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February 2025
Ross Howell Jr.
By Billy Ingram
Volume 15, No. 2
“I have a fancy that every city has a voice.” www.ohenrymag.com
PUBLISHER David Woronoff david@thepilot.com
Andie Rose, Creative Director andiesouthernpines@gmail.com
Cassie Bustamante, Editor cassie@ohenrymag.com
Jim Dodson, Editor at Large jwdauthor@gmail.com
Keith Borshak, Senior Designer
CONTRIBUTING EDITORS
Cynthia Adams, David Claude Bailey, Maria Johnson
CONTRIBUTING PHOTOGRAPHERS
Lynn Donovan, Amy Freeman, Bert VanderVeen, Mark Wagoner
CONTRIBUTORS
Harry Blair, Anne Blythe, Susan Campbell, Jasmine Comer, Ross Howell Jr., Billy Ingram, Tom Maxwell, Ruth Moose, Gerry O’Neill, Liza Roberts, Stephen E. Smith, Zora Stellanova, Ashley Walshe, Amberly Glitz Weber
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336.210.6921 • lisa@ohenrymag.com
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910.693.2497
Darlene Stark, Subscriptions & Circulation Director 910.693.2488 OWNERS
Jack Andrews, Frank Daniels III, David Woronoff In memoriam Frank Daniels Jr.
Tune in to learn about a number of City services, that can improve your quality of life, such as:
• Affordable Housing Resources
• Emergency Preparedness
• Emergency Response
• Housing Rights
• Language Access Services
• Library Services
• Minority-Owned Business Resources
• Parks and Recreation
• Police and Community Relations
• Safety & Security
• and More
Traipsing Around the City of Love . . .
In a tre’s platonic way
By Cassie Bustama Nte
Googlethe most romantic city in the world and I guarantee you that Paris shows up at the top. Known as the “City of Love” and the “City of Lights,” its cobblestone streets abound with cozy corner cafés where couples can canoodle while sipping café au lait and munching on flakey croissants. And, of course, there are the scintillating lights of the Eiffel Tower, where close friends of mine got engaged. Ambient music abounds, thanks to street buskers. Everything about Gay Paree heightens one’s senses, creating a feeling of magic and wonder — similar, indeed, to the feeling of falling in love.
On our 21st wedding anniversary last September, my husband Chris and I head to RDU, but I’m the only one of us who will be boarding that JetBlue. From Raleigh, I fly to Boston, where I meet up with one of my very best friends, Chandra, and together we soar over the Atlantic, fulfilling a dream both of us have had for ages, landing at Charles de Gaulle Airport. Why Paris? To experience the art, architecture, cuisine and culture with the funniest human I know.
And Chris? We all know that Khalil Gibran quote: “If you love somebody, let them go, for if they return, they were always yours. If they don't, they never were.” I’ll return. Chris knows it. He and I have spent years in this dance, but usually it’s me who is left behind tending to children, home and dogs — sometimes chickens — while Chris travels for work. But all of those nights I spent single-parenting have led me to this one great adventure. Chris selflessly books two rooms at the charming Hotel Relais du Louvre, admittedly thanks to points he’s accrued. And that’s how my best friend and I find ourselves celebrating the greatest platonic love there is in the most romantic spot on the globe.
Like me, Chandra is a pun-loving gal whose passions include wordsmithing, traveling, Taylor Swift, exploring new restaurants
and foods, reading, memes, and basking in glorious memories of our ’80s childhoods. We’ve only been friends for five years, but when you know, you know. When she visited London a few years ago, she brought me back a ceramic jewelry dish with a sheep that reads, “Ewe are amazing.” Upon my opening it, her eyes filled as she exclaimed, “It’s a pun!” She just gets me.
We are not exactly culture vultures, determined like some are to pack into a short week every iconic tourist stop while honoring the grand dame of European culture. After all, who are we trying to impress? We quickly realize we are just a couple of Americans who will inevitably be labeled innocents abroad, so who cares? For instance, one day I pause outside a restaurant called Les Éditeurs and shout, “C’est moi!” Chandra snaps my pic. So what if we’re not exactly sophisticated connoisseurs of Parisian haute culture. But pop culture? We’ve got that in spades, so on another afternoon we also pay homage to the Emily in Paris Savoir office, posing outside the building’s door as if we were Lily Collins — minus the over-thetop fashion choices — on our way to work where we’ll create a silly hashtag that’s sure to solve a brand’s dilemma.
After we’ve dropped our bags at our hotel, stomachs rumbling, we wander to the closest corner, where the Café des Arts awaits. We take one look at the menu and, naturellement, decide upon le café and savory crêpes. Having won the prestigious French award (c’est du sarcasme) at my small high school, I attempt to revive the almost 30-year-slumbering skill to order. When our meals arrive, we hungrily dig in, our forks stretching the melty, gooey cheese while bits of ham tumble onto the plate. My French has not come back as smoothly as I’d hoped and when we ask our waiter to divide our check in half, I notice that he’s taken the liberty to add a couple euros to each. Garçon, my math has not escaped me. He all but rolls his French eyes at us when I protest.
Turns out, he is the only Frenchman to attempt to take advantage of our American-ness. Every other server and shop attendant we encounter appreciates my attempts to parle Français. And when I blunder, I shrug and say, “J’ai essayé,” (“I tried.”) That little three-word French phrase becomes the anthem to our trip, so much that when we stumble upon a Parisian tattoo parlor, we contemplate burning the memory into our flesh forever.
Over the course of the next week, we meander through surrounding arrondissements, shopping in St. Germain, ChampsElysées, Le Marais and the Latin Quarter — with a stop at the renowned bookstore Shakespeare and Company — picking up souvenirs for our families. Both of us writers, we reverentially stroll by cafés once frequented by Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein and F. Scott Fitzgerald.
We walk through the impeccably landscaped Luxembourg gardens and take a day trip to see Giverny, where Monet’s impressive grounds explode in vibrant colors, even in autumn. We pore over art at the Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay. We dare to be silly. Inside the walls of the Louvre, Chandra spies a painting of a naked woman holding a white rag that appears to be dirty. She leans over and whispers, “That one’s called Self Tanner.” We erupt in giggles.
We dine on buttery, smooth escargot, fromage of all sorts, beef bourguignon so tender it falls apart at the touch of a fork, so many croissants we should grow tired of them — but never do. In one establishment, Chandra tells me she has to go to the ladies room and says to me, “Oui, oui — oh, my first French pun!” And more than once, we indulge in our mutually favorite flavor of gelato, pistachio. A little nutty, a little sweet and a touch salty, just like us.
As a gift to ourselves, we hire a professional photographer, who spends a couple of hours with us one damp and gray morning. And while I’m certain that the photos will be atrocious, thanks to disgusting weather, when we receive the proofs, all I see is our gleeful joy at spending time together. We’re lucky it was in Paris, but it could have been in Ottawa, Canada, one of the most boring cities in the world, according to Smarter Travel. No matter what, I’ll always return to the most romantic place I know — my life at home with Chris. OH
Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.
There’s no one-size-fits-all path to success. At UNCG, students find personal guidance and space to explore their passions within a supportive, welcoming community. Watch as Spartans become changemakers for their families and fuel the future of our North Carolina communities. It’s all within reach at UNCG.
DISCOVER YOUR DESTINY
The Pleasures of a Good Old Age
Miracles can come true, it can happen to you
By Jim DoDsoN
an opportunity to experience life on a new and more meaningful level. A true case of attitude is altitude, as the saying goes.
Not long ago, I heard an elderly gentleman in a coffee shop comment to a younger friend, “Someday, when you’re as old as I am, you will look back on your life and realize that everything is a miracle.”
His words brought to my mind Albert Einstein’s famous quote on the subject: “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”
Though it varies slightly from country to country, age 72 is the global median lifespan of most people on the planet — the statistical onset of “old age.”
This month, I turn 72.
Am I worried? Not so much. True, I walk more slowly and with more care these days due to a pair of arthritic knees, the painful legacy of 40- to 50-year-old sports injuries and having probably walked too many golf courses for one duffer’s life. By the time you read this, however, I hope to have a new left knee replacement for the new year with a second one on the way. Talk about a miracle.
Like many older folks my age, I’ve also survived cancer once and am winding up a second waltz with the dreaded disease, reportedly doing quite well, thanks to my brilliant young doctors and the miracles of modern medicine.
Despite these physical challenges, I’ve never felt happier or more productive. This seems to be a common trait among active elders who find the arrival of so-called old age to be a liberating force and
One of the rarely mentioned gifts of being old is realizing what you no longer need or care about.
Two years ago, I donated half of my home library, roughly 300 books, to a pair of charities. This year, I plan to give another 200 away, leaving me approximately a hundred books I cherish and will continue to read again and again until my light in this world permanently dims.
At my pragmatic wife’s suggestion, I also went through my clothes closet and sent a large donkey cart’s worth of fine clothing I haven’t worn in more than two decades to a wonderful thrift shop owned by Freedom House, a local organization that provides drug rehabilitation programs to women. I hope whoever purchases the two fine custom suits, five Brooks Brothers blazers, nine crestedwool golf sweaters, eight pairs of worsted-wool slacks and 19 golf shirts will enjoy them with my blessing. Seriously, who needs 21 solid white golf shirts anyway?
Speaking of gratitude — and something of a miracle — I’ve reached an age where watching sports of any sort feels like a colossal waste of time. I’d rather take a long walk with the dogs, read a new book or watch seasonal birds at the feeder.
This is no small change. Once upon a time, now fading fast into memory, I was the original sports-mad kid who played every game in every season and died a little death anytime my favorite golfers and favorite professional sports teams lost. A decade ago, as my passion for all sports mysteriously began to wane, I wondered if this was because I’d changed — or if the games themselves had?
The answer is probably both. The sports teams I once worshipped, college and professional alike, were generally true home-
town affairs where you could name (and root for) every player on the roster. This made the games feel much more personal and relevant. Today, almost all sports are shaped by staggering amounts of money flowing through their ranks. Not long ago, I heard about a local high school junior who recently signed with a major college program and pocketed $50,000 in NIL money. Add legalized sports betting to the state of our games and you may have a fast road to ruin for millions of fans who care less about the games than their payoff.
The real beauty of aging, I long ago realized, is the light that comes from the soul. Reaching statistical old age brings with it freedom to do your own thing along with the opportunity to forge new paths and adventures.
“A good old age can be the crown of all our life’s experiences,” wrote Helen Nearing, “the masterwork of a lifetime.” Considerably late in life, Nearing and her husband, Scott, became world famous advocates of simple living and pioneers of the organic farming movement in America. Helen lived to be 91. Scott, 100.
As Helen points out in her lovely book, Light on Aging and Dying, Socrates learned to play the lyre — and wrote his most famous poems — in his dotage. Thomas Edison was still inventing at age 92; Michelangelo did some of his finest work past 80; and Frank Lloyd Wright, at age 90, was considered the most creative architect in the world.
Likewise, numerous poets and artists proved to be at their
creative best in their good old age. Thomas Hardy, Robert Frost and Carl Sandburg did some of their best work past 80. Ditto artists Goya, Titian, Manet, Matisse and Chagall. Shortly before his death at 91, Picasso said, “Age only matters when one is aging. Now that I have arrived at a great age, I might just as well be 20.”
Almost every day, we read about some octogenarian who still runs marathons or a septuagenarian who just climbed Mount Everest — for a second time. The list goes on and on.
“I am so busy being old,” wrote author and playwright Florida Scott-Maxwell in her 90s, “that I dread interruptions.”
As for this relatively new septuagenarian, one who will soon have new knees but no interest in running marathons or climbing mountains, I find the simple beauty of the natural world, a deepening spiritual life, a love of dogs and friends, plus an unquenchable passion for writing books reason enough to celebrate arriving at the ripe old age of 72.
The truth is, I’ve always enjoyed being with older people. And now that I’m one of them, I have no intention of slowing down.
That’s proof that everything really is a miracle. OH
Jim Dodson is the founding editor of O.Henry. His 17th book, The Road That Made America: A Modern Pilgrim Travels the Great Wagon Road, will be published by Avid Reader Press and is available for pre-order on Amazon. Find his weekly writings and musings at jwdauthor.substack.com.
Sazerac
"A spirited forum of Gate City food, drink, history, art, events, rumors and eccentrics worthy of our famous namesake"
Unsolicited Advice
This February, we’re shooing away Cupid because we are already fully committed. And before you go and shack up with someone, it might be wise to take inventory of the little habits that follow your potential mate as surely as his or her shadow. Because, no, you can’t change them — really, you can’t. The question you should be asking yourself: Can you live with them? Or without him or her? Here is a short list of deal-or-no-deal habits to consider:
1. Close talking, as in nose-to-nose. At first, it’s like, “Oh wow, they just can’t get close enough to me!” But that can escalate into “I can’t breathe.”
2. Leaving the toilet seat up — or down, depending on how you found it. Not a big deal until you get up at 3 a.m. to use the bathroom and either baptize the seat or fall into the cold basin water. Try getting back to sleep after that.
3. Talking with a mouthful of food. They’re so excited to talk to you! How sweet. Or perhaps Mama never taught them manners. Either way, bolus — aka chewed up food — upon your brow? Eeew.
4. Passing gas at the dinner table. Actually, no question about it — deal breaker. Run.
Come to think of it, we might recommend sticking with the single life.
Seen & Heard
I happened across Taja Mahaffey while she was standing behind her booth at the Greensboro Farmers Curb Market, surrounded by Zenith, General Electric, Westinghouse and Sylvania solid-state radios from the 1960s and earlier. As these appliances harken from an era even before stereo broadcasting, I had to ask, “Why?”
“I was in a thrift shop one day and bought a vintage radio. I just thought how neat it would be to bring it back to life,” she explains. “I found a Bluetooth speaker kit that I could insert into it, tried it and it worked.”
That was around nine months ago and Mahaffey, who resides in Summerfield but lived in Greensboro most of her life, has been scouring estate sales and flea markets ever since. She searches high and low for those vanishing examples of mid-century American ingenuity, often colorful, futuristically designed, with molded-plastic packaging.
