soul of Greensboro
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I
By Maria Johnson
•
f we’re lucky, we’ll get to see a strawberry moon tonight. “Does anybody know why it’s called a strawberry moon?” Jo Proia asks the half dozen women assembled at lake’s edge. No one ventures a guess. “They call it a strawberry moon because this is the time of year that strawberries ripen,” she explains. Six of us — suited up in life-vests, bug spray and quick-drying clothes — nod thoughtfully. So much for the image of a pink, berry-shaped moon in my mind. Proia continues her primer on what to expect during the fullmoon paddle, a two-hour kayak trip that she’ll lead through the dusky waters of Belews Lake and up one of the creeks that feed it near Stokesdale. First, she says, we’ll paddle to the other side of the cove, skirt the bank, slip through a narrow channel marked by an old bridge abutment and glide up the creek that runs nearly all the way to Kernersville. We won’t go that far tonight, she says. But we will stay on the water long enough to feel nature. In real time. With no filters and no distractions. That’s why she’s adamant that everyone needs to mute and stash her phone. Even for pictures. “I’ve been known to throw phones in the water,” she says. She’s joking, but we don’t know that. She assures us that she carries a phone for emergencies, and she’ll use a waterproof camera to take pictures and videos, which she’ll post later on the Facebook page of her business, Outdoor Women by Jo Proia. We’ll stop periodically, she says, to check in with each other. We’ll also pause for a moment of meditation and some onboard yoga. “Who can do a headstand in their kayak?” Proia asks with a straight face. The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Photographs by Jo Proia Pulses quicken. “NO ONE CAN!” Proia says, lowering expectations back into the human zone. “We’re not gonna do that.” Smiles break out. It’s time to paddle into the darkness to see what we can see.
She was a cloud watcher as a kid. She loved to lie in the grass and pick out shapes in the puffs of vapor that drifted over her family’s farm in Oxford. The youngest child in her family by five years, she rode an Appaloosa pony, her best friend, through the pastures and woods for hours. In the summers, she picked prickly cucumbers and tied up sticky tobacco leaves until her palms turned black. The blistering work stamped her with resolve. She would leave the farm. She would graduate from a four-year college. She would make a different life. In essence, she would heed the advice of a poster taped to the wall of her father’s Air Force recruiting office: “Aim High.” Her parents helped her land scholarships — one academic, one for being first runner-up in the Miss Henderson pageant of 1989 — that covered part of the cost of attending Vance-Granville Community College in Henderson. Proia bridged the money gap with baby-sitting and mall jobs. After two years, one class stood between her and graduation. Her adviser said she’d have to wait a couple of semesters until the class was offered again. “I can’t wait,” Proia told her. “You need to finish your associate’s degree,” the adviser said. “You’ll never graduate from a university.” Raised to be a polite Southern woman, Proia bit her tongue and doubled-down. She walked to another office and started calling four-year schools. Most had stopped admitting students for the coming fall. UNCG was closing registration that day. “What do I need to do?” Proia asked.
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“You need to show up,” the registrar said. Proia hung up the phone and called her older sister. “Let’s go,” her sister said. “I’ll ride shotgun.” An hour and a half later, Proia was standing in a long line at UNCG. When she made it to the front, she spilled her story to the woman who reviewed her transcript.“I’ll be the first in my family to graduate from a four-year college, and I will graduate if you give me a chance,” Proia said. The woman held her gaze for a moment. “Welcome to UNCG,” she said. Thirty years later, Proia — who packs a bachelor’s degree, along with a passel of certifications and licenses for her work — can see that woman’s face in her mind. “I wish I knew her name,” Proia says. “That was a pivotal moment in my life, for sure. She held my future in her hands is the way I looked at it. I was so glad it was a woman.”
“Does anyone know the name of that tree,” Proia says, pointing her paddle to a tree laden with fuzzy pink tassels. “Mimosa,” someone says. “I wish I had a mimosa,” says another, referring to the champagne-and-orange-juice drink. We’re 15 minutes into the paddle and well into getting to know each other. There’s Juanita from Winston-Salem. Debbie from Greensboro. Susan from High Point. Candice from Wentworth. And Candice’s friend Brandy from Charleston, S.C. Brandy and her husband are thinking about moving to Greensboro to be closer to family. An avid birder, she’s excited to learn that fish hawks live
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around here. “You have ospreys?! I told my husband that I was going to miss ospreys if we moved away.” We stop paddling for a round of guided stretching. Proia calls it “kye-yoga”. Sun salutations. Seated twists. Gentle back bends. Shoulder rolls. Toe flexes. “Reach up high. Now let your hands float down by your sides, into the water if you’re comfortable with that,” Proia guides. “Let the tension melt into the water.”
A wonderful son. A wonderful husband. A wonderful home. A wonderful faith. A wonderful job. Proia, who proved to be an ace at selling everything from pagers to Mary Kay cosmetics, seemed to have it all. Why then, did she feel something was missing? And why didn’t she know what it was? She figured it out when she accompanied a friend on a kayakand-camp trip to Cape Lookout on the Outer Banks. Their guide was a former Marine. He expected his charges to tackle physical challenges with gusto. Proia hated it. “I remember screaming, ‘I’m a housewife!’” she recalls. “I said a lot of bad words that day.” The next morning, she stepped out of the tent and looked across the water. She saw wild horses running on an island. “Whatever was broken inside me was fixed,” she says. “I said to the little Marine, ‘We’re paddling over there.’ He said, ‘I thought you were done with kayaking.’ I said, ‘We’re paddling over there.’” She drove back home knowing that she could not return to life as she’d known it. She arrived after dark and woke up her husband. “I said, ‘Things are gonna change around here. I’m gonna get a kayak, and I’m gonna get a horse.’”