“I’ve probably adapted 50 or more,” she says. “It just depends on when I can find what I’m looking for in good shape and at a good price.” Mahaffey, under the name Songbird Designs, also offers her groovy gadgets for sale at Main Street Market & Gallery in Randleman, where these whimsical looking Bluetooth receivers come with a USB chord for recharging.
I’m especially enamored with her idea of taking those modular clock radios your (great-) grandmother had bedside or on the kitchen counter, then reimagining them as devices tuned in to your tunes today — not to mention the convenience of a built-in timepiece for the few of us remaining who remember how to read an analog clock! — Billy Ingram
Just One Thing
What a range of age among the members gathered in the 1950s meeting of the Alpha Art Club, the Triad’s oldest-known African American women’s club. One hundred years later, the club is still going strong, celebrating their centennial with a photo exhibit at the High Point Museum, including an hour-long video of members’ sharing their time in the club. Rishaunda Moses, immediate past president, reflected recently that the club’s founding members initially “would get together to socialize, have tea, make doilies or just chat.” She went on to tell The High Point Enterprise that the club transitioned in the mid- to late-1920s to promote civic betterment. The club has persevered through the Great Depression, World War II, the Civil Rights Movement and a global pandemic and will continue moving forward with its mission: “lifting others up.” Today, that work comes in the form of supporting the NAACP, offering a mentoring program called the Legacy Foundation and providing scholarships. Info: highpointmuseum.org.
Piano Man
Musician Mark Hartman is in the air so often his Facebook persona is “Mark on a Plane.”
The New York-based pianist and composer conducts, arranges and composes for theater and concerts worldwide.
“I have to say, I love tiny airports. They make me so happy!” Hartman’s award-winning career spans both on and off-Broadway hits, and international theater as well.
When he taxis into our little PTI, however, he’s probably thinking about things he’s missed about home. Having grown up in Arcadia, between Lexington and Winston-Salem, his stomach is often rumbling at the thought of ‘cue.
Specifically, “Speedy’s in Lexington.”
Even in the air, you’ll likely see Hartman with a pencil in hand. Pencils are a talisman.
“I am oddly superstitious about pencils. If I start a musical marking in my score with a specific pencil, I will keep it and use it all the way through opening.”
To the delight of his friends — and strangers alike — he made a rare Triad appearance recently. At the invitation of the Anne Griffith Fine Art Museum at Red Oak Brewery (before stops in Saratoga, N.Y., and then to Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis), Hartman chatted to the crowd as he played from memory, hardly glancing at the keyboard. Few realized he had only recently laid his father, Wayne, to rest, who was a catalyst for his musical awakening. During childhood,
Hartman “plunked around on musical toys,” including a toy piano at his grandparents’ house, where he discovered early on he could repeat melodies and songs he had heard by Elvis Presley, Nat King Cole and Helen Reddy.
As a youngster, he performed in various churches, encouraged by his minister father. By high school, Hartman was already playing for musicals and theater productions. His favorite North Davidson High School teacher, Sherri Raeford, took him to his first college theater performance (Chicago at Catawba College).
“I got into musical theater originally because it appealed to my love of music, lyrics and storytelling.” But, as his career has propelled forward, he says, “The thing I love most is connecting with another artist — in hopefully great material — to make something personal and individual and more satisfying than either of us could do on our own.”
He lists Leonard Bernstein, Fats Waller, Joni Mitchell, Stephen Sondheim and Leonard Cohen as a few of his influences.
Throughout his own career he has appeared with cabaret greats such as Lorna Luft, Chita Rivera and Jennifer Holliday.
“Many things set Mark aside as a high school student,” says Raeford. “One was that he was a walking encyclopedia when it came to his knowledge of musicals and musical theater.” But for the intimate gathering of art and music lovers at a museum in Whitsett, Hartman slipped into what he loves, after weeks of coping with the loss of a parent.
Launching into a musical reverie over three hours long, teasing out 40 or more songs, he wove them together in a casual, cabaret style.
He smiles gently at the mention of Cohen’s “Hallelujah,” insisting “it is not a sad song.” In Hartman’s hands, it was reinvented, the plaintive words inexplicably transformed.
Those present received a master class in the power of music to extend beyond entertainment, to heal. — Cynthia Adams
PHOTOGRAPH FROM CITY OF HIGH POINT, 1950S
Sage Gardener
Although I don’t currently brew beer, I’ve had experience in beer making since my dad donned a yellow rain suit and a Nor’wester rain hat to uncap the bottles of home-brew that were exploding in our basement, which, by the way, sent a wonderful aroma up through our heating vents. I made beer in college when it was more exciting because it was a federal offense, using canned Blue Ribbon malt and, I shudder to think of it — bread yeast to get things going. (Let’s not bring up the subject of yeast infections some females blamed on my beer.) Later, in grad school, an English-beer-loving friend and I graduated to ordering malt extract and hops extract, both imported from the U.K. It was with the extract, which turned the beer into the equivalent of IPA, that my love affair with hops began.
Fast forward a half-century later and I’m finally contemplating planting hops in my garden this spring. The always helpful N.C. State Extension Service had a good piece stating that 80 small farms were growing hops successfully in the state. If they can do it, I decided, so can I. I’ve been wanting to grow hops since I learned the species name, Humulus lupus, meaning “small wolf,” referring to the plant’s tendency to strangle other
plants as a wolf does a sheep. In other interesting tidbits, I learned that hops grow on “bines,” not vines. (A bine twists around something, and always in a clockwise direction, whereas a vine grows in tendrils, in various directions.) I was told I could expect growth of up to 12 inches a day. It went on to mention how hops will grow up almost anything, reaching heights of up to 25 feet. While sipping on a mug of Old Speckled Hen, I envisioned a tangle of hops that would give the wisteria at the back of my property some competition.
Stephanie Montell writes on the morebeer.com platform that “Growing hops at home is easy if you know the tricks of the trade.” She points out that it’s the female flower (like another plant I know) that are all-important. It seems that only the female plant is able to produce the actual hop “cones.” She went on to warn gardeners not to plant hops near electrical power lines to avoid what I’ll term kudzuification.
Loamy, well-drained soil. Check. Lots of
no later than May. Can’t wait and probably won’t.
Hops grow from rhizomes, which I need to mail order. N.C. State suggests which varieties will thrive most anywhere in the state. First year? Not much growth while the plant establishes its room system. “Instead, look forward to the second year when hops are full grown and produce healthy crops of fragrant flowers,” she says.
But here’s what’s going to be tough. Beginners, she says, “have a tendency of letting every shoot grow and climb. Although this is understandable, leave only selected shoots and trim the weaker ones at ground level . . . to force the strength of the root into the hardier shoots.” Whatever. My wife does something similar with our tomato plants and it drives me nuts. But a side-by-side experiment demonstrated she knew what she was talking about.
Finally I learn that all but 4% of hops are grown in the Pacific Northwest, where, I am told, one acre can produce enough
on
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Durant & Mary Katherine Bell
Matt & Judy Tsuei
Raising their Voices to Save Lives
Meet our 2025 Triad Women of Impact
These
Dana East
Kathy Eichlin
Stephanie Bowden
Those who know and love you can attest: Humdrum just isn’t in your wheelhouse. This month, when life sprinkles a few so-called obstacles in your path, consider it a boon. Not only will you rise to the occasion, you’ll also land in the good graces of someone whose unconventional thinking both complements and challenges your own. Trust that any perceived failures are but compost for the goodness to come. Your life will be anything but boring.
Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:
Pisces (February 19 – March 20)
Take two whopping steps back.
Aries (March 21 – April 19)
Read the subtle cues.
Taurus (April 20 – May 20)
It’s going to be worth all the mess.
Gemini (May 21 – June 20)
Deeper breaths, darling.
Cancer (June 21 – July 22)
Two words: lemon and cayenne.
Leo (July 23 – August 22)
Best to take smaller bites.
Virgo (August 23 – September 22)
It’s time for a new playlist.
Libra (September 23 – October 22)
Resist the urge to fold.
Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)
The laundry is behind you.
Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)
Tend to your nervous system.
Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)
Don’t forget to stretch.
Zora Stellanova has been divining with tea leaves since 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.
Broker/Realtor® 336.210.5337 mobile craig.mcintosh@trmhomes.com trmhomes.com
Saints Alive
Valentine, Patrick, Nicholas and Fanourios. Who are these guys anyway?
By m aria JohNsoN
I was so delighted by the earrings — a pair of verdigris dogs with copper ears as bright as new pennies — that I had to try them on right then and there, in the backseat of my husband’s car. My older son’s partner, Tina, had just surprised me with them, following a family ramble through a row of seaside gift shops.
She and I have a custom of giving each other earrings, and she’d clearly hit a home run with the canines she’d just sniffed out.
I plucked out the faux-diamond studs I was wearing and carefully extracted the pups from their plasticized card. I hooked one hound to my left ear and was fiddling with my right lobe when the second pup slipped from hand.
I heard it hit something hard — the seatbelt buckle? — on the way down. Oops.
I expected to see the stray lying on the seat beside me. No dice. No dog.
I unsnapped the seat belt and felt around for a metallic bump underneath me.
I bent double and pawed at the floor mat.
Tina, too, searched for the hound that had somehow slipped away in the space between us.
Minutes later, when we stopped at a landmark lighthouse, I stepped out of the car slowly, monitoring for anything that might fall from the folds of my T-shirt or shorts.
Knowing that wayward earrings can hang up in hair, snag on necklines or fall down shirts, I ruffled my own fur, patted myself down and snapped my sports bra, hoping to dislodge half of the gift.
I looked down my own shirt, disappointed to see that nothing (else) had fallen.
Meanwhile, the four scientists in the car — that would be everyone but me — converged at the seat where the lost dog was last seen. They postulated that the hound had taken a one-in-a-million dive into a crevice, or bounced at a weird angle and landed somewhere unexpected. They slid their hands between cushions, into map pockets, under mats, around seat tracks and anchors.
They could not prove their hypotheses that day. Or the day after. Or the day after that, when we meticulously vacuumed the car’s interior while listening for the rattle of success.
Alas, there was no need to pick through the dust cup.
I was deeply bothered by this loss, not just because it rendered
the gift unwearable. The second earring was somewhere. It didn’t vanish.
And yet it had disappeared, to our senses at least.
Desperate, I called on heavenly help from Saint Fanourios, the Greek Orthodox saint who helps people find what is lost.
When I was growing up, my Hellenic dad often appealed to “Agios Fanourios,” which he pronounced in his native tongue as “eye-oos fan-NOO-rios” with an “r” that rolled like the Aegean Sea.
In the days before AirTags and GPS, Fanourios dropped a pin on missing objects and guided us to them by process of elimination.
He specialized in keys, pointing the way to fobs that were tucked into pockets, wedged between cushions or lodged between furniture and walls.
Usually, we found what we were looking for. Occasionally, we did not.
At these times, my dad offered a dose of common sense.
Ask Fanourios to find a necklace lost while body-surfing?
“C’mon now, honey,” Daddy would say. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s just a saint. Even he has his limits.”
Also Fanourios did not, according to my dad, work cases involving stolen property. If someone swiped your basketball, it wasn’t lost; it was stolen. Fanourios was an intercessor, not a cop.
He was just a saint, a person who’d done some amazing things but was a person all the same.
Recently, I was thinking about my dad — who died several years ago — on his name day, December 6, the day that Greeks celebrate the feast of St. Nicholas. I searched online for a Saint Nick bio, curious about who he was before he became a saint and the forerunner of our very own Westernized Santa Claus.
Turns out, the original Nick was a bishop who, among other things, gave dowries to the father of three poor girls to save them from lives as prostitutes. So, you know, putting patriarchy aside for a minute, good on him.
Also, he is said to have revived three dismembered young people whose remains were hidden in a pickling barrel, which is disturbing on many levels, but I suppose still lands in the “plus” column.
Also, Nick might have slugged a heretic at a church meeting once. So there’s that.
For the sake of comparison, I snooped on a few other saints.
The Art of Living
The soon-to-be celebrated St. Valentine, the patron saint of lovers, was a lawbreaker, said to have defied Roman Emperor Claudius by marrying couples so that the men would not be drafted into the military.
St. Patrick, in whose name we drink green beer and pinch people who aren’t wearing green — as if both of those behaviors are normal — was an English evangelist who converted lots of of Irish people to Christianity, but, heck, he wasn’t even a real saint. He was never canonized. And he never drove snakes from Ireland. The Ice Age, which snapped the chilly green isle off the continent, made it a no-slither zone for a long time.
And St. Fanourios? Very little is known about him, other than the usual saintly stuff: He spread the gospel, performed miracles and suffered on account of his beliefs. He was tortured and very likely died a gruesome death. His reputation for revealing lost items probably came because a pristine icon of him was unearthed from church ruins on the Greek island of Rhodes during Muslim occupation around the year 1400.
No wonder my earring was still lost.
With two top national awards as culinary artists, Executive Chef Jolie Shafer and Director of Dining Arts Erin Perkins bring creativity and variety to every meal at Arbor Acres. Shafer and Perkins are excited to dazzle with a wine and caviar dinner, delight with classic fried chicken, or re-imagine a resident’s favorite recipe. Winning the highest national recognition for excellence in their industry while always putting the needs—and taste buds—of our residents first, Jolie Shafer and Erin Perkins exemplify The Art of Living. Discover life in all
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My dad was right. These guys were “just” saints, not wizards (pickling barrel story notwithstanding).
Still, that doesn’t mean there isn’t some magic involved in appealing to them, letting go of a problem, letting your mind relax and coming back to it later.
I’m happy to report my missing dog was found. Sort of.
With my husband’s help, I Googlesearched an image of the surviving earring, and up popped a boutique that sells identical litter mates.
As I write this, a new pair of hounds is bounding my way.
I can hear my pops now, giving Fanourios credit for his guidance and for keeping up with the times.
“Look, honey, he never said where you’d find it.” OH
Maria Johnson is a contributing editor of O.Henry magazine. Email her at ohenrymaria@gmail.com.
Executive Chef Jolie Shafer and Director of Dining Arts Erin Perkins
By A nne Blythe
The Heart of Appalachia
Discovering a long-forgotten love
Appalachia and its resilient people have been in the news digging out from the path of destruction carved through the mountainous region by the powerful remnants of Hurricane Helene. Vice President JD Vance rose to political prominence, in part, based on his 2016 depiction of the region in Hillbilly Elegy: A Memoir of a Family and Culture in Crisis. Isabel Reddy, a science writer based in Chapel Hill who has turned her hand to fiction, tells another story of Appalachian life in her debut novel, That You Remember.
Reddy takes readers to the fictional Otter Creek Hollow, a Kentucky coal country “holler” full of men with “miner’s mascara” — that perpetual dark smudge of coal around the eyes — and the cast of women who rile, nurture and support them. Reddy, herself the daughter of a former coal company president, brings the miners, company executives and townspeople to life in a poignant page-turner about love, self- discovery and impending catastrophe.
The story starts when Aleena Rowan Fitzgerald receives a box from her brother with her deceased father’s desk diaries enclosed. It’s 2019, and Aleena, the mother of two college-age daughters, is in the midst of a divorce that has forced her to examine who she was, who she is, and who she wants to be.
Aleena’s dad, Frank Rowan, spent much of his working life away from their Connecticut home, either at his New York City office or on the road. “Here was a man who, from looking at his desk diaries, could schmooze with politicians and owners of large conglomerates, who flew all over the place and dined at the most fashionable hotels and restaurants,” says Aleena. After the family company bought Otter Creek Mining Company, an acquisition Rowan initially described as “another truck mine teetering on the edge of bankruptcy in a backwoods ravine,” Frank visited
Otter Creek Hollow often, trying to learn the lay of the land.
As Aleena flips through pages about her father’s work life, including his trips to Otter Creek, she finds a slip of paper with the name “Sara” scrawled on it three times. If it had been only once, it might not have piqued her interest, but three times sets Aleena on a journey from her Connecticut home to Kentucky coal country. “I wondered what Sara was like. If there even was a Sara,” Aleena adds.
Frank Rowan and Sara Stone come to life as Reddy blends the past with the present, taking readers down into the coal mines with the clanks, rumbles, smells and signs of peril while fleshing out the characters who live their lives above ground in the restaurants, homes and businesses. They are not the caricatures of Appalachia so often portrayed in modern literature and art. The people of Otter Creek Hollow are warm, giving and protective of one another while often exhibiting a hard-won, home-grown worldliness. The protagonists are multilayered and complex, much like the geography of the region itself. They offer pearls of down-home wisdom, and encircle one another during their trials and tribulations. Reddy crafts them with sensitivity and an understanding gained through her own trips to Appalachia, and the conversations she had with the people who live in the hills and valleys there.
Sara has an enigmatic air when the mere mention of her name in the beginning pages of Reddy’s novel opens the door to Aleena, inviting her into the narrative. But when she and Aleena come face to face and Sara invites her into her home, Reddy flashes back almost 50 years to 1970, before Otter Creek Hollow is obliterated by a Thanksgiving Day dam breach that sends a 30-foot tidal wave of black, fiery slurry and debris through the hollow, scooping up homes, people, cars and infrastructure in its path.
It is long ago, before the disaster, when Sara and Frank meet at a fishing hole, two people caught in a world they don’t necessarily want to be in. Dead-set against getting romantically involved with a miner, Sara has dreams of leaving the valley, going to college and finding a more fulfilling job than being a waitress. Frank is a fledgling executive entrenched in a family
business that seems more focused on profits than the safety of the coal country communities.
Their bond is quick, but both want to keep it secret. He’s married, with an alcoholic wife and three children (including Aleena) at home. She has brothers who would not be so warm and inviting if they found out she was being romanced by an “operator,” the generic name for the owners and operators of the mines.
The novel is loosely based on Reddy’s discovery of her own father’s work diaries and the 1972 Buffalo Creek mining disaster in West Virginia that killed 125 people and left nearly 5,000 without a home after three coal waste lagoons failed and sent a 30-foot wave careening through a 10-mile hollow at 35 miles per hour. The fictional Otter Creek Hollow disaster also left 125 dead and nearly 4,000 homeless — a cataclysmic event still very much on the minds of survivors 50 years later, when Aleena finally meets Sara in the flesh.
“This long journey, which seemed so foolish, had such a surprising result,” Aleena concludes at the end of her hunt. “I felt like I’d been given the father, the one I’d always wanted, my dad. He was a complicated man, but a loving one.”
Reddy’s writing is as fast-paced and vivid as the dam break she describes, tugging and pulling at the hearts and sensitivities of readers as they go along. The disaster looms as large as the love story, half a century old. “Your father was a unique man, I’d say,” Sara tells Aleena of the brief affair. “I suppose there was that tough businessman side of him, but that’s not the side he showed me. Our time together was kind of separate from the world.”
Then after a pause, Sara adds: “He had a good heart.”
That You Remember does, too. OH
Anne Blythe has been a reporter in North Carolina for more than three decades covering 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.
Wishes into Art
Paper and fiber artist Elizabeth Palmisano’s particular alchemy
By liz A RoBeRts
For Charlotte artist Elizabeth Palmisano, inspiration comes from many sources: the material she works with, often handmade paper and fiber; her community, which includes students, fellow artists and complete strangers; and lately and most importantly, from a deeply felt calling to collect and transform the hopes and wishes of those people into art.
That art is often three-dimensional and always colorful. It typically makes a bold statement through scale, composition or unexpected materials, but does so disarmingly, with a beguiling beauty. Her work has been exhibited at Charlotte’s Mint Museum and McColl Center, and Palmisano has twice been voted Best Visual Artist by the Charlotte’s Queen City Nerve newspaper.
It’s not surprising that her community — which she incor-
porates into nearly everything she does — loves her back. As a self-described wishkeeper, Palmisano has been actively collecting their anonymously submitted wishes to use in her art for the last few years, most recently gathering more than 1,000 handwritten ones to incorporate into a massive, multidimensional mural on Charlotte’s 36th Street. Completed in September, NoDa Cloud Wall transforms a 23,000-square-foot parking garage wall into a colorful skyscape featuring three-dimensional clouds inscribed with those wishes.
“It’s really beautiful to see all the similarities that people have, from all walks of life,” she says. “We all kind of want the same things: Always love, then wishes for family, or for children. Love and family are always first. It’s wild to me how vulnerable people will be if you give them an anonymous spot to ask for what they want.”
The pandemic started it all. “It was really hard for me,” she says. “I’m an artist with a capital ‘A’ first and foremost, but I teach classes and workshops because I love being with people. And I couldn’t do anything like that. So this was my way to collaborate
Liminal Divine, McColl Center
with people without being in the same room. I asked them to digitally submit a wish, and it could be anonymous, and I was going to make a piece of art for each wish submitted. Those were my first wishes, 58 wishes, and I created a piece of art for each one.” One recent morning, at uptown’s McColl Center, Palmisano was busy printing a limited series of card decks that feature her illustrations alongside wishes and affirmations: “I love fiercely, beginning and ending with myself” was one.
She jokes that her focus on affirmations and wishes allows her to be “a professional fairy princess at 40 years old,” but “because I’m an artist, I can get away with it.”
Still, so much outward, public focus can take an artist away from her own center, her own source of creativity. A recent fellowship at the McColl Center, during which she made paper vessels and curated an exhibit, “Liminal Divine,” that included her work and that of six other McColl fel-
NoDa Cloud Wall
lows, inspired her to look back within.
“I want to make art for me for at least the next six months or so,” she says. “So I’m diving really deeply back into my handmade paper and fibers.” The paper vessels at McColl and a recent commission to create a 60-foot-long piece of handmade paper and fiber to hang indoors allowed her to return to the delicate medium that she started with.
As a child in South Carolina and as a young adult living on her own without a high school diploma, Palmisano not only had no access to art materials, she didn’t know “artist” was something someone could be. “I grew up in poverty, in a culture of poverty,” she says. Those roots underpin everything she does today. The first time she took discarded scraps of paper and fiber and reworked them entirely into a piece of handmade paper and sold it at an art show, she says, it was a revelation; she felt she’d performed a work of alchemy.
“It made me think of the way I grew up and where that came from,” Palmisano says. “Using someone else’s trash. You figure it out when you have no other choice. You can’t say, ‘I’m not going to eat today.’ Or, ‘I’m just not going to get to work to -
day.’ Or, ‘I’m just not going to have clean clothes today.’ You figure it out. And I think that has served me well.”
In late 2019, when she filled a giant wall at the Mint Museum with Incantation, an ethereal, abstracted skyscape made of handmade paper, paint and collage, it was the first time many viewers had encountered fiber art in a blue-chip museum.
“Boundary-pushing” is how the museum described the piece, both for its use of recycled materials and for “breathing new life into objects not typically considered for use in the creation of art.”
It’s clear that the process of taking something discarded, breaking it down to its elements, and reworking it into something valuable and beautiful is not just empowering for Palmisano, it’s metaphoric.
And it’s always new. “Right now, I’m leaning deep into: ‘What do I want to make?’ I’ve got a lot of experimentation underway,” she says. “In the spring, I’m sure there’ll be something. I’ll be excited, like a kid walking up and handing you a dandelion they just picked: ‘Here’s my offering.’ Good work takes time, and I really want to give myself that time, because I want to continue to be able to do this work.” OH
This is an excerpt from Art of the State: Celebrating the Art of North Carolina, published by UNC Press.
From Liminal Divine
Dial “M” for Modern Inconvenience
Sorry, bad connection
By Cynthi A A dA ms
Rememberthe shared family phone — with rotary dials and unruly cords? Our phone (green) was in the kitchen, which was the most trafficked room in the house. Phone conversations were about as private as calls placed in a Moscow hotel.
Many things were available in that kitchen. Cold chicken, or even a fruit cobbler, awaited in the (harvest green, according to Good Housekeeping magazine) Frigidaire. A pitcher of sweet tea sweated on the matching avo-green counter.
The one thing never to be found there was privacy.
At least one of my four siblings was always at the fridge, back lit by the harsh fluorescent lights that turned the healthiest skin a sickly pallor, hungrily waiting for something. Cagey as they were, sometimes it was a ruse to gather intel to use against me.
I’ve no idea why that incredibly sturdy phone didn’t pop right out of the wall, given repeated efforts by my teenage self to strain that cord far enough for just a modicum of privacy. Stretched taut as a bungee, the cord would barely allow me to pull the handset into the dining room, where I spoke in the lowest possible register. Barely audible to the person I called, whatever I said was almost certainly overheard.
Weaponizing my secrets, the youngest would use blackmail for rides to school, candy or paying his debt at the school office. (He charged a ridiculous amount of paper, pencils and basics. I’ve no idea what he did with it all — maybe resold them?)
One of my sisters should have been recruited by the CIA, given her skill at parsing out barely audible mumbles. Her sense of hearing was uncanny. She learned to lip read from a school friend whose parents were deaf.
My dilemma worsened when I was bussed to a high school that was a 30-minute drive by car but an hour away by school bus. If I wanted to make Friday night plans with friends, I had to do so by Thursday night via phone or in person at school. Regrettably, most of my friends were close to Charlotte, therefore long distance, meaning my phone calls were easily flagged by our father when the dreaded bill arrived.
Only local calls were “free,” meaning included with monthly service. Then, too, you had to rent your actual phone. Some families had both a parents’ line and a children’s line — but we didn’t.
When Southern Bell’s monthly bill arrived, I wanted to run straight to the charcoal grill and burn it before my father could scrutinize it with the narrowed eyes of a bookie. The damning
details! Numbers dialed, location, length in minutes and cost.
Anchored adjacent to the kitchen table, the phone stood in relief against wallpaper printed with tiny copper pots and pans. Dad wanted it close to the head of the table for two reasons: As payor of the phone bill, he strictly dictated the phone’s usage; also, this meant he could take a call while eating.
Whenever it rang, my father would push back from his meat and vegetables to answer. He owned farmland and a small business, rife with problems.
For his offspring, the rule was non-negotiable: no phone calls during the dinner hour, which Southerners still called “supper.” The midday meal was called dinner.
The second phone in a household of seven children and adults was an aqua-colored “Princess” phone that resided on my mother’s bedside table. Mind you, not a separate line, merely a second phone. (Anyone could pick up in the kitchen and eavesdrop on a call made in our parent s’ room.)
Both my grandmothers’ phones were on “party lines” (multiparty lines), which they shared with a group of other rural homes — and any household on a party line could eavesdrop on anyone else on their party line. Providers formerly connected multiple homes in rural areas to the same telephone line, saving money when service to more remote areas was costly. It also meant you had to patiently wait your turn to place a call if the line was in use.
This ensured nonstop entertainment for my paternal grandmother, Hallie, who loved eavesdropping and knew pretty much anything about her neighbors — who was selling some land or a horse, or who had sold their soybeans too low. She would phone Pat, my mother’s mom, with the newsiest news.
In 1971, Southern Bell ended party lines in North Carolina, which is probably why our grandmothers’ health plummeted.
While weeding this early morning, I noticed every other passerby staring at their phone, shuffling zombie-like along as their dogs tugged them.
Then I checked my phone straight after walking the dogs. And eating breakfast. And showering. And dressing. And at the stop light en route to work.
And it struck me why Americans seem less intelligent today: We were smarter when we only had land lines.
Even with the advent of early cellular phones, given the high cost and high call rates they commanded, our time and that of others were still considered more valuable.
Phones did not dictate the parameters of our lives then. We hung up the phone and simply walked away. OH
Cynthia Adam is a contributing editor to O.Henry magazine.
Early Nesters
Winter suits great horned owls
By susA n CA mpBell
It is mid-winter
across the Old North State: a time of cold temperatures, wet weather and hints of the longer days to come. Despite the seemingly inhospitable conditions, there is a group of birds already preparing to raise new families: owls. Of the three species that are regulars in our area — great horned, barred and eastern screech-owl — great horned owls are the first of the year to breed.