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Later, her husband John, a financial adviser, joked about that night: “If we’d only known all she needed was a horse and some water.” Proia started riding again. She taught herself the finer points of kayaking. Then she taught her female friends how to kayak. Then a bell dinged in her brain. Maybe this kind of work — helping other women uncover their braver natures by experiencing adventures in nature — was her calling. “Women need other women,” Proia says. “We’re not antimale… But a lot of women would not come to what I offer — traditionally male pursuits — if it was coed. When there’s an opportunity to try something new, some women will step back if men are around.” For more than eight years, Proia ran kayaking and camping programs for a local outfitter. In 2020, during the COVID lockdown, she launched her own brand and expanded her scope to include whitewater and flat-water kayaking; stand-up paddle boarding; camping; hiking; backpacking; shooting; archery; rock-climbing; survival skills; horseback riding or horse-handling for those who aren’t ready to giddy up. Proia leads most of the sessions. In some cases, she hires female contractors who are more expert than she is. In both cases, Proia expects clients to digest lengthy emails on what to expect. “What I’m really teaching women is, ‘Don’t follow. Lead yourself,’” she says.
We fall into a single-file line, threading our way up the shallow creek as the sinking sun washes the horizon in pink. There’s no sign of the moon, but the night is coaxing the woods and the water to life. A barn owl issues a rusty, scraping call. A belted kingfisher, looking punky with its feathery mohawk and dagger-like beak, scuds across the sky. Frogs begin their evening chant. Meep-meep-meep. Fish breach the water with a flash of silver. Beavers slap their tails against the water, protesting visitors. The sky overhead deepens to smoky blue. The only light comes from neon glow sticks tied to the kayaks and from the million-dollar homes that hug the lake. Proia halts the paddle and passes out slices of watermelon. Candice is ecstatic. She’s undergoing a series of dental surgeries and this is the first fruit she’s been able to eat in weeks. “This is soooo good,” she says. We smile juicy smiles with her. Juanita, from Winston-Salem, is happy for another reason. She’s not tippy tonight. “Tipsy?” Someone teases. A stickler for safety, Proia allows no alcohol on the water. “Tippy,” Juanita repeats with a grin. She used to wobble in the water, she says, but the more she kayaks — she’s a regular on Proia’s excursions — the better she gets.
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Growth is a common theme among Proia’s regulars. Kayaking has helped Debbie, from Greensboro, overcome a fear of water. Susan, from High Point, took up paddling for stress relief after her mother suffered a couple of heart attacks and her husband was stricken with a debilitating disease. “It was life-changing. I was able to connect with nature and totally let go,” says Susan, who went on to start Triad Water Stewards, a group that cleans up area lakes. “I am a kayaker in my blood now. This thing with Jo has expanded my life.”
Proia stops the group shy of the boat ramp, where motorboats drip dry on trailers. She nods toward a flickering light on shore. “See that big screen TV up in that house?” Proia says. “There’s nothing wrong with that. We all like to get on the couch and watch TV sometimes. But give yourselves credit. Y’all came out here tonight, in the dark, and went up a creek . . . ” “With a paddle,” adds Juanita. The mood is light. We’ve been on the water for three hours, subsisting on water and watermelon, but no one seems tired. Proia looks back in the direction we’ve come from. “There’s the moon!” she says. Paddles churn in reverse as we spin our boats around to see a smudgy yellow orb rising to the south.“Look at the shape.” “Look at the corona.” “Look at the reflection on the water.” A beam of white light fractures and wiggles across the inky water as Sister Moon, creator of tides, exerts her pull on Mother Earth. And us. Silence wraps our bobbing boats. There’s no internet out here, but the connection is strong. OH Maria Johnson is a contributing editor of O.Henry magazine. Contact her at ohenrymaria@gmail.com.
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The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Lavender
Field of Dreams Follow your nose to Red Feather Ranch
By Cynthia Adams • Photographs by Amy Freeman
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“S
weat is nearly as wonderful as the smell of lavender,” claims Dianne Reganess, who presides over Red Feather Ranch, a 24-acre property on Ritter’s Farm Road. “I love hard work.” Clad in hard-working clothes, T-shirts and jeans, Dianne proves the point, steering a Polaris Ranger utility vehicle — with ample space for flower buckets — inspecting orderly rows. She eyes a second planting of 400 organically-grown lavender plants in green formation. (Current number of lavender plants? Almost 1,000.) Dianne’s blue-gray eyes approximate the colors of the Sweet Melissa Lilac, Grosso, Grosso Blue, Riverina Thomas and Provence varietals she finds best suited and most productive in her USDA Plant Hardiness Zone, 7-B. Although she is a member of the United States Lavender Growers Association, managing a farm and cut flowers business, Dianne once wore a snappy Air Force uniform, which she eventually exchanged for business suits when later joining the financial world. At First Union Securities, where she met husband Jonathan, a financial manager, she worked as a cage operator, responsible for placing orders for stocks and the ticker tape that would print out. “A complicated job,” she says. “I also was the cashier, documenting checks coming in and going out. Compliance manager . . . etc.” In time, Dianne joined an estimated 40,000 women in farming and agri-businesses throughout the North Carolina Piedmont. Growing lavender is a challenging endeavor, she says: “You have to trick it, and make it think it’s somewhere it’s not.” Jonathan helps when his work allows. But all of the maintenance and work of growing a fickle herb and an expanding variety of
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flowers, are her own. Daily labors she does joyfully. “I built every bed out there by myself. I did all the irrigation by myself. It’s hard work, but it’s very rewarding,” Dianne says. She jumps back into the small vehicle, proudly pointing out the new “high tunnel” — grower lingo for a large commercial greenhouse. As with all farmers, the day starts early. At 7 a.m. during growing season, Dianne has completed picking and harvesting, plus hitting the office mid-morning to deal with online orders. “By 1 p.m., most of the work is done. Flowers don’t like heat.” With Dianne working mostly alone, apart from an occasional volunteer, the one-woman, great lavender experiment has blossomed into a visually stunning, yet all-consuming, endeavor. And it couldn’t be more ironic, she jokes. “I’m a terrible gardener,” Dianne confides darkly. “I cannot grow a thing for my house. But flower farming is so very different.” The mindset is different, she says, and the strategy is different. The running joke in her family, she shares, is “do not give Dianne a houseplant. She’ll kill it.” “So here I am, with all this going — all out there,” she says, waving toward the fields. At this point, she giggles. Some of her family still cannot believe she created this field of lavender dreams. Her mother, an avid gardener, always knew she had it in her. “My mom said, ‘Welcome to the other side! You’re finally recognizing what we always knew was there!’” “All this” commenced in 2016, a year after Dianne and Jonathan found a long-pursued farm listed on Zillow, promptly scheduling a look-see. “And I came over the top of the hill, and The Art & Soul of Greensboro