Being nocturnal creatures, owls are not as appreciated or as well understood as other raptors. Though owls are known for their impressive ability to locate and catch prey under the cover of darkness using their phenomenal hearing and night vision, few people are acquainted with their natural history. Great horneds are adapted to breed very early, well ahead of their cousins, the hawks, when rodents are plentiful and nesting locations are unoccupied by other species.
Great horned owls, whose name originates from ear-like feather tufts on the top of their heads, are one of the most common owls in North America. They can be found in a variety of habitats across the continent. This species is considered the top avian predator in most ecosystems with individuals preying on assorted small mammals and birds, including other owls. Great horneds are even capable of displacing eagles if they are so inclined. These birds are non-migratory, and individuals associate with the same mate year-round on an established territory. In our area, they are found in open agricultural fields, mixed grassy and wooded areas like golf courses, and in both pine stands and hardwood forests. Until late fall, when they begin their distinctive hooting, they tend to go unnoticed.
Pairs of great horneds begin courtship calling or “dueting” around Thanksgiving. The four-hoot reply of the female is somewhat higher pitched than the hooting of the male. Mates typically strengthen their bond by the end of December. In
January they will choose a nest site, usually a nest built by another species such as a red-tailed hawk, crow or even gray squirrels. They make few improvements other than perhaps lining their nest with some of their soft body feathers. The female lays one to five eggs, and then both adults share incubation duties for the next month. When the young hatch, they are covered in thick downy feathers but must be continuously brooded by the parents for the first two weeks, until they are large enough to thermoregulate independently.
Even though the temperatures are chilly, nights are long and mean more hours for the parents to hunt food for their ravenous offspring. At eight weeks, the youngsters begin to make short flights away from the nest, though they are closely watched and fed by their parents for several more weeks. Like the adults, the immature owls have gray, brown and black striped plumage, which is effective camouflage against the nest or vegetation during daylight hours.
Although hearing a great horned owl calling at night in winter is not terribly unusual, seeing one during daylight is a special treat — no matter what. OH
Susan Campbell would love to receive your wildlife sightings and photos. She can be contacted by email at susan@ncaves.com, or by calling (910) 585-0574.
The Belle of the Wrecking Ball
The corner of Bellemeade and Elm faces demolition again
By Billy ingRA m
“To put it rather bluntly, I am not the type who wants to go
back to the land;
I
am the type who wants to go back to the hotel.” — Fran Lebowitz
Could it be that, twice in one lifetime, I’ll be there to witness the destruction of a massive structure on the southwest corner of North Elm and Bellemeade? The city plans to soon demolish the seven-story parking deck erected there in 1989. It’s worth noting that 70 years before that date, on this very spot in 1919, one of the most distinguished establishments in the Southeast debuted to tremendous fanfare: the O.Henry Hotel, which, for decades, exemplified Greensboro’s exacting sense of luxury and refinement, distinguished by its cosmopolitan vision for the future.
Greensboro has a long history of hospitality going back to stagecoach days when, 200 years ago, George Albright kept an inn on East Market Street with plenty of hay in the barn for the horses. Nor was the hair those nags shed wasted since it was stuffed right into the inn’s mattresses.
The city’s first upscale hotel was the Benbow House, originally located where the Woolworth’s/International Civil Rights Center & Museum is today. In May of 1871, it was declared to be the finest in North Carolina by its first lodger, Governor Zebulon B. Vance. Demand led to other rooms for rent on South Elm: McAdoo House, Hotel Huffine, Guilford Hotel and the Hotel Clegg, all richly appointed and refined architecturally in full view of the train station with a tendency towards inopportune tinderboxing.
The landscape changed dramatically in 1919 with the debut of the thoroughly modern, eight-story O.Henry Hotel, the largest in the state. Its construction and completion was funded through
community stock subscriptions. Designed to be a full-service facility that rivaled any in New York City, it featured 200 luxurious rooms with private baths (another 100 were added later), plus a pharmacy, newsstand, gift shop, ballroom, beauty salon, Merle Norman Studio, and formal dining room, all encircling a striking two-story lobby with a cascade of a dozen or more columns adorned in dark oak paneling with marble footings rising upward then rounding at the ceiling in dramatic fashion. Under foot, an enormous expanse of mosaic tile flooring was accented with sumptuous carpeting, everything warmly lit from above by sleek, minimalistic, blown-glass chandeliers.
Homages to the hotel’s namesake abounded, including a library devoted to O.Henry and illustrations from his stories decorating hallways where guests could leave their shoes outside the door for shining or clothing for overnight dry cleaning. Valet parking was available and, because liquor was illegal to purchase in Greensboro until 1952, a bellhop named “Snag” was happy to procure someone’s preferred libations.
The immediate success of the stately O.Henry led to the 1927 construction of a much taller, world-class hotel a few blocks away. Standing statuesquely on the corner of Davie and East Market streets, the 13-story King Cotton Hotel was the height of Art Deco splendor. First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt whistle-stopped there in 1942 and it’s where movie star Joan Crawford glammed up in 1957 before christening a local Pepsi bottling plant.
The O.Henry lost no luster, remaining the preferred place to play and stay during the 1930s and ’40s for celebrities such as F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, as well as Big Band stars Guy Lombardo and Benny Goodman. Local radio legends Bob Poole and Willie began broadcasting their WBIG morning show in the mid-1950s from a studio tucked under the hotel’s
main floor, which was part of a mall with a barber shop, cigarette stand and coffee shop. The sub-floor was also home to the Merchants and Manufacturers (M&M) Club, basically a glorified pool hall, card room and day-drinking barroom for local businessmen.
I was a frequent visitor to the O.Henry on Saturday mornings in the late-1960s, searching for the latest comic books from its newsstand, positioned to the left of the Elm Street entrance. Selecting a fourcolor DC from the comic rack, I’d march over to the front desk to pay. Even under diminished circumstances, I could appreciate the hotel’s impressive atmosphere, a grande dame retaining an air of sophistication rapidly vanishing from the world outside her doors.
By the late-1960s, winos and degenerates were populating the nearby King Cotton Hotel, drunkenly tossing their empties out of windows, glass shattering on the sidewalk below or atop unsuspecting pedestrians. In 1971, I was among the throng of thousands who gathered on an unseasonably warm October Sunday morning to witness the King Cotton’s erasure from the skyline by way of a newly refined controlled demolition method that is now commonplace — dethroned by a series of carefully choreographed explosions that, in mere moments, leveled the building into its own footprint.
Around that same time, the O.Henry was purchased and was being operated (unsuccessfully) by a hotel chain out of Tulsa, Okla., who, in the spring of 1975, shut it down. But, a few months later, the chain allowed it to be converted into a residential complex populated by recently divorced men and, in the absence of any such institutions, a sort of assisted living facility, without any staffing to support even a small influx of displaced senior citizens.
Inevitable, perhaps, that one of those elderly residents would doze off with a lit cigarette, igniting an early morning blaze on January 15, 1976, sending thick, black smoke bellowing down the fifth floor hallway, creating zero visibility conditions for
disoriented tenants needing to be rescued by firefighters. One hysterical man clinging to a minute window ledge outside his room was yanked to safety via ladder truck. All 56 occupants were displaced after the Fire Department declared the building unsafe.
Repairs were made, but the O.Henry Hotel never fully recovered; a nearly deserted downtown Greensboro was no longer a desirable destination.
Photos taken while awaiting the executioner in 1979 highlight the stripped, bare lobby and a dining room with plaster peeling away and draperies hanging resolutely crisp and neat alongside windows gleaming in the sunlight. The lobby’s geometrically playful tile flooring remained as vivid as when it welcomed the first guests eight decades hence with the marble front counter and elaborate light fixtures still intact. It was the sinking of a Titanic.
With so little going on in the area during that time, a parking lot of that size in that spot was totally unnecessary. But eventually it became essential, especially after the Steven Tanger Center for the Performing Arts appeared across the street. Was it theater-goers’ extra wear and tear that wore and tore this concrete structure to such an extent that it will now cost millions to remove and replace? That sound you hear is your taxes going up.
Expecting an O.Henry ending? If you insist. On Tuesday afternoons I work — more like hang out — in a comic shop. Affixed to one wall is the O.Henry Hotel’s actual comic book rack, likely installed in the 1940s, featuring a header illustrated with cowboys and funny animal characters, and lettering proclaiming, “DELL comics are GOOD comics.” The very metal frame I pulled 12-centers from as a preteen more than half a century ago.
With a nod to the late Paul Harvey, “And now you know . . . the rest of the story.” And how old I am. OH
One of Billy Ingram’s favorite places in Greensboro is the cocktail lounge at Green Valley Grill inside the modern day O.Henry Hotel.
Get Ready for a Night of Fashion and Purpose at Restoration Runway 2025!
Restoration Place Counseling (RPC) is excited to announce the highly anticipated return of the Restoration Runway on Thursday, March 27, 2025, at the stunning Greensboro Country Club.
Celebrate TWENTY YEARS of RPC’s transformative work and life-changing impact with an amazing night where fashion meets purpose.
The event will feature a fabulous fashion showcase, highlighting Spring 2025 looks from nine local retailers, as well as touching testimonials from those whose lives have been changed by RPC's counseling services. Enjoy the chance to shop from curated pop-up boutiques and indulge in delicious desserts, all while supporting RPC's mission of helping women heal.
Includes early entry to the event for a firstclass reception and early access to the Pop-Up Boutiques.
General Admission Ticket ($65)
Includes entry into the Fashion Show, dessert, & post-show shopping at the Pop-Up Boutiques.
10% of all pop-up fashion show proceeds benefit RPC.
In addition to the runway event, mark your calendars to join us for Simply Meg’s Shopping Day (1616-H Battleground Ave.) on February 22, 2025, from 10 AM to 5 PM. Simply Meg's, a loyal partner of RPC, will donate 20% of sales to help fund RPC's programs, with the owners matching the donation!
TICKET OPTIONS: VIP Tickets ($100)
The Fog
Some say strong winds and hard rain sing, but I love the more subtle things: stillness as mists make frost and dew, the time between crickets and wren before the cruel light crawls in and work takes me away from you.
Drunk with sleep but almost aware that we are more real than dreams, but much less sure and far more rare.
Not cold silence, that’s too extreme though the loudest leaves go quiet as fog fills in what we forget.
The sun starts showing silhouettes. Stalled clocks whisper: “Not yet. Not yet.”
— Paul Jones
Paul Jones’ most recent volume of poetry is Something Necessary.
Two couples share their love for performing arts at the Tanger Center
By
Cassie Bustamante
PhotograPhs By m ark Wagoner
WShile sitting on the large concrete orbs in the LeBauer Park playground as our youngest son played with a pal, my husband, Chris, spied a silver-haired couple strolling by holding hands.
“Aaaaw, how cute,” he said. “That couple matches.”
“Of course, they match,” I replied. “They’re wearing their usher uniforms and are clearly on their way to work at the Tanger Center.” As soon as the words escaped my lips, I knew I had to know who these people were. What kind of couple, in their golden years, still hold hands and go to work together? I looked at Chris and wondered, could that be us one day?
I immediately reached out to the Tanger Center and learned that there was more than one gainfully employed couple who ushered in guests awaiting theatrical and musical entertainment.
The couple we spotted in the park, Allen and Anita Greenstein, will celebrate their 60th wedding anniversary later this year, and Dale and Starr Harrold just rounded their 50th year of marriage in 2024.
Inside the walls of the Tanger office, I sat down with both couples to learn more about them and also to try to crack the code to a long and happy marriage.
Allen & Anita Greenstein
ixty-one years after the fact, Allen and Anita Greenstein easily recall falling in love with one another.
“We met in a house plan. A house plan is a poor man’s fraternity,” says Anita, a 4-foot-8-inch spitfire of a woman. “I was supposed to meet another fellow and instead I met him.”
“And that was it,” says Allen.
“And that was it,” repeats Anita.
At the time, Allen was a senior attending The City College of New York and Anita was an undergrad at Pace Institute. Having grown up in New York, both regularly attended Broadway shows from a young age. “We dated and went to all the theaters,” says Anita.
But Allen quickly rattles off an exact date: Feb. 7, 1964, their first date. On a tight budget, Allen scraped his nickels and dimes together to take her to the movies that night, where they saw an Audrey Hepburn film. “I can’t remember exactly which one,” he says, “but I knew something was percolating at the time between us, which is why I remember the date.”
For 30 years after that, Allen gave Anita flowers one full week before Valentine’s Day. “And for 30 years, she said, ‘What’s this for?’ So I stopped.” His eyes crinkle in the corners as he stifles a giggle.
After they were married, on Aug. 14, 1965, Allen went on to earn his doctorate in clinical psychology.
“And I got a doctorate in keeping him happy. And I got a
PHT,” quips Anita. “Putting hubby through.”
The Greensteins left New York behind for plain old York — in Pennsylvania — where Allen set up his psychology practice and they raised a family. For 36 years, Allen practiced there and even launched a large mental health program with Anita working by his side.
“She took care of the clerical staff, a lot of administrative stuff. I supervised all the professional staff,” says Allen. “She did her thing, I did mine.”
“We don’t do anything separate,” says Anita. A fact the couple is clearly proud of is that theirs was the first mental health facility to computerize for billing, record keeping and “things of that nature.”
While they left New York City behind, they took with them their shared passion for theatre. Anita became active in the York Little Theatre (now The Belmont Theatre), acting, dancing — which she preferred to acting — and even handling publicity. Allen recalls hitting the stage as well, playing Captain Hook in a Little Theatre production for children.
And, over the years, the couple has become convinced that live theater is good for a community’s mental health. How? “Let me get my speech ready,” Allen answers. “It’s usually a very positive experience and it’s great to go in and have your spirits lifted by the story, by the talent, by the music. It’s beautiful.”
After a moment of further consideration, he continues. “And even when the topic is not so bright and cheery, some of these things need to be discussed. It’s a great outlet for lifting your
spirits or provoking some discussion.”
Eventually, Allen retired from his practice and the couple relocated to the Sunshine State, Florida. Their love for live theatre and stage shows once again followed them and they found their way to the Sunrise Theatre in Fort Pierce, Fla.
There, Anita thrived in a position as team lead, managing a crew of 42 people to cover a 1,200-seat theater.
“It was the graveyard of old singers,” Allen jokes.
Anita scoffs defensively.
“Well,” he admits, “Tony Bennet was there.”
And yet, the couple thoroughly enjoyed the many “old singers” that traveled through the theater, where they were able to interact with artists such as Kenny G, Debbie Reynolds, Joan Rivers and Howie Mandel, to name a few. Anita recalls having a serious heartto-heart with Ms. Reynolds about osteoporosis.
But a real magic moment for Anita was having her photo taken with Air Supply’s Russell Hitchcock, whose arms are wrapped around her petite frame in the picture. Her entire face glows as she reminisces about that moment and sings: “Just when I thought I was over you, just when I thought I could stand on my own, oh baby, those memories come crashing through . . .”
But it was Willie Nelson who left a mark on both of them.
“You want to know a real good story?” asks Anita.
“Willie Nelson!” exclaims Allen. “We were Willie Nelson’s body guards.”
Anita proceeds to tell the story of how a crazed female fan came forward when it was autograph time and proceeded to climb on stage with Willie. As the Shakespeare line goes, “Though she be but little, she is fierce.” Anita got her down. “She pulled her off!” Allen says proudly of how his wife managed to get a woman much larger than herself off the stage.
AAs a thank you for her heroism, Willie gave Anita one of his signature bandanas, says Allen.
“A clean one,” she quips. “All the others were dirty.”
Despite the countless exciting interactions with celebrities, the Greensteins felt the call to Greensboro, where their daughter, Barbara, lived with her husband, UNCG Provost Alan Boyette, and their kids. They landed in the greener pastures of North Carolina in 2017 and soon got wind that a new theater was due to open in 2020.
Given their experience and charismatic personalities, the Greensteins were a natural fit to become ushers at the Steven Tanger Center for Performing Arts. Of course, the COVID pandemic delayed the scheduled opening, which was to happen on March 20, 2020, with the renowned Josh Groban. Instead of the theater opening its doors, the entire world shut down.
But a year-and-a-half later, when home-grown songbird Rhiannon Giddens performed the first show at Tanger on September 2, 2021, “We were there,” says Allen.
At Tanger, the two continue to share their passion for stage with guests. They love greeting guests as they arrive, getting them amped up for the show they’re about to see, and view their team of fellow ushers as family. According to Allen, the best part of his role is “to see the wonder in their face, that’s very sparkling.”
Looking back on almost 60 years of marriage, Anita says, “I still can’t believe it — it’s kind of amazing.” So, what’s the trick? “Because I love him,” Anita says simply.
While they don’t travel or get out as much as they used to, Allen says that what he loves most is “just being together and having a good time.”
Despite the countless celebrities they’ve interacted with, the stars in the Greensteins’ eyes still shine only for each other.
Dale & Starr Harrold
fter 50 years of moving all over the Southeast and raising two daughters, Dale and Starr Harrold appreciate nothing more than spending time at home together. Sitting by their fireplace, each with a book in hand, they relax, “just being cozy and comfortable,” says Starr.
How about a date night out to dinner? Nope, the couple, now in their 70s, would rather be home. “I do the cooking, she does the cleaning,” says Dale.
As undergrads at Western Carolina University, Dale and Starr ran in the same circles. Before they even dated, Starr was taken by how Dale treated others. “He would be the first to say, ‘Can I get you something to drink? Can I get your coat?’” she recalls. “He was just marvelous.”
As many great love stories do, it all came down to one fateful night, when Starr’s friend, Pam, who was dating Tate, a fraternity
brother of Dale’s, said that Tate was going to bring along a date for her. She had no idea who it was going to be, when in walked Dale.
“I found out later that he had dated everyone on the three stories of my dorm and I just happened to be last,” she says with a laugh. It turns out he’d saved the best for last.
“That was 1971, and here we are, folks,” she says in her softspoken manner.
Dale, two years ahead of Starr in school, says he stuck around for her, earning his MBA while she finished up her degree to later become a speech pathologist. Once they both graduated from their programs, they married in 1974 and then, “We moved together,” says Dale.
“All over,” adds Starr.
Up until his retirement in 2022, Dale worked as a banker and consultant for companies such as Self-Help Credit Union, C.J. Harris and Company, plus First Union National Bank and other
commercial banks. His job took the Harrolds all over North Carolina and Florida and had them relocating every 18 months to three years. Starr got used to it, knowing that when Dale walked in the door and said, “Guess what?” it was time to pack again. The couple spent a total of 19 years in various Florida cities, where their two daughters were born.
To accommodate the many moves, Starr constantly landed new speech pathologist roles in hospitals, rehab centers, schools and even in-home healthcare. In one school, Dale notes, her office, which was a former laundry room, had a large hole in it. “I could tell you if it was raining or windy,” Starr quips.
Throughout all of those location changes, community theater became “a great family outlet,” says Starr. “We’ve been very fortunate because no matter where we lived, they had community theater.” And Starr was no stranger to the stage. She recalls a love of piano, singing and dancing that stretches as far back as the second grade, where she was the leader of a little kids’ band.
Dale, too, could hold his own as a performer. In fact, he once landed a leading role in a production of Bye Bye Birdie, portraying Harry MacAfee.
Like the Greensteins, the Harrolds have accumulated a heaping pile of hilarious theater moments over the years. For Dale, the one that stands out the most was during a Lumberton production of Fiddler on the Roof.
“Our Tevya,” he says, “when he said ‘Tradition!’ he stepped off the stage and went 10 feet down —”
“— into the pit!” Starr finishes the sentence.
“He was a retired command sergeant major from the paratroop,” Dale continues. “He broke a keyboard, but he knew how to roll.” The show went on, but for the following performances, a local mattress company laid down mattresses in the pit area — just in case.
When their own daughters were small, like their parents, they took a shine to musical theater and participated in a program called Broadway Babies that allowed them to travel and perform. “They even sang at Disneyworld,” says Dale.
Starr chimes in, “They used to open the season at Pinehurst.”
Their older daughter, also named Starr — “Starr Jr.” — remained passionate about the stage as she grew up and even considered studying theater at Duke. In the end, she opted for practicality and became a lawyer now living in Greensboro with her husband, also a lawyer, along with their two kids. But, just like Mom and Dad, she couldn’t stay away and landed a part-time role as usher at the Tanger Center. “She’s an original Tanger employee,” says Dale.
The couple’s younger daughter, Suzanne Bell, eventually shied away from the stage, even though, they say, she had the vocal chops for it. She also had the grades and now works remotely in Mebane for Johns Hopkins, “if that tells you anything,” says Dale proudly. “She does their human drug trials.”
Like Starr Jr., Suzanne has two children, including the Harrolds’ one and only granddaughter, Ruby. Starr’s hope for all of her grandkids? “I wish, wish, that they could develop the love [of theater] that we all have!”
It was their daughters and grandchildren that drew the Harrolds to make a home in Greensboro. Previously, after many years of moving, the couple settled for about 10 years in Starr’s hometown, Concord, so that Starr, an only child, could take care of her own mother as well as aunts and uncles who never had children. Once they were gone, Dale asked his wife, “What would you think about moving closer to the kids?”
After many years of moves, she was tired of reinventing herself professionally. “I said, ‘I’ll go if I can retire’ . . . and he said, ‘I think we can make that work,’” recalls Starr. In 2014, they made what they hope will be their last move.
And when the Tanger Center opened seven years later, the Harrolds immediately bought season tickets for the whole family. Each time they attended a performance, they noted how kind all of the employees were to them. “No matter how beautiful the site, no matter how terrific the performance is, it’s how you’re greeted that makes you feel good,” says Starr.
With Dale also retired, the couple answered the call when they saw that Tanger Center was hiring ushers. During her interview for the job, Starr recalls saying, “It’s OK if you accept one of us but not the other. We’re still going to be season ticket holders!”
Luckily, they didn’t have to face that dilemma and both were hired. And that kindness that they recall from when they were solely patrons? They pass it on. “That’s what brought us in and that’s what’s continued,” says Starr.
Plus, working there has provided an unexpected bonus. “It’s the most wonderful feeling in the world, like you belong, a true family,” says Starr of her fellow staff members. The Harrolds proudly say that they’ve become the mom and pop of their team. “In fact, we’re taking one of the ushers that we met here to have surgery Friday morning.”
“She just said that when she needs something, she always feels best with us,” adds Starr, her face glowing warmly as in tribute to her name.
That kindness that initially drew Starr to Dale seems to be the couples’ modus operandi — and the secret to a long and loving marriage, according to Starr. “It’s him. It’s truly all him. He is probably the kindest person . . . the reason that we’re doing well is 99 percent because of him.” And, she adds, through all of their own tribulations — including frequent relocations and taking care of ailing family — he has remained steadfast and calm.
“I think you’re understating yourself here,” Dale counters.
“It’s just been a good partnership,” Dale continues. “We each bring different skill sets and sometimes different perspectives to the same issue. She has a whole skill set that I lack, so we complement each other.”
If we were to draw a Venn diagram with their individual skills, the overlap would be in warmth and generosity.
“To get to be a part of Tanger,” says Starr, “it’s been one of those cherry-on-top scenarios of things you’ve done in your life.” And if you’re lucky enough to be welcomed into the Tanger Center by the Harrolds, it will surely be the cherry-on-top of your theatrical experience. OH
PhotograPh
DESCENDANTS OF THE GREENSBORO FOUR SUPPORT A LEGACY — AND EACH OTHER
By ross hoW ell Jr.
his month, our Greensboro community observes the 65th anniversary of the 1960 February 1 sit-in at the downtown F. W. Woolworth’s “whites only” lunch counter.
There’s a parade in front of the old five-and-dime, now the International Civil Rights Center & Museum on Elm Street, dedicated on a bitterly cold morning in February 2010.
As is customary, a wreath is placed on the February One statue, also known as the A&T Four Monument, on the N.C. A&T campus. It memorializes in bronze the four freshman students — David Richmond, Franklin McCain, Ezell Blair Jr. (now Jibreel Khazan) and Joseph McNeil — who, in 1960, walked from the A&T campus to downtown Greensboro and straight into Civil Rights history.
Sometime during the observance, members of the Richmond, McCain, Khazan and McNeil families will gather for a meal and conversation, just as they have for years, thanks to the generosity of Dennis and Nancy Quaintance of Quaintance-Weaver Restaurants and Hotels.
“I’m so grateful,” says Frank McCain Jr., president and CEO of the United Way of Greater Greensboro. “Every year, Dennis and Nancy join us in a private dining room at their restaurant.”
“It’s a time for us to have fellowship together,” McCain Jr. adds. “It’s a wonderful thing. There are no newspaper photographers around, no television cameras — we can have real, family conversations.”
McCain Jr. stresses how closely the Richmond, McCain, Khazan and McNeil families are knit. “We’re like blood relatives,” he says. “Remember, our fathers were extremely close. They were best friends — all brilliant minds, strategic thinkers, passionate in their beliefs.”
“And they made sure that their children got to know each other well,” McCain Jr. adds. “The Greensboro Four’s children are connected, their grandchildren are connected, and it will always be that way,” he says.
McCain Jr. believes that the four A&T students understood early on that what they were about to do would not only become a proud legacy but also a burden of responsibility that would be challenging to bear.
Think of the four young men in the iconic photograph or the bronze statue.
On the left is David Richmond. He was the first to pass away — in 1990 at the age of 49. It was on his shoulders that celebrity seemed to rest most heavily.
Born and raised in Greensboro, a popular student-athlete at Dudley High School, Richmond entered A&T with a sense of
purpose. But after the sit-in, he grew uncomfortable in the limelight. His studies suffered.
Because of his activism, many locals labeled him as a “troublemaker.”
Richmond left A&T and found work. But after repeated death threats, he moved away to a community in the North Carolina mountains. Later, he made the decision to return — Greensboro was home.
Wrestling with depression and alcohol, Richmond struggled to find a job.
“He had been blackballed,” McCain Jr. explains.
Despite the turmoil in his father’s life, David Richmond Jr. remembers him fondly.
“We would always get together with the families in February,” he says. “I remember Dad driving us to those events when I was little.”
Richmond Jr. attended Wake Forest University on a football scholarship — making ACC Player of the Week his freshman year and playing in the Tangerine Bowl.
He remembers classmates asking him if his father had something to do with the sit-ins in Greensboro.
“I told them yes,” Richmond Jr. says. “I was proud of what my dad had done.”
When a football teammate asked him to talk about his father in front of a class, he hesitated. He didn’t think he could do his father’s story justice.
“So I thought, why not get it straight from the horse’s mouth?” Richmond Jr. says.
He invited his father to speak and sat in the back of the classroom, listening along with everyone else.
“I learned so many things I’d never heard,” Richmond Jr. says.
He recalls thinking at the time, “Here I am, the same age my father was when he walked into Woolworth, and all I’m thinking about is when’s the next campus party.”
When his father died, Richmond Jr. felt lost.
“I wanted to represent him, but I’m not comfortable in front of crowds,” he says.
A big help to him was the tall figure next to his father in the historical photo and statue.
“Franklin McCain was my godfather,” Richmond Jr. continues. “We were always tight. I remember visiting him in Charlotte — we could sit down and talk about anything,” he adds.
With McCain’s encouragement, Richmond Jr. went on to represent his father at the dedication of the February One statue on the A&T campus, the official opening of the International Civil Rights Center & Museum and the recognition at the
Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History.
“I remember telling Frank Jr., someday he would have to step into his father’s place,” Richmond Jr. says.
He was right. Richmond’s godfather, Franklin McCain, passed away in 2014 at the age of 73.
McCain Jr. struggled with his father’s death, which, like Richmond’s, seemed to have come too early.
“When my father died, I could not have handled it as well as I did without the other families,” McCain Jr. says.