I said, ‘This is it!’ I just knew, seeing the land, that pond, the house. This was it!” Here was ample room for an outsized dream Dianne had been nursing. As for the name? Red Feather Ranch was carved in stone at the gated entrance. “I kind of took it as a sign since my favorite bird is the cardinal. When we pulled onto the property that very first time and I saw that, I thought to myself — that's kind of neat!” says Dianne. The partially-wooded 24 acres included a barn, outbuildings, a spring-fed pond, creek and a white pine, custom log home at the center. Redolent of the Ponderosa on the Western Bonanza, it would have been the deal maker for many, but Dianne was equally star struck by the land itself. “All woods. Creek. Great for our three children,” Dianne says. Her eldest, Samantha, was 19 at the time. Daughter Mackenzie, now 15, was 9; son Alex, 17, was 11. “I would have never thought [we would buy a] log home, though we loved a rustic look,” she says. The house would serve their needs well. “It’s a spacious house. There were [then] five of us here. Plus, three dogs. Three cats.” It was a farm in theory. However, six years ago, there were no fields. No commercial greenhouse either. At the time, Samantha, now in Asheville, worked with American Conservation Experience on habitat restoration. Her knowledge concerning invasive species removal, planting and more proved a strong resource as the farm developed. Dianne’s mother, who had relocated to the Triad from the West Coast “is an amazing gardener. Grew up in California. She can grow anything.” The Art & Soul of Greensboro
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But not so for Dianne, whose abilities held few hints of what was to come. “I went into the Air Force straight out of high school. My father was in the military.” Posted abroad for nine years, she trained as a graphic artist, creating images and visuals used in briefings for military brass. “To Generals,” she clarifies. “It was classified information. Top secret.” Stationed near the southwest border of France, her final years were in Ramstein, Germany, near stunning fields. “When I was in Europe, you would be driving along and pass rows and rows of lavender and sunflowers — it was the simplicity of it really that was so breathtaking. No frilly houses or structures . . . just the plants,” Dianne left the military at age 27. Reentering civilian life, she met Jonathan while both worked at First Union Securities. In 2003, they wed at the home of friends Andrew and Hilary Clement, a fortuitous sign given the Clements now own the Finch House, a Thomasville wedding venue. “Maybe we were practice,” jokes Dianne. (See the February 2021 issue of O. Henry magazine’s “Labor of Love.”) They honeymooned north of Edinburgh, Scotland, “where my family originally is from,” she says. Jonathan’s family’s Swiss. For years, Dianne flashed back to striking fields of color. She imagined herself growing sunflowers, a notion Jonathan endorsed. Dianne eventually left the financial world, where Jonathan remained, and refocused upon their growing family and . . . growing plants. The family lived in Summerfield while seeking a small farm. Then, the aforementioned Zillow listing appeared. Driving over the rise the day she first approached the house, “I had a vision of sunflowers,” she says. The expansive log home seemed perfect. It was everything the family hoped for, but Dianne was even more excited by what lay outside. Arable land! Early on, they tilled the front section in preparation for Dianne’s venture. “I was planning to have sunflowers.” Then, reality. “I planted about 4,000 seeds by hand. Maybe, maybe, 50 of them grew. I was so disheartened!” The land, accustomed to growing something else, won out. The grass, she says, “completely took over my sunflowers. I have a picture of one scrawny little row.” Dianne sighs. “I went in very green, knowing little,” she puns. That first failure caused her to “dive deep.” “It forced me to educate myself on how to make it work. What did I need to do that I didn’t do? I was up at night studying. I love a good challenge. And I was going to make it work.” Dianne persisted. “The second year, a little more successful. The third year, a lot more successful.” Sunflowers were simply not quite enough. “But what else could we do?” Dianne had more hands-in-the-dirt dreams. Jonathan followed his bliss, too, leaving his corporate job and starting a wealth management business last April. The Art & Soul of Greensboro
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She pondered the next agro steps. With some prodding from Jonathan, she realized lavender was the right complement. “Of course,” Dianne laughs. “I had talked about sunflowers and lavenders in France.” Here, too, was another learning curve. Rather than plunging in without exploring risks, she did research. “Time. Money. How realistic? Is it going to grow in this area?” Growing conditions in the Triad’s microclimate, 7-B, are tricky. The air is more turbulent; therefore, storms are more violent. In 2016, she took an entire year off to figure out the best supplier and grower before Red Feather Ranch launched as a commercial grower. Suppliers are crucial. “A lot of varietals are patented,” she explains. This prevents commercial growers from propagating their own plants. She attended a lavender grower’s conference in Charleston, S.C., to better educate herself. “I was asking questions. Took notes and listened. I came back thinking, ‘We can do it. But it’s going to take a lot of work.’ Because lavender is a very tricky plant. In the French Provence area where it grows well, they get 14 inches of rain a year. We get 44 plus.” How not to drown lavender? She learned the answer. “You have to have it raised. Drainage is key.” Dianne experimented with a mix of dirt and pea gravel, having
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met a Virginia grower who only used pea gravel and no dirt. Then she grew braver. “I last planted them only in pea gravel.” Paydirt! She finally “figured out the drainage thing.” “The more you neglect it the better it is. The plant life of lavender is about 15 years. Get them out of a pot,” she advises, and give them room. “At full maturity it can get about five feet from side to side!” Dianne learned what growing practices “are good for lavender.” As a cool weather plant, she knows to set stock in October. Lavender varietals differed by camphor content, Dianne explains. “Lavender has the compound in it that is called camphor,” she adds. “That camphor chemical makes you kind of go oof . . . it’s really in your face. The other lilac plants that they use for culinary have a much lower chemical compound.” Sweet Melissa Lilac and Provence lavenders are for culinary use. For infusions, teas and baking, she employs these, even adding a teaspoon of lavender buds into muffin batter or beverages. “I make lavender lemonade and cocktails! I’m old school.” It’s savory, too. Whenever cooks use herbs de Provence, “there’s lavender in there,” she points out. Sunset is her favorite time. She and Jonathan can enjoy birdwatching. Or take in bumblebees, drunk from the soporific lavender, nodding off on the stalks. Felines, too. The family cat, Chanel, curled up to nap inside a lavender wreath as Dianne was crafting it.