“They all came to town immediately, and I didn’t have to tell them what I needed them to do for me and my brothers,” he continues. “They knew what they needed to do.”
McCain and Richmond had been roommates their freshman year at A&T, and Khazan and McNeil lived in the same dormitory. When they discussed their frustrations and fears, they also talked about how to support each other.
When McCain Jr.’s father graduated from A&T and left Greensboro for Charlotte, his wife, a Bennett College alumna, had already found work in the city’s school system. But McCain couldn’t find a professional position at all.
“My father had moved away from Greensboro,” McCain Jr. says. “But he hadn’t moved far enough.”
Like his former roommate, Richmond, he’d been blackballed. McCain took the only job he could — as a custodian with a chemical company in Charlotte.
“But as fate — or Divine Providence — would have it, he became the custodian in the C-suite, where all the senior execu-
tives, including the president, had offices,” McCain Jr. says. And from time to time, the president and the custodian would chat.
One day, the executive asked his father, “Franklin, have you ever thought about going to college? You’re very articulate, you’re a sharp guy.”
And his father replied, “Well, actually, I went to college. I have two degrees — in chemistry and biology.”
“Then why in the hell are you cleaning up the bathrooms?” the president asked.
“Because this is the only job I could get,” his father answered. “I tried to get a lab job here and they told me there weren’t any.” McCain Jr. chuckles.
“Less than 10 days later, my father had a job in the lab,” he says.
“He worked for that company for 35 years,” McCain Jr. continues. “And when he retired, it was from his office in the C-suite.”
After his retirement, McCain often spoke at Charlotte high schools, encouraging teenagers to finish their academic work.
“My father lived long enough to meet all his grandchildren,” McCain Jr. says, “But he didn’t really get to see the fruits of his labor. We’ve been able to live the dream that he envisioned.”
McCain Jr. tells me his brother, Wendell, attended UNC as a Morehead Scholar and went on to become a Wall Street banker and venture capitalist. Wendell has a son who is a senior at Stanford and a younger son who’s attending Carolina — also as a Morehead Scholar.
“And my youngest brother has a child who is a senior at High Point University,” he says, “and his other child is a sixth grader.”
PhotograPh from the international Civil r ights Center & museum
McCain Jr. goes on to say that his oldest daughter graduated from UNC and is the chief operating officer of a large snack food company in Miami, Florida. His son, Franklin III, is his grandfather’s namesake. Nicknamed “Mac,” he enjoyed a very successful collegiate football career at A&T and now plays in the NFL.
“I think that if my father were alive,” McCain Jr. says, “He would feel like — you know what? If he and those other three had not done what they did, maybe none of us would’ve had these opportunities.”
Next to the tallest figure in the February One monument — McCain stood 6-feet-2-inches and weighed more than 200 pounds — walks the smallest, Jibreel Khazan — who was said to weigh 130 pounds, soaking wet. But whatever Khazan lacked in size, he more than made up in eloquence and charisma.
Born Ezell Blair Jr. in Greensboro, where his father taught at Dudley High School and was active in the NAACP, Khazan graduated from A&T in 1965. Labeled a troublemaker like the others, he moved to New Bedford, Mass., joined the New England Islamic Center and changed his name.
Recently, a New Bedford public park was named for Khazan, honoring his years of dynamic community and youth group leadership.
Khazan, now 83, will be joining the family gathering this month in Greensboro.
Khazan’s son, Hozannah, lives in Atlanta, Ga., where he is a self-employed business telecom consultant. He tells me that he is regularly in touch with New Bedford family and friends.
Not long ago, he was on the phone with a buddy.
“Hey, I saw your dad out walking the other night,” his friend said. “It was 11 o’clock at night and it was snowing. I pulled over and offered him a ride, but he just kept going!”
“That’s him,” Hozannah laughs. “He’s still full of energy!”
Interested in computers since he was a teenager, Hozannah enrolled at A&T in 1989 and majored in industrial technology, a five-year program.
“I tell people I was born in Massachusetts, but North Carolina made me a man,” Hozannah says. “A&T was a real turning point for me.”
PhotograPh By Dan routh
From left to right: Joseph McNeil, David (Chip) Richmond son of David L. Richmond, Franklin McCain, Jibreel Khazan in 2010
He tells me that, at times, his legacy felt overwhelming. But being able to talk with McCain Jr. was a big help.
“I made sure to be available to spend time with Hozannah because I had already lived what he was about to go through,” McCain Jr. says.
He told Hozannah not to make his college years stressful by trying to live up to people’s expectations. His father lived inside him and there was no changing that, McCain Jr. advised Hozannah, but he would have to find himself, find his own pathway in life.
“Because I was young, I was resentful,” Hozannah says. “But we’re like brothers. We don’t always agree, but we aren’t afraid to voice our opinions.”
Hozannah says that when he reached his 30s, he was better able to embrace his father’s legacy.
“I realized that I was representing a greater community,” he continues. “It’s a lot of responsibility, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.”
The figure striding next to Khazan is Joseph McNeil, who was
born in Wilmington. Right after he graduated from a segregated high school, he moved with his family to New York City.
The next fall, he returned to North Carolina to enroll at A&T, where he joined ROTC. It was on his bus trip returning to campus from Christmas break — wearing his uniform — that he was refused service at a Greensboro hot dog stand.
For McNeil it was the final outrage. His fury was the call to action for his friends on February 1.
He would go on to graduate from A&T in 1963 with a degree in engineering physics and was commissioned as a second lieutenant is the U.S. Air Force. After service in Vietnam, he retired from active duty but continued in reserve service.
McNeil retired from the U.S. Air Force Reserve as a major general with numerous decorations. While a reservist, he also pursued a career in finance.
McNeil met his wife when he was stationed in South Dakota. She is Lakota — a direct descendant of chief Sitting Bull.
McNeil is 82 years old and is not expected to attend the family gathering this month. But his son will be there.
PhotograPh from the international Civil r ights Center & museum
Joseph McNeil Jr. attended Sitting Bull College and lives with his family on the Standing Rock Reservation, Fort Yates, N.D. He is CEO of the area’s sustainable energy and community development organization.
A year ago this month, the North Dakota Monitor reported that the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe was celebrating a multimillion-dollar electric vehicle charging network project in Fort Yates —administered by McNeil Jr.’s organization.
McNeil Jr. told the newspaper he was overjoyed to see a group of local middle school students attend the event because the new EV infrastructure represents a much larger generational transition to clean energy. In the article, he said, “I was able to relate to them how our culture is involved in renewable energy as we talk about our relationship to the Earth. That was really important.”
The legacy of the Greensboro Four is complex, and the walk four young men took on a cold February day has led their descendants down diverse paths.
When the International Civil Rights Center & Museum was dedicated, Joseph McNeil sat down for an interview.
“We were very ordinary people,” he said, “with very ordinary lives to live.”
But what is an ordinary life? What were the four A&T freshmen seeking?
“There are certain things that everybody wants,” Frank McCain Jr. says. “You want to be able to live a decent life. You want to have food for your family. You want to live in a place that’s peaceful and safe. You want your children to grow up and be whatever they want to be in life.”
Four young A&T men were determined to show themselves and their families the way. And what a journey it’s been. OH
For more information, visit the International Civil Rights Center & Museum website, sitinmovement.org. The center and museum, the restored site of the 1960 F. W. Woolworth Company sit-in, recently was named a National Historic Landmark, the highest recognition awarded by the National Park Service.
Ross Howell Jr. is a contributing writer.
HOW TOBE,
little more than 85 years ago, Greensboro played a pivotal role in the creation of a groundbreaking children’s storybook written expressly for African Americas. In an era during the 1930s when insulting stereotypes and vulgar characterizations pervaded almost every facet of American pop culture, Tobe was published by the University of North Carolina Press in 1939.
Up until then, there were few publications that provided Black youth with identifiable role models, with one notable exception: The Brownies’ Book, a monthly magazine edited by W.E.B. Du Bois that was published from January 1920 through December 1921. Black youngsters simply didn’t have any storybooks depicting Black characters.
The impetus for Tobe came after a white Chapel Hill elementary schoolteacher, Stella Gentry Sharpe, was asked by one of her Black students, “Why does no one in my books look like me?” In 1936, she set out to write a children’s book geared toward African American kids. Basing the text on the experiences of a young boy and his family who were farming on land rented from her husband, Sharpe snapped photos to illustrate the stories herself. “A little book for the enjoyment of other children” is how she described her project.
Over the next two years or so, Sharpe dropped in on her subjects, the McCauley family, almost daily. “The children knew I was writing a book about the games we were playing and the things we were doing,” she wrote about the experience. “But I don’t think they realized it was going to be a real book.” The name Tobe she conjured up, but otherwise Sharpe used the actual first names of the McCauley kids in her script.
The finished manuscript presents a series of relatable tales about day-to-day life on a farm, seen through the eyes of 6-year-old Tobe. The reader sees him wading in a brook, going to school, attending church and helping with harvesting crops, along with his two sets of twin siblings, two older sisters and a brother. Also featured in the book are his mother and father, plus a cat named Tom, Boss the dog, a pet goat, baby chicks and his extended family’s horses and assorted livestock.
A representative storyline:
Riding In a Tire:
Big Boy, Little Boy, and I are too big to ride in a tire. William says that it makes him dizzy, but Rufus likes to ride in a tire. He gets in the tire and we roll it in a smooth place. If we go over bumps, it hurts his head. Rufus says, “Everything stands on its head when I ride in a tire!” I wish I could ride in a tire. I want to see trees and houses standing on their heads.
Sharpe used standard storytelling found in children’s fiction, whether it be Curious George or Goodnight Moon. Her book was quickly acquired in 1936 by W. T. Couch, director of University of North Carolina Press, whose 14-year tenure had not been without controversy. He’d been known to push through publications expressing “unorthodox” views about the South related to race, religion and economics. In 1927, he edited a book
of folk sketches with an introduction by Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Paul Green (The Lost Colony) that read in part, “as the white man fails the negro fails and as the negro rises the white man rises.” That phrase sparked an emergency meeting of the University’s board of directors to consider recalling the book for reprinting with a less contentious intro. The board changed its mind when informed the hardcover was already in the hands of reviewers.
Couch was pleased with the narrative of Tobe, but decided the accompanying photography wasn’t up to the press’s standards. In 1938, he approached photographer Charles A. Farrell, a Piedmont resident he recently signed for a volume devoted to North Carolina coastal fishermen.
Farrell and his wife, Anne, had moved to Greensboro back in 1923, buying The Art Shop, which, then a camera and art supply business, he relocated in 1930 to where Lincoln Financial’s downtown entrance is today. (Founded in 1899, The Art Shop is still thriving in its current location on West Market Street.) Farrell was also employed as Greensboro Daily News’ first professional photographer.
When, in the spring of 1938, Couch asked Farrell to lens images for, “a supplementary reader for negro and white schools,” it occurred to Farrell that a family he was familiar with, Arthur and Priscilla Garner and their offspring, would make ideal subjects for Tobe. After all, they lived in the small African American farming community of Goshen, about 10 minutes down Randleman Road, just outside of (then) Greensboro city limits. Goshen was renowned in The Gate City for being home to the Red Wings, an all-Black semipro baseball team who slugged it out Monday nights at World War Memorial Stadium, facing Negro Major League franchises when they were cruising through town.
After sample photos of the Garner family and their surroundings were submitted for approval, the publisher agreed wholeheartedly with Farrell’s choice. With a proposed retail price of $1.00 (about $22 in today’s money), the photographer would be compensated $3.00 per published print plus 2% of the wholesale price for each book, with another 8% going to the author. In private, Couch confided to Farrell that he was willing “against the advice of his board of directors” to risk the loss of $2,000–3,000 (around $65,000 in today’s currency) to mount this project, as a social experiment, if necessary, “and as a gesture toward interracial good feeling.”
This was a leap in more ways than one. Juvenile storybooks had been predominantly — if not exclusively — illustrated with colorful graphics, so its format of text paired with black-and-white photos was highly unusual, possibly unprecedented. Photoshoots for Tobe began in June 1938 and continued through that October.
Farrell’s approach was meticulous, with each setup offering the publisher choices featuring subtle variations in stance and demeanor. For instance, unpublished images of the mother and father reading in front of a radio, a familiar tableau in 1930s advertisements and magazine covers, demonstrates how the photographer positioned his subjects in various ways in front of two distinctly different radio consoles. The parents’ focus alternated between holding reading material or knitting in their hands while their faces held far-away gazes, the kind that came over folks listen-
ing to The Shadow or The Jack Benny Program.
With most of the happenings in Tobe taking place outdoors, it was crucial for Farrell to have his foreground subjects sharply focused with a background in recess, a method known as the bokeh effect (aka your phone camera’s “portrait mode”). This was achieved using a large format Graflex Speed Graphic. Considered by many to be America’s first and last great camera, it had two shutters and a maximum exposure speed of 1/1,000 second. Capable of rendering greater detail than 35mm film, that same apparatus was employed to snap the flag being raised at Iwo Jima in 1945 and Irving Klaw’s pinup pics of Bettie Page a decade later.
For Tobe, Farrell introduced through his photos a typical middleclass, agrarian existence — by post-Depression era standards, anyway — portraying a Black family whose lifestyle was comparable to white farmers; albeit a parity confined within the boundaries of these images.
Told through unencumbered stagings in varying shades of grey, Farrell’s vicarious aperture provides readers with an unwritten understanding of what real kids got up to in that era. No artifice, ego or self-consciousness is evident on the faces of these common folk, fully engaged in innocent pursuits and seemingly unaware of the lens or of any potential for posterity. One somewhat complex storyline (for this genre anyway) had the title character standing up to a bully, portrayed by one of the neighbor kids:
I put the tin box in my pocket Then I went to the mail box.
The big boy was there. He came near me.
Then I took the lid off my tin box.
I said, “Please don’t make me throw this pepper. It is not good for the eyes.”
He put his hands over his eyes. Then he ran as fast as he could. He ran and ran.
a mischievous, spotted stray pup. Despite the unfortunate monikers and problematic nomenclature, the publication was uncharacteristically respectful; every individual spoke perfect English, as opposed to the Black characters in, say, Margaret Mitchell’s 1936 book, Gone with the Wind, and the story concludes with a beaming Boot-jack, in his handsome sailor’s outfit, attending the circus, where a clown presents him with a Mickey Mouse balloon.
With a degree of apprehension that their efforts would be perceived as an imitation of The Flop-Eared Hound, Farrell immediately brought this to the attention of Couch. Couch took this under advisement.
After photography was completed, editor Alice T. Paine at UNC Press was placed in charge of guiding Tobe to completion alongside designer Andor Braun. “As you will see,” Paine wrote to Farrell in March 1939 after production wrapped up, “the type and spacing have been designed to make the book as easy reading for children as possible. This also differentiates it from The Flop-Eared Hound, which has a different type and spacing.”
I do not know how far he went, but he never came back.
Holiday celebrations in particular impart some fascinating perspectives. For Halloween, as was the practice of the day, the brothers fashion grotesque masks out of old sacks and scraps. Later, when Mother is asked why Santa arrived with their gifts a day early on Christmas Eve via a ’36 Ford Coupe rather than down the chimney, she replies, “Next year he may come in an airplane!”
While fully immersed in this project in 1938, Farrell came across a newly-released children’s storybook that was outwardly very much like Tobe in concept and execution. Illustrated with photographs, The Flop-Eared Hound by white author Ellis Credle relates the story of a Black Southern boy living in a ramshackle shack “underneath a honey-pod tree” with his sharecropping “Mammy” and “Pappy.” In the book, little Shadrack Meshack Abednego Jones, who answered to the nickname Boot-jack, forms a friendship with
Farrell offered several suggestions concerning what order the stories in Tobe should appear, almost all of which were heeded. The only reservation anyone involved had was concerning the book’s ending. “It is true the book really does not have a conclusion,” conceded Paine before its May 1939 publication, but, she reasoned, “there are worse things than stopping when you were through.”
The book was very well received by the press and libraries around the country. With an initial print run of 4,200 copies, reception was so enthusiastic, especially in the South, that UNC Press expressed a hope that the book might potentially sell 10,000 copies. That prompted the press to take out a prominent ad in Publisher’s Weekly and provide financial subsidies for booksellers wishing to advertise Tobe in newspapers.
By March 1941, Tobe had sold over 11,000 copies, earning Farrell a total of $83.97 in royalty payments. In June of that year, Farrell and Sharpe were contacted by a Greensboro law firm on behalf of Arthur Garner, who felt his family deserved a cut of the profits from the book they’d posed for and devoted so much time to.
Farrell’s reply came in the form of a letter to Mrs. Garner. “After two years,” he wrote, “the University Press has just barely paid the cost of publishing the book and has no returns for the many expenses connected with the editing and designing.” Pointing out their collective intention was never to make money but to create a book that nonwhite children could take pride in, he stated, “The feeling between white people and colored people all over America is better, without a doubt, because you and your children have been publicly presented as natural and
normal parts of American society.”
Talk of a lawsuit faded, but, in a fit of anger that initially ensued, Farrell’s correspondence reads as less than charitable in his assessment of the Garners and African Americans in general, referring to Arthur in stereotypically demeaning terms such as “shiftless” and “unintelligent,” while grousing to Couch, “I’ll admit having a dark brown taste in my mouth today.”
In 1941, Sharpe approached New York City-based Grossett & Dunlap about the possibility of a sequel, Tobe at Eight. Based on the favorable publicity and relatively strong sales the initial book generated, the publishing firm accepted her offer, eagerly contacting Charles Farrell about beginning photography as soon as possible while the Garner kids were still the right age. Sharpe, however, never submitted a manuscript. By the summer of 1945, around 21,000 copies of Tobe were in circulation with an additional print run of 15,000 being prepped.
It’s true, Tobe didn’t significantly alter the landscape when it came to children’s literature. Author Jane Dabney Shackelford unabashedly used it as a template of sorts when she wrote her 1944 storybook, My Happy Days, featuring a suburban African American family.
Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t until 1962 that another major children’s book revolving around a child of color would be released. A Caldecott Medal winner, The Snowy Day by white author Ezra Jack Keats depicts a Brooklyn boy’s delight in waking up to a wintery wonderland. It became a cross-cultural bestseller, in part because the text never mentions race — the kid just happens to be Black. Despite measurable progress in civil rights during the 1960s, that pernicious minstrel show and Stepin Fetchit imagery was so ingrained in American culture that, when the first Black character was introduced in the comic strip Dennis the Menace in 1970, he was depicted with bug eyes and pigmentation so dark you couldn’t discern where the face ended and the hairline began. He grinned too broadly through thick, white lips. Indignation and protestations were immediate and forcefully expressed around the country. Newspaper editors, who should have known better when they saw the drawing to begin with, were strong-armed into publishing abject apologies. The clueless cartoonist himself couldn’t fathom what the controversy could possibly be all about.
On the brighter side, that was two full years after Charles Schulz introduced the world to the imminently respectable Franklin in Peanuts. It’s telling that Schulz threatened to end Peanuts, the most popular strip in America, which ended up earning him millions of dollars, if editors whited-out Franklin’s shading lines as many Southern papers were requesting to do. They feared that showing multiracial kids attending school together would inspire a subscriber freakout. It didn’t.
In 2019, UNC Press published Tobe: A Critical Edition: New Views on a Children’s Classic. Besides reprinting the book itself, there are exhaustive essays penned by Dr. Benjamin Filene covering, in great detail, every aspect of the book. It’s a deep dive into its history and cultural impact.
“It’s a timely topic in a certain way,” Dr. Filene tells me. “Even though the book is obviously old and dated in many respects, it raises questions about race and children’s representation that are
very current. I think people are fascinated — I was, too — by the quasi-documentary aspect to it, which is unusual for a children’s book nowadays.” While the book was never intended to be a documentary, “and you certainly can’t just treat it straightforwardly as a documentary source, it’s an unusual resource that gives us a one of kind glimpse into the past.”
In his research leading up to a traveling exhibition, which coincided with Tobe’s 75th anniversary in 2014, Dr. Filene made contact with some of the former Garner children. “I think they were a little puzzled at first,” he recalls. “Why? Who was I? Was I tracking them down? But they remembered the book for sure and there was a lot of pride in being represented in a published book.” For the Garners, the book serves as a snapshot of one childhood summer and fall, but, also, Filene says, “a window into a very close-knit rural life that they had grown out of as they lived their adult life, a glimpse into daily life for an African American community that really is not that well documented in other respects or in other ways.”
Tobe himself, Charles Garner, returned to Goshen for the 75th-anniversary celebration. “He was pleased to remember it,” Dr. Filene says about reminiscing with Garner. “But he said explicitly that this book had not changed his life in any way and that was the main thing that he carried with him through his adult life.”
Active with the Hillsborough Historical Society, Stella Gentry Sharpe lived out her life as a schoolmarm before writing a 1947 short story titled “Tobe and the Coon” and an obscure children’s book, Tildy, which featured an African American theme and was published in 1965. She was 86 when she died in 1978.
Farrell’s anticipated collection of essays and images focused on coastal fishing communities, sensitively photographed and developed, was never completed. Judging from a multitude of vibrant, revelatory images (donated to the State Archives of North Carolina) from those four years spent exploring Cedar Island, Mann’s Harbor and other hard-scrabble seafood harvesting villages that were populated heavily by people of color, Farrell was a masterful chronicler of North Carolina enclaves that were going otherwise unobserved by the contemporary outside world.
A potentially iconic career was tragically cut short by an unspecified mental illness exacerbated by a so-called “ice pick lobotomy” (transorbital lobotomy). Performed on Farrell by a Greensboro doctor in 1948, it left him cognitively impaired and creatively neutered. (Sometimes performed with an actual ice pick, that procedure was employed frequently on women exhibiting an independent streak or men struggling with same sex attractions.) In 1977, Farrell passed away at Greensboro’s Friends Homes at the age of 83.
Lacking a prolific portfolio doesn’t diminish the inherent charm, artistry and insight Charles A. Farrell infused into his body of work. He held an unwavering commitment to capturing moments of verity with black-and-white clarity. His dedication can be traced back to an imaginary boy named Tobe, whose personality emerged vividly via the framing of an unassuming visionary. And it was all made possible by an unlikely publisher in the Deep South who was convinced that a more equitable world could be forged, albeit in some minute way, through unvarnished portraiture reflecting basic human dignity and universality. OH
The House Next Door
A hard-won dream is realized some 40 years later
By Cynthia a Dams • PhotograPhs By a my freeman
What happens when a house lover pines for the house next door? Ultimately, something wonderful.
While scouting business locations in the ’80s, Larry Richardson suddenly noticed an aristocratic house. A plummy one, as the Brits say. A grand Georgian Revival, the historic Stroud house featured rich architectural details, including Corinthian columns and pilasters, and tiled roof.
“I remember to this day driving down that street and looking at properties and seeing the house,” says Richardson. “And thinking that’s the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen! It’s as
clear as yesterday.”
Unavailable, and for a small business owner, also unattainable.
So he did as he always did. He worked harder.
Richardson, who grew up near Burlington, has a work ethic that won’t quit, something he attributes to his grandmother in particular. “I wouldn’t take anything for the lessons of rural life,” he says.
“Everything that could be used was used. And reused.” She collected buttons in a jar, he remembers. Was resourceful in the way that Depression-era country people were. “Quilts,” he muses, “were really the first recycling.”
She taught him to value — and save — everything. And thrift
worked in his favor. In the early days of his businesses, he was at the Super Flea each month, selling plants and cultivating customers for a nursery business that was growing faster than the hanging baskets and houseplants he sold by the truckload. He supplied plants for furniture showrooms in High Point each Market. He scoured estate sales every weekend to stock booths at three consignment shops.
Instead of the Georgian, in 1989, he snapped up the historic Hollowell house next door, named it “Seven Oaks” and spent 30 years making it a worthy neighbor to the object of his affection. He filled it with finds, sourcing furnishings far and wide. At 5,000 finished square feet after a top floor conversion, his fixer upper was nothing to sneeze at. The pièce de résistance? A stunning kitchen renovation (“Purveyors of Beauty,” Seasons, December 2020), he says, a dream realized.
Having transformed “the heart of the house,” Richardson declared that he and his partner, Clark Goodin, would never leave. That was in 2020.
The two houses differed in style down to the brick color and roof — Seven Oaks was a Colonial Revival with sand-colored brick. The Stroud house, affectionately known as Hilltop, was larger. (Officially listed as the Stroud house on the National Register of Historic Place after original owners Bertha and Junius B. Stroud.) And, it had space to create a downstairs main bedroom suite — something that the original footprint of Seven Oaks did not.
Yet both houses had more than their Sunset Hills location in common — two-story garages complete with living quarters and full basements. Both were also listed on the National Register of Historic Places.
Since 1925, the century-old Stroud house has had few owners. According to census data and city directories, after four years, the Strouds sold to Alice and John K. Voehringer, president of the textile concern Mock, Judson, Voehringer Company.
William Clement Boren Jr. and his wife, Ruth, owned the property from 1935–1940.
By 1941, Pearl and Charles Irvin, president of Elam Drug Company, had moved from their home at 900 North Eugene, becoming the home’s longest residents and raising sons Charles and David and daughter Doris there. The eldest son, Charles Jr., and his wife, Mary, acquired the house in the 1990s. Charles Jr. died in 2015, and Mary in 2019, leaving the house unoccupied.
Slowly, the grand house was emptied of years of family memorabilia.
Richardson debated and pondered. It would make a fabulous project. On occasion, despite his day jobs as a nursery owner and antique retailer, Richardson had flipped “at least four houses, maybe more,” converting worse-for-the-wear properties to stunners, carefully preserving architectural integrity. Mere blocks away, a skillful Arden Place flip practically sold before the paint was dry in 2016.
He was familiar with the home fixer-upper journey: Take a good house, one with fine bones and possibilities, in a great location, then modernize all systems, redo baths and kitchen, and finesse cosmetic updates. “Landscaping, of course,” he says.
Before leaving for work, he would glance next door, imagining the landscape possibilities at the Stroud house. (After all, plants were his longtime passion and career.) Time passed.
This was the opus — the house he studied every single day. The family agreed to give him first right of refusal — but it was a sobering, massive project.
Standing at their kitchen sink looking across the driveway, he and Goodin began seriously talking: This could be the ultimate flip. In his mind, Richardson could already see it restored to its former grandeur. It could again be the most beautiful house on a street lined with fine residences.
What he had never experienced, however, was a remodel that would take nearly five years to complete, thanks to a global health disaster and the chaos that ensued.
Nor could he anticipate that what began as admiration might deepen into love and a new opportunity to age in place.
Richardson and Goodin closed on Hilltop in the fall of 2020, soon after completing a dreamy kitchen of their own that was the culmination of years of collecting and saving.
The house next door was tired. Interiors that were au courant 30 years ago were no longer.
The previously redone kitchen would be gutted. The baths were 1925-era and had never been modernized. The house’s infrastructure had to be addressed from electrical and plumbing to central air and heating. “The only heat was an old boiler, and they had one air conditioner on the second floor,” Richardson recalls.
The Georgian’s ballroom filled the entire third floor. To claim that square footage as living area would require support beams and a stairway relocation, plus electrical, plumbing, heating and air systems.
As for the rest, it came into view as the house was stripped of the cosmetics. Out went pastels, mint green and maroon carpeting, floral valances and Venetian blinds, along with 1980-era floral wallpapers.
Fully emptied, a vision took form. Early on, Richardson chose a color palette then picked tiles. Then cabinetry for kitchen and bath, with plans to create the ultimate main closets. Relocated a door or two. Scheduled floor refinishing. Imagined architectural restorations and enhancements. He splurged on choices, fittings, new baths — the whole house aesthetic — before the tedium of scraping, caulking and painting both interior and exterior.
“Then we got into COVID.”
“It was awful, and had I known what I was going to face I would have passed. I would have run the other way. Even with people and workers I had relationships with, I couldn’t get any momentum. Things just languished,” he recalls.