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She still loves sunflowers, where the goldfinches feast away on the drooping heads. And the butterflies! They thrill Dianne. “I don’t spray,” she says, adding, “lady bugs eat the aphids on my sweet peas.” There is something beyond what nurtures plants. There are benefits for humans, too. In fact, she wishes more people would come out, breathe the intoxicating and relaxing smell of lavender, and enjoy the rejuvenating air, while walking the picturesque farm. “People can come here. People need to get back out in nature. Take off your mask and breathe some fresh air! Walk the rows even if you don’t buy anything.” Sometimes people come solely for photo opportunities, she says. Dianne is a shutterbug, who enjoys snapping pictures of each unfolding season, posting online at https://www.redfeatherranch.shop/blog. After lavender peaks, other blooms follow, including, of course, sunflowers, a perennial favorite. Sunflowers have a longer season, growing thru October. Red Feather Ranch offers subscription options, a community supported agriculture program, and cut-flower delivery throughout Greensboro. The farm sells lavender through mid-July, and sunflowers June–October, adding a new program called U- Pick. After the growing season ends, Dianne harvests the dried lavender and stitches up sachets and other projects for both home and kitchen. She makes linen spray, body mist, lip balm, sugar scrub — all from organic, dried lavender. Farming is relentless, as anyone who ever wielded a hoe knows. It’s an all-the-time lifestyle choice, but it happens to agree with Dianne, who determinedly battles weather and wildlife. “All is well here… hot, hot, hot, but well,” the exasperated farmer writes in June. “Deer ate ALL my sunflowers. Makes me so mad!” Still, the work seems to dial the clock back. Dianne swears it rejuvenates her. An unhurried manner and easy laugh underlie this. All of which — especially a lack of vanity — proves her point. Sweat of the brow is a point of pride. A feather in her cap. Cynthia Adams is a contributing editor to O.Henry magazine.
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Fast Facts about Lavender from Dianne Reganess: Fact: Zone 7-B is a microclimate. “What works in Raleigh won’t necessarily work here. We’re in a zone where the air can be more turbulent. It is definitely humid. Severe storms.” (https://planthardiness.ars.usda.gov/) Fact: It’s illegal to propagate lavender varietals, which are patented, without a license. It took Dianne a year to find the right commercial grower. Like roses, many lavender varietals are patented. “I cannot take a clipping and grow my own plants without breaking the law. So, I go back to the same woman grower. I know the
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
plants I get from her. They are healthy and survive, and this is key.” Fact: “It takes the lavender plants three years to reach maturity.” Fact: “Lavender is organic. No chemicals are needed. Also, deer and rabbit don’t bother it.” Also, she warns against potting soils or bark mulch, which hold excess moisture, causing disease. Fact: Dianne recommends Munstead, Provence and Sweet Melissa, lavenders more commonly found at “big box” stores. OH
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The Art & Soul of Greensboro
A L M A N A C
August By Ashley Walshe
A
ugust is equal parts ecstasy and agony. At dawn, a shimmer of hummingbirds dips and weaves among cascades of morning glories and a sweeping sea of hibiscus. In one day, the nectar of one thousand flowers will have sweetened their bellies and tongues. In one month, when the blossoms fade, the tiny birds will disappear, taking summer with them. The honeybees have multiplied. They drift in dizzying circles, supping joe-pye weed and purple coneflower as if the future of the hive depends on it. And it does. The bees know that the season is slipping with each precious sip. They know not to waste it. Swallowtails orbit goldenrod and lemon balm, ring around the butterfly bush, float like dreams from blossom to fragrant blossom. Soon they, too, will vanish. Yet — for now — all is lush and dreamy. All is warm and stickysweet. Never mind that each kiss between bee and flower could be the last. The golden season always dims to black. And so, you savor the last glorious slice of it. Absorb it with your whole body like the water snake sunning on the rock. Cradle it like a sipping spirit; inhale deeply, drink slowly, let the textures and flavors roll around on your tongue. Sprawl out across the summer grass. Float from flower to flower. Drink the nectar of one thousand blossoms. Harvest the fruits of the garden. Sink your teeth into them. At night, dance among the fireflies, here for a glittering moment, and then gone. The cicadas know. As they scream out in rapturous longing — ecstasy and agony and nothing in-between — you soak up the sweetness of summer as if the future depends on it. As if it will carry you through the darkest days of winter.
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Sweet Morning Glory The morning glories have run wild. Twining vines with heart-shaped leaves and fragrant, tubular flowers, these late summer bloomers are hummingbird magnets. They thrive in full sun and, given a trellis or fence, will climb up to 20 feet. Among the most common varieties are Heavenly Blue (sky-blue with white-and-yellow throats), Grandpa Ott (a royal purple heirloom from Germany), Fieldgrown (an amalgam of white, pink and purple blossoms) and Crimson Ramblers (a hummingbird favorite). True to its name, the blossoms open in the morning, each lasting for just one glorious day.
The month of August had turned into a griddle where the days just lay there and sizzled. — Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees
Late Summer Harvest The garden gives and gives. August offers eggplant, green beans and peppers. The last of the sweet corn. The earliest apples, pears and figs. And — oh, yes — an endless stream of plump tomatoes. But what to do with them? The ’Mater Sammich never fails (make mine with Cherokee Purple, balsamic glaze and pesto mayo — I’m no purist). Cook them down into sauces. Dice them for pico de gallo. Make bruschetta, pasta salad and summer quiche. Better yet, pluck them straight off the vine, sprinkle with salt and enjoy. OH
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IS A CO F F E E L OV E R ’S FAVORI T E WAY T O CH I L L
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the
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Come to our Family’s Authentic Fresh Mexican Grill and enjoy dining under the stars Kiosco Mexican Grill is known for a variety of homemade margaritas and freshly crafted Mexican dishes.
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The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Chocolate
Coffee Brownies This month only we're offering 3 different flavor options in limited quantities. Order a half dozen or dozen today and have them freshly baked and shipped free to your front door in 2-3 days.
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The Art & Soul of Greensboro
FULLFILL YOUR Sweet-Treat Craving A small batch bakery specializing in cupcakes, French Macarons, pastries and custom cakes designed by our talented artists.
Baked fresh daily and the cakes are never cold stored. 1616 Battleground Ave, Greensboro, NC (336)306-2827 Order by email! easypeasydnd@gmail.com
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Connecting Farmers, Food & Friends Saturday 7:30am - 12noon
Wednesday (thru mid-October) 8am - 12noon 501 Yanceyville Street
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Shop local from 80+ vendors direct from the grower, producer & maker. Enjoy our new coffee bar, chef made meals-to-go and baked goods, too!
UPCOMING THIS FALL
Curiosities at the Curb Vintage Sale 9/18 Brunswick Stew 10/15 Made 4 the Holidays Artisan Fest 11/13 & 12/4
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Picture perfect cocktails, every time. 300 W Gate City Blvd, Greensboro NC 27406
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Community Owned Co-op. Everyone Welcome What started as a specialty health food & bulk food co-op in 1976 is now a full service grocery store and cafe in the heart of Fisher Park and Downtown Greensboro.
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The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Come see our family for all your cook-out needs!
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Original Menus. Impeccable Service. Attention to Detail. Host a private gathering in our event space with seating for up to 50 guests.
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Taste Goodness. Spread Love. 100 YEARS OF FAMILY BAKING
Unforgettable gifts for family, friends and coworkers!
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August 2022
Although a conscientious effort has been made to provide accurate and up-to-date information, all events are subject to change and errors can occur. Please call to verify times, costs, status and location before planning or attending an event.
Weekly Events TUESDAYS PILATES IN THE PARK. 4:30–5:30 p.m. Join Axis Pilates for a low-impact core workout appropriate for all fitness levels. Free. LeBauer Park, 208 N. Davie St., Greensboro. Info: greensborodowntownparks.org/calendar. TUESDAY TUNE-UP. 5:30– 6:30 p.m. Lawn Service hosts a variety of fitness classes each week. Free. LeBauer Park, 208 N. Davie St., Greensboro. Info: greensborodowntownparks.org/ calendar.
WEDNESDAYS CRAFTERNOON. 6–6:30 p.m. Children ages 6–12 engage in an evening of arts and crafts all summer long. Free. Vance Chavis Branch Library, 900 S. Benbow Rd., Greensboro. Info: greensboro-nc.gov (click on “events”). MUSIC IN A BOTTLE. 7–9 p.m. Eat, drink and take in the sweet sounds of summer with Lawn Service’s free live music and weekly wine specials. Free. LeBauer Park, 208 N. Davie St., Greensboro. Info: greensborodowntownparks. org/calendar.
THURSDAYS YOGA. 6:30–7:30 p.m. Enjoy a flow yoga class appropriate for all levels. Free; 18+ only. Craft Recreation Center, 2911 Yanceyville St., Greensboro. Info: greensboro-nc.org (click on “events”).
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CYCLING CLUB. 6–8:30 p.m. Cyclists meet weekly for an easy ride. Free. LeBauer Park, 208 N. Davie St., Greensboro. Info: greensborodowntownparks.org/calendar.
MUSEP Season Finale
FRIDAYS
08.28.2022
TUNES @ NOON. 11 a.m.–2 p.m. Food trucks and music converge on Market Square. Free. LeBauer Park, 208 N. Davie St., Greensboro. Info: greensborodowntownparks.org/ calendar.
Featuring Emanuel Wynter & Freeport Jazz
SATURDAYS RUNNERDUDE GROUP RUNS. 6:30 a.m. Runners and walkers of all skill levels explore Greensboro in groups. Free; different start locations weekly. Info: runnerdudesfitness.com/group-runs. CITY SUNSET CONCERT SERIES. 7–9 p.m. Bring a lawn chair and picnic blanket for a night of live music. Free. LeBauer Park, 208 N. Davie St., Greensboro. Info: greensborodowntownparks.org/calendar. EXPLORE QUILTING. 10 a.m.–1 p.m. Experienced quilters share their secrets. Free. Central Library, 219 N. Church St., Greensboro. Info: greensboro-nc.gov (click on “events”).
SATURDAYS & SUNDAYS BATTLEFIELD TOURS. 1:30–2:30 p.m. & 3–4 p.m. Summer guided battlefield tours from the park’s visitor center continue weekly until September 4. Free. Guilford Courthouse National Military Park, 2332 New Garden Road, Greensboro. Info: nps.gov.
SUNDAYS KARAOKE & LINE DANCING. 4–7 p.m. DJ Energizer lays down tracks for a fun evening of singing and dancing. Free. Center City Park, 200 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: greensborodowntownparks.org/ calendar.
EVENING IN THE PARK. 6 p.m. Catch Music Sunday Evening in the Park (MUSEP) before the summer ends. Free. LeBauer Park, 208 N. Davie St., Greensboro. Schedule and Info: creativegreensboro.com.
01–31
August Events PRESENCE. Visit the newest exhibit, PRESENCE: North Carolina Figurative Artists, from now until November 5, featuring sculptures, paintings, paper works and photography. Free. GreenHill Center for N.C. Art, 200 N. Davie St., Greensboro. Info: greenhillnc.org.
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
01, 08, 15, & 12 TAIL-WAGGING TUTORS. 5–5:45 p.m. Free. Children practice reading to a furry friend. Free; registration required. Central Library, 219 N. Church St., Greensboro. Info: greensboro-nc.gov (click on “events”).
01 & 08 ADULT NATURE CREATIONS. 6–7 p.m. An opportunity for adults to destress via creative natureinspired activities. Free; registration required. Xperience @ Caldcleugh, 1700 Orchard St., Greensboro. Info: greensboronc.gov (click on “events”).
01–04 & 08–11 SUMMER FILM FEST. 7 p.m. Classic films on the big screen. Tickets: $7. Carolina Theatre, 310 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info and schedule: carolinatheatre.com/events.
01–06 NBTF. Celebrate WinstonSalem’s National Black Theatre Festival, an international celebration of Black reunion and spirit. Full schedule and tickets: ncblackrep.org.
02 ALL ABILITIES NIGHT. 6:30–7:30 p.m. Children create boats and participate in educational water activities; BYO towel. Free; registration required. Glenn McNairy Branch Library, 4860 Lake Jeanette Road, Greensboro. Info: greensboro-nc.org (click on “events”). NIGHT AT THE MUSEUM. 7:30–10 p.m. Enjoy familyfriendly activities and an outdoor showing of the film
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Calendar Coliseum Complex, 1921 W. Gate City Blvd., Greensboro. Info: greensborocoliseum.com/events.
An American Tail. Free. High Point Museum Historical Park, 1859 E. Lexington Ave., High Point. Info: highpointnc. gov/2329/museum.
03 & 10 FAMILY ART NIGHT. 5:30– 7:30 p.m. Enjoy family-fun art projects with Art Alliance members. Free. Xperience @ Caldcleugh, 1700 Orchard St., Greensboro. Info: greensboronc.gov (click on “events”). CAROLINA KIDS CLUB. 9:30 a.m. Celebrate the last two Wednesdays before back-to-school with live entertainment, kids’ snack pack and kid-friendly films. Tickets: $5. Carolina Theatre, 310 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: carolinatheatre.com/events.
03 PAWS FOR REMEDIATION. 6–8 p.m. To build their reading skills, children read to therapy dogs. Mc-Girt Horton Branch Library, 2501 Phillips Ave., Greensboro. Info: greensboronc.org (click on “events”) INSIDER TOUR. 6:30–7:30 p.m. Tour the first textile printery in the American South. Free; registration required. The Proximity Print Works Mill, 1700 Fairview St., Greensboro. Info: preservationgreensboro.org/events. READING THE WORLD. 7–8 p.m. Join in a virtual discussion of the novel Aquarium by Yaara Shehori. Free. Info: scuppernon-
gbooks.com/event.
04 RODENBOUGH & BLUE. 7:30 p.m. Music from Libby Rodenbough and special guest Blue Cactus. Tickets: $15/ad-
Clay Workshop 08.07.2022 vance; $20. Carolina Theatre, 310 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: carolinatheatre.com/events.
05 OPENING RECEPTION. 6–8 p.m. Join N.C. figurative artists in celebrating the opening of PRESENCE. Free; cash bar. GreenHill Center for NC Art, 200 N. Davie St., Greensboro. Info: greenhillnc.org. FIRST FRIDAY ART PARK. 6:30–8:30 p.m. Instructors from Art Alliance lead demos and hands-on projects. Free. Center City Park, 200 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: greensborodowntownparks.org/calendar. FIRST FRIDAY DRUM CIRCLE. 6:30–9 p.m. Join in the First Friday Drum Circle led by Healing Earth Rhythms. Free. Center City Park, 200 N. Elm St. Greensboro. Info: greensborodowntownparks.org/calendar. NOCHE LATINA. 6:30–10 p.m. Learn dance moves from Maria Gonzales including Bachata, Salsa and Merengue. Free. LeBauer Park, 208 N. Davie St., Greensboro. Info: greensborodowntownparks.org/calendar. ZZ TOP. 7 p.m. ZZ Top performs its Raw Whisky Tour with special guest Kenny Wayne Shepherd. Tickets: $39.50+. Greensboro
GRAYMATTER. 7:30 p.m. The Fiddle and Bow Society presents Graymatter in The Crown. Tickets: $18/advance; $20. Carolina Theatre, 310 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: carolinatheatre.com/events. SOUTHERN SOUL. 8 p.m. Southern Soul Summer Explosion features Lebrado, Nellie “Tiger” Travis, Pokey Bear, Tucka, Lenny Williams and Sir Charles Jones. Tickets: $65+. Steven Tanger Center, 300 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: tangercenter.com/events.
06–07 CLAY & GEOMETRY. 9 a.m.–5 p.m. (8/6) & 1–5 p.m. (8/7). Learn the basics of “wet altering” and reductive refinement techniques. Registration: $200/ Art Alliance students; $245. GSO Cultural Center, 220 N. Davie Street, Greensboro. Info: artalliancegso.org.
06 HERCULEONS. 8:30 p.m. Bluegrass Hall of Fame and Doobie Brothers’ member John Cowan and national fiddle champion Andrea Zonn collaborate. Tickets: $25. Carolina Theatre, 310 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: carolinatheatre.com/events.
07 STUDIO 176. 8 p.m. Greensboro’s Justin “Demeanor” Harrington hosts Maia Kamil and Apollo Knight. Tickets: $10/advance; $15. Carolina Theatre, 310 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: carolinatheatre.com/events.
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08
WHITE WASH. Watch an outdoor film screening of White Wash, a documentary on Black surfers. Free; registration required. Kathleen Clay Library, 1420 Price Park Road, Greensboro. Info: greensboronc.gov (click on “events”).
09 CATWALK WAR. 8 p.m. Cheer on your favorite drag queens. Tickets: $35+. Steven Tanger Center, 300 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: tangercenter.com/events.
11 RAFFLES FOR RESCUES. 5–8 p.m. Hosted by the SPCA
of the Triad, purchase raffle tickets for a chance to win big prizes while enjoying dinner and the company of adoptable dogs. Tickets: $2+. Benders Tavern, 4517 W. Market Street, Greensboro. Info: triadspca.org.
12–13 TWO-DAY FILMS TODAY, Watch winning films written, shot and edited within a 48-hour window. Tickets: $12. Carolina Theatre, 310 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: carolinatheatre.com/events.
12 BANJO EARTH BAND. 8 p.m. The Banjo Earth Band celebrates its album release in The
Crown. Tickets: $15/advance; $28. Carolina Theatre, 310 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: carolinatheatre.com/events.
13 SEAGROVE POTTERS’ TEA. 10 a.m.–5 p.m. Enjoy tea and homemade treats on a Seagrove potters’ gallery crawl. Free. NC Pottery Highway 705, Seagrove. Info: discoverseagrove.com. SATURDAY MORNING ART. 11 a.m.–noon. Children express themselves through the art of painting; light refreshments provided. Tickets: $5; registration required. Windsor Recreation Center, 1601 E. Gate City Blvd., Greensboro. Info: greensboronc.gov (click on “events”).
Raffles for Rescues 08.11.2022
Downtown Greensboro
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100 O.Henry
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The Art & Soul of Greensboro
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O.Henry 101
LAWNDALE SHOPPING CENTER • IRVING PARK
DOVER SQUARE • WESTOVER GALLERY OF SHOPS
A thoughtful mix of eclectic and traditional pieces for home and life.
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102 O.Henry
1721 Huntington Road, Greensboro, North Carolina 27408 | 336-763-4400 @watkinssydnor Tuesday - Friday 10-5 • Saturday 11-4 • Monday by Appointment
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Calendar MURDER MYSTERY. 6–9:30 p.m. Enjoy a three-course dinner, signature cocktails and murder mystery show with the theme, “Death of a Gangster.” Tickets: $100; 21+ only. The Colonnade at Revolution Mill, 900 Revolution Mill Drive, Greensboro. Info: revmillevents.com. ENCANTO SING ALONG. 7:30 p.m. Sing along to the hit Disney film Encanto. Tickets: $25+. Greensboro Coliseum Complex, 1921 W. Gate City Blvd., Greensboro. Info: greensborocoliseum.com/events. EMMA LANGFORD. 7:30 p.m. Limerick-based songwriter Emma Langford takes the stage with her musical storytelling. Tickets: $20+. High Point
Theatre, 220 E. Commerce Avenue, High Point. Info: highpointtheatre.com/event. BRIT FLOYD. 8 p.m. The World’s Greatest Pink Floyd Show stops in the ‘Boro. Tickets: $29+. Steven Tanger Center, 300 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: tangercenter.com/events.
14 BOOK IT TO THE BORDER 2 p.m. Hear David Spears discuss his new novel, Monkey Trap, set in Mexico. Free. Info: scuppernongbooks.com/event.
20 NAILED IT 5K. 8 a.m. Participate in a 5K or one-
Murder Mystery 08.13.2022 mile fun run hosted by the Home Builders Association of Winston-Salem. Registration: $35/5K; $20/fun run. 421 27th St. NW, Winston-Salem. Info:
triviumracing.com/events. MOUNTAIN BIKING. 9–11 a.m. The Greensboro Mountain Biking Experience
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The Art & Soul of Greensboro
O.Henry 103
shops • service • food • farms
Calendar
ping tea. Tickets: $25. Lewis Recreation Center, 3110 Forest Lawn Drive, Greensboro. Info: greensboro-nc.gov (click on “events”).
Brett Eldredge 08.20.2022 offers instruction to mountain biking beginners of all ages Free; registration required. Bald Eagle Trail, Greensboro. Info: greensboro-nc.gov (click on “events”). SIP & SEW. 1:30–4:30 p.m. Beginners sew while sip-
KODAK BLACK. 7:30 p.m. Kodak Black performs his Back for Everything I Lost tour with guests Fredo Bang, Big Walk Dogg and Big Boogie. Tickets: $60+. Greensboro Coliseum Complex, 1921 W. Gate City Blvd., Greensboro. Info: greensborocoliseum. com/events. BRETT ELDREDGE. 7:30 p.m. Brett Eldredge performs his Songs About You tour with special guest Nate Smith. Tickets: $39.50+. Greensboro Coliseum Complex, 1921 W. Gate City Blvd., Greensboro.
support locally owned businesses
Info: greensborocoliseum. com/events. SMOKEY. 8 p.m. Motown legend William “Smokey” Robinson performs Music & Memories live. Tickets: $71+. Steven Tanger Center, 300 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: tangercenter.com/events.
21 CAROLINA WEDDINGS SHOW. Noon. Peruse a wide array of wedding vendors from across the state. Tickets: $10/ advance; $20. Greensboro Coliseum Complex, 1921 W. Gate City Blvd., Greensboro. Info: greensborocoliseum. com/events.
24 CURATOR’S TALK. Noon. Curator Elaine D. Gustafson discusses WAM’s Bestiary exhibit. Free. Weatherspoon Art Museum, 500 Tate St, Greensboro. Info: weatherspoonart.org/calendar.
25 FILMS WITH BITE. Noon–6 p.m. Enjoy a shark-filled double feature of Jaws and The Meg. Free. Glenn McNairy Branch Library, 4860 Lake Jeanette Road, Greensboro. Info: greensboro-nc.gov (click on “events”).
26–28 VINTAGE MARKET DAYS. 10 a.m.–4 p.m. (Fri./Sat.),
Sometimes it’s smarter to lease than to sell your home. Call us when you think you’re there! I will be pleased to discuss how Burkley Rental Homes can help you.
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104 O.Henry
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Join the effort. Visit www.triadlocalfirst.com.
What’s on your travel
bucket list? Sept. 6-10 at 7:30 p.m. Sept. 11 at 3 and 6 p.m. One of greater Greensboro’s best known and anticipated productions is back!
Hot air balloon ride over the Serengeti? Seeing penguins in Antarctica? Northern Lights in Iceland?
We’ve got it all.
“An O.Henry Celebration: Stories & Songs” returns to the stage of The Virginia Somerville Sutton Theatre at Well•Spring, A Life Plan Community. For more than three decades and formerly known as “5 By O.Henry,” this production brings to life theatrical vignettes based on the works of Greensboro’s own William Sydney Porter (the late acclaimed writer O.Henry). Among four stories to be told on stage this year includes The Ransom of Red Chief.
Tickets may be purchased at TicketMeTriad.com
336-603-8419 | info@tradewindstravel.com www.tradewindstravel.com
Photography by Lynn Highfill Donovan
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The Art & Soul of Greensboro
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O.Henry 105
Calendar 10 a.m. –3 p.m. (Sun). An indoor/outdoor market featuring original art, antiques, clothing, jewelry, handmade treasures, home décor, outdoor furnishings and more. Tickets: $10/Friday-Saturday; $5/Sunday. Greensboro Coliseum Complex, 1921 W. Gate City Blvd., Greensboro. Info: greensborocoliseum. com/events.
26 LADY A. 7:30 p.m. Country music star Lady A performs with special guest Dave Barns. Tickets: $59.50+. Steven Tanger Center, 300 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: tangercenter.com/events.
27 FAMILY HIKES. 10 a.m.–12 p.m. Families can hike and learn about local flora, fauna and folklore. Free; registration required. Company Mill Preserve Trail, 6344 Company Mill Road, Greensboro. Info: greensboro-nc.gov (click on “events”). FAMILY FUN DAY. 10 a.m.– 4:30 p.m. Enjoy the final weeks of summer with a picnic in the park, historic games, activities and more. Free. High Point Museum, 1859 E. Lexington Avenue, High Point. Info: highpointnc.gov/2329/museum. WRITING WORKSHOP. 2–3 p.m. Writers of all skill levels
participate in a NaNo-GSO virtual writing workshop with a focus on plot development. Free; registration required. Glenwood Branch Library, 1901 W. Florida Street, Greensboro. Info: greensboro-nc.gov (click on “events”). VARIETY SHOW. 7 p.m. Enjoy a live showing of The Ultimate Variety Show: Vegas’ Top Impersonators & Impressionists. Tickets: $20+. High Point Theatre, 220 E. Commerce Avenue, High Point. Info: highpointtheatre.com/events.
Megan Moroney. Tickets: $27.50+. Greensboro Coliseum Complex, 1921 W. Gate City Blvd., Greensboro. Info: greensborocoliseum.com/events. OH
To add an event, email us at ohenrymagcalendar@ gmail.com
by the first of the month
ONE MONTH PRIOR TO THE EVENT.
28 JAMEY JOHNSON. 6:30 p.m. Jamey Johnson and Blackberry Smoke perform with guest
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106 O.Henry
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ASHMORE RARE COINS & METALS Since 1987
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Visit us: www.ashmore.com or call 336-617-7537 5725 W. Friendly Ave. Ste 112 • Greensboro, NC 27410 Across the street from the entrance to Guilford College
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O.Henry 107
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108 O.Henry
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Arts & Culture
S
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
O.Henry 109
Arts & Culture
C.P. LOGAN “NATTY GREENS” • 18” X 24” • ORIGINAL OIL CONNIE P. LOGAN - ARTIST/TEACHER
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110 O.Henry
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Arts & Culture
TH
YEAR A N N I V E R S A RY
3
For tickets visit UCLS.UNCG.EDU
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
3
UNC Greensboro’s Concert and Lecture Series celebrates its 110th Season with an exciting line-up of world renowned artists: Winston Duke, star of the blockbuster Marvel Studios movie Black Panther Joshua Bell, one of the most celebrated violinists of our time, in recital Shaun Leonardo, multidisciplinary artist whose work negotiates societal expectations of manhood Urban Bush Women, a dance company whose works weave contemporary dance, music, and text with history, culture, and spiritual traditions of the African Diaspora Indigo Girls, a folk-rock duo that has been the voice of a generation, in concert with the Greensboro Symphony Orchestra Seraph Brass, a dynamic ensemble drawing from a roster of America’s top female brass players
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O.Henry Ending
The Sunfish
It was too small to keep. Or maybe it wasn’t.
By Ashley Walshe
story. Quite the opposite, actually. And it starts right here on Lake James, the massive hundred-year-old reservoir lapping the eastern edge of our state’s Blue Ridge Mountains. It’s the pinnacle of summer. High on a red-clay ridge, the whippoorwill, whose incessant chanting often stretches well into the balmy morning, has gone silent. The red dog is weaving among windswept pines, and I am sitting on the wooden deck of a Coachmen RV, a sparkling sliver of lake visible one half-mile in the distance. My grandparents used to live here. Not in this 32-foot travel trailer, home to my husband, the dog and me for a warm and watery season. But on down the meandering shoreline, in the brick-and-stucco home with the vaulted ceiling, lakeside gazebo and sweeping view of Shortoff Mountain. Papaw kept his pontoon at a nearby marina. If I close my eyes, I can almost see two kids swinging their legs at the edge of his boat slip. I’m the little girl with the auburn curls and wild swath of freckles. My younger brother, all blue-eyes-and-dimples, is perched beside me. Neither of us have fished before. On this day, Papaw is cradling a box of live crickets, and Dad is showing us to how to hook them. The black-and-silver schnauzer, whose feet and beard are permanently stained from the red earth, is barking at the wake as a neighboring boat glides up to dock. Once we cover the basics (don’t snag your sibling or grandpa), we cast a few lines, jiggling the rod to make our crickets dance. Papaw watches from the captain’s chair as Dad teaches us a ditty from his own childhood. The song changes based on who’s singing it. Mine goes like this: Fishy, fishy in the lake, won’t you swim to Ashley’s bait?
112 O.Henry
I sing incessantly. And guess what? In no time, I feel the coveted tug of what must be a whopper at the end of my line. I squeal. I reel. And up shimmies the smallest sunfish you’ve ever seen. A bluegill, I think. No bigger than my tiny, freckled hand. “Can we keep it?” I ask, twitching with excitement. “If he’s long enough,” says Papaw. Gripping my whopper in his leathery hands, he gently slides out the hook then slips the fish into a shallow bucket of water. “We’ll measure him later.” My brother and I cast several more lines — first at the boat slip, then out in a quiet cove on the water. Although the song appears to have lost its magic, that doesn’t deter us from our fervent chanting. We sing until the crickets are spent, my sunfish our singular catch of the day. I know now, 25 years later, that we had no business keeping that tiny sunfish. But it was never about the fish for Papaw. Peering down into the bucket, my grandpa announces that the bluegill is “just big enough,” then gives me one of his signature winks. I wink back from my seat outside the camper, smiling through time at a proud little girl and her very first fish. That night, while the rest of the family ate crappie from a previous haul, I savored every bite of my pan-fried sunfish. It didn’t look like much on the plate, but the memory has fed me for a lifetime. OH Ashley Walshe is a former editor of O.Henry magazine and a longtime contributor of PineStraw.
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
ILLUSTRATION BY HARRY BLAIR
This isn’t a big fish
336-852-7107
2222 Patterson St, Suite A, Greensboro, NC 27407 Serving the Triad’s eyewear needs for over 40 years