Renovations were suddenly uppermost for those stuck at home, and workmen and supplies were in demand during a time of uncertainty and scarcity.
“Workers got sick with COVID, then their partners. Then their families. It went on and on. Worse yet, the supply chain drove up prices of everything that went into it. A two-by-four went to at least triple the price. Any budget you had was gone.”
Amidst the chaos that overtook the globe, both Richardson and Goodin had businesses to run. Owners of Plants & Answers’ two locations, Richardson oversees the Big Greenhouse on Spring Garden, and Goodin runs the floral business in downtown Greensboro.
Time dragged by and the work — on the largest renovation they’d ever undertaken — proceeded in hiccups.
They consoled themselves, knowing they still could flip the property and make a nice profit if they proceeded as planned. It was, at least, a project greatly simplified by living next door.
At the time, they were still thinking strictly in terms of a flip.
Fast forward a few years later? It would be late in 2024 — four years since purchasing — before they could see the project’s end in sight.
Renovations had not come easily.
Even now, things remain tough, Richardson explains. For example, the custom front storm door he ordered didn’t work and had to be redone. It rested on its side in the living room. But the creative vision worked.
“I [always] knew green would have to be a tie-in color,” Richardson says indicating the original green tiled sunporch that opens to the dining room. (There is a second sunporch at the rear of the house.)
Whereas pastels ruled in the old interiors, they were not going to survive in the new design. Green, however, would stay, replaced with supersaturated colors like Greenfield (Sherwin-Williams) and a bronze Benjamin Moore hue for the sunporch’s trim and casement windows.
The redone kitchen features yet another strong green, SherwinWilliams Basil, as a unifying accent. In the breakfast area, he reused Sherwin-Williams Restrained Gold, a rich ochre tone from his former kitchen. He also installed a stained tongue-in-groove kitchen ceiling, and white quartz countertops.
A pot filler and porcelain farm sink were suggested by Goodin, who loves to cook. Richardson points out the natural light: “It’s fabulous.”
Master carpenter Marty Gentzel built the kitchen cabinetry, as well as other cabinetry, molding and architectural touches throughout the house. Gentzel, whose work is in high demand, could only begin full-time work on the house last September.
He previously worked on the renovated and newly created third floor baths last April, then tackled replacement shutters for the exterior ones that were ruined by age.
Gentzel created arched kitchen doorways, unifying the opened space that combines the breakfast and butler’s pantry area, while
tying in existing archways at the front of the house. The previously squared off doorways showcase his favorite work in the house, custom arches painstakingly matched to existing trim work. “That was tricky,” he adds.
“When you do an arch, it opens up everything,” says Richardson. He felt they would be a wonderful flourish.
“This whole house, it’s a canvas all its own,” says Gentzel. “You care more than anyone I’ve seen,” he says, turning to Richardson.
“I’m almost done,” Gentzel says, having worked daily only months ago.
“No, you’re not,” Richardson quips, then grins. “I’ve got more projects for you.”
For the central, inner core of the house, Richardson used an aged white on the walls, describing “a creamy white, and trimmed in Dover White,” also used for trim throughout the home. For the formal rooms, “Livable Green and Ethereal White lent green undertones, tying the rooms together.”
Three years after the renovations began, Richardson had invested far more time and money than he had imagined. During a kitchen table conversation, Goodin hazarded an idea: Why not move into Hilltop themselves?
Richardson was amazed. He’d idly imagined keeping the house. But he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine actually living there.
Goodin pressed. They could complete the two planned bathroom renovations for Seven Oaks when empty and prepare it for sale. Hilltop would become their permanent home. “We could have a downstairs bedroom and age in place,” he argued.
Goodin made strong points. Why shouldn’t they benefit from all the work they’d poured into the restored home? Plus, they’d worked their entire lives. This was a fabulous home large enough to handle all their collections.
Privately, Richardson considered: Had it always seemed more than just a flip?
Had he stood in the grand foyer, staring at the sweepingly dramatic staircase and envisioned what he would do with the final interiors? Yes, he admittedly had.
The problem with doing flips, he admits ironically, is that he always wants to do the house as if he will live there.
Then Richardson laughs; he had been shopping in earnest for the house even before he and Goodin contemplated keeping Hilltop.
“I was going to do some light staging for it,” he explains. “I
began to do it with opposing sofas in the living room. Something people would relate to. But I didn’t start buying furniture and rugs until Clark said, ‘I think we should move into the house.’”
Richardson immediately ramped up his search. He raked through estate sales across the state. Soon he was bidding on furnishings that were scale appropriate, and Venetian glassware and hand painted plates that would accent the dining room.
Stacks of artwork awaited hanging, including a painting by former Greensboro artist David Bass. A federal mirror found a place in the stunning living room.
“I looked for the right rug, and it was tough,” he says, pulling two chinoiserie chairs into the main living room to be used as accent chairs beside a side table. A new-to-him grandfather clock found a home.
“I already knew what I was going to do,” he says, scrolling through pictures on his phone of vintage acquisitions. He hung lighting found at estate sales and auctions. Period lighting for the dining room was purchased from the Dupont estate. The dining room’s central candelabra is a Versace design, one of only eight made.
Even as the furnishings awaited placement, Richardson’s eyes shone with the certainty of his vision — instinctive vision.
Richardson acquired 18th-century Irish mirrors for the living room, which is approximately 18’ x 30’ in dimension. It can swal-
low up a whole lot of furniture, he admits, but he wanted ample open space. A green chinoiserie secretary and a narrow Irish wake table, “useful for overflow dining,” are in the living room.
The hallway, whose new molding matches surrounding rooms, features Impressionistic paintings and serves as an art gallery.
“There was no molding before, just plain walls,” says Richardson. Over 500 feet of molding, according to Gentzel, was replicated from the main level and added. “He redid this entire room,” Richardson says, indicating the family room, with a newly built in Baker cabinet he bought for $100.
An expanded downstairs bath is a step towards having the option of converting the den to a main bedroom.
But it is the powder room that had guests buzzing when Richardson and Goodin hosted their new home’s first event in November 2023, even with the house mostly empty and work still underway. (They sponsored a fundraiser last winter for a local animal rescue.)
The tiniest of all the rooms, it punches well over its weight. Artist Cheryl Lutens was commissioned to faux paint a chinoiserie bronze/gold design on the walls, so deftly done it rivals luxurious de Gournay hand-painted paper. The ceiling is gilded with gold leaf, lending depth and dimension. A guest called it “the jewel box.”
It nearly upstaged the central stairway — a “Federal style, sweep-
ing staircase,” as Richardson describes Hilltop’s showstopper.
The expansive upstairs landing is large enough to serve as office space. The house, however, still in a state of flux between renovation and occupation, was like a theater set before the opening show. Furniture partially filled the landing, which served as a staging area.
The Irvins’ daughter, Doris, was in attendance for the fundraiser along with other family members, including eldest son, Mose Kiser and wife, Jean. She regaled guests with stories of her family home in its heyday. She chortled over how her mother unceremoniously goose-stepped an intruder, who had crawled through an upstairs bedroom window, out the front door.
The upstairs, neutralized and fully functional, sports essential yet invisible changes that consumed large chunks of the budget. Heating systems, reworked roofs and copper guttering were costly; built-ins cleverly conceal necessary ductwork.
Similar to downstairs, baths were either gutted or expanded where possible, and redone in sympathetic style to the originals. Two were added on the third floor.
The color palette upstairs is a noticeably calm, “restful gray,” Richardson says, which has further served to open the space.
The main upstairs bedroom has a French door providing access to a walk-out space — the same one where the intruder had hoisted himself up. “It’s beautiful at night here,” says Richardson. “You can watch the stars.”
It will overlook a garden he is planning, where, years ago, the Irvins created three holes for the children to learn golf, he explains.
February
By a shley Walshe
February is a vision quest, a serenade, a love note in the wide open wood.
On this day, though winter’s grip seems only to have tightened, the cloudless sky is otherworldlyblue. The vibrancy of color hones your senses. At once, a dreary world is clear and bright.
Follow your breath toward the luminous yonder. Above, a redtailed hawk settles in a web of silver branches. Below, dead leaves perform their unbecoming, spilling into humus at the speed of dirt. What more is there to know?
Wander noiseless as a doe. Can you fathom the vastness of sky, the medicine of silence, the wisdom of barren earth? Can you grasp the full potential of this frozen pause?
As the cold air stings your face and lungs, a shock of yellow rises from the forest floor. Daffodil buds, swollen with promise. Look closely. Do you see your own reflection? Do you feel the inner workings of your own becoming?
Walk gently. Feel the sun caress your back and shoulders. Listen to the whisperings of trees.
The deeper you drift, the more you can sense your own emptiness and fullness. The days begin to stretch. Ensembles of daffodils open. A cardinal sings a song of spring.
Winter has changed you. Prepared you for your own luminous unfurling. There was no other way but through.
Give thanks to this frozen pause, the sting of cold, the promise that was always here. Even when you couldn’t yet see it.
The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
— William
C. Bryant
Year of the Snake
The Chinese Lunar New Year, which began on Wednesday, January 29, culminates with the Lantern Festival on the Full Snow Moon (February 12). Cue the paper puppets for the Year of the Wood Snake. Ancient myth tells that 12 animals raced to the Jade Emperor’s party to determine which order they would appear in the zodiac. Sneaking a ride round the hoof of swift-and-mighty horse, snake was sixth to complete the great race, crossing the finish line before horse, ram, monkey, rooster, dog and pig. Those born in the Year of the Wood Snake are known to be highly perceptive, intuitive and adaptable. How will the wood snake shape your destiny? The Times of India predicts a year of profound transformation and growth. If you’re searching for direction, you’ll find it within.
Love Songs
Perhaps nothing says spring is nigh so clearly as the sudden swell of chorus frogs screaming from the wetlands and darkening woods. Spring peepers, whose hypnotic high-pitched calls stretch throughout the night, have but one objective. The louder and faster they peep, the better their chances of attracting a mate. Do you hear that? Love is in the air indeed. OH
February 2025
Before attending any event, it’s best to check times, costs, status and location. Although we conscientiously use the most accurate and up-to-date information, the world is subject to change and errors occur!
Family Game Night
February 28, 5:30-7:30 • High Point Museum
February 1–28
MAKING CONNECTIONS. This installation of works from the Weatherspoon’s attic showcases the gallery as an academic museum with deep connections to its campus, Greensboro and broader communities. Free. Weatherspoon Art Museum, 500 Tate St., Greensboro. Info: weatherspoonart.org/exhibitions/ current-exhibitions.
CRIP*. This group exhibition features contemporary artists exploring disabilities and the ways their personal experience of disability intersects with other aspects of their lives. Free. Weatherspoon Art Museum, 500 Tate St., Greensboro. Info: weatherspoonart.org/exhibitions/ current-exhibitions.
ALPHA ART CLUB EXHIBIT. “Pathos, Patience, Perseverance” celebrates 100 years of High Point’s oldest African American women’s group and features photographs, memorabilia, oral history and newspaper articles collected by the club’s members over the last century. Free. The Art Gallery at Congdon Yards, 400 W. English Drive, Suite 151, High Point. Info: tagart.org.
THE BLACK BUTTERFLY. Explore “A Proud and Beautiful African American
Doll Display” curated by Thankful Heritage Museum founder Effley Howell. Free. High Point Museum, 1859 E. Lexington Ave., High Point. Info: highpointmuseum.org.
February 1–16
SILENT AUCTION. A silent online auction benefiting Guilford County hunger programs runs through the Hope Fest 4 Hunger event on Feb. 16. Info: hopefest4hunger.org.
February 1–15
WINTER SHOW. GreenHill Center for NC Art’s annual show features a vast array of North Carolina artists’ works. Free. Greensboro Cultural Center, 200 N. Davie St., Greensboro. Info: greenhillnc. org/wintershow-2024.
February 1–2
WINNIE THE POOH KIDS. 2 p.m. The beloved A.A. Milne characters that were brought to life in the 2011 Disney feature film take you on an adventure through the Hundred Acre Wood. Tickets: $15+. Starr Theatre, 520 S. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: ctgso.org.
SHORT TALES FOR KIDS. 2 p.m. An annual collaboration with UNCG brings future theater educators together with
young actors to rehearse and perform short plays written by members of the Creative Greensboro Playwrights Forum. Van Dyke Performing Space, 200 N. Davie St., Greensboro. Info: greensboro-nc.gov/government/city-news/ city-calendar.
February 1
VIOLIN CONCERTO. 7:30 p.m. Christopher Dragon leads the Greensboro Symphony in a performance featuring the works of Beethoven and Dvorak, and virtuoso violinist Hina Khuong-Huu performing Bruch’s romantic favorite, Violin Concerto No. 1. Tickets: $42.35+. Steven Tanger Center, 300 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: tangercenter.com/events.
BLACK & WHITE BALL. 7 p.m. Celebrate the 15th anniversary of the International Civil Rights Center & Museum as well as the 65th anniversary of the sit-in that launched a movement. Tickets: $125. Grandover Resort Spa, 1000 Club Road, Greensboro. Info: sitinmovement.org/events.
February 2
ALICE COOPER. 7:30 p.m. Prepare to be entertained by a theatrical hard rock concert that aims to shock. Tickets:
$67.80+. Steven Tanger Center, 300 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: tangercenter. com/events.
February 6
BORIS JOHNSON. 7 p.m. The former U.K. Prime Minister shares a conversation with High Point University president Nido Qubein. Free. High Point University, One University Parkway, High Point. Info: vivenu.com/event/ an-evening-with-boris-johnson-8vxlt9.
BOOK LAUNCH. 6–7 p.m. Reporter and writer Eddie Huffman celebrates the release of his newest book, Doc Watson: A Life in Music, full of fascinating stories about the guitar-playing legend from North Carolina. Free. Scuppernong Books, 304 S. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: scuppernongbooks.com/events/calendar.
February 7–8
ROBERT BARIL. 8 p.m. Mining the news of the day fuels and informs this funny guy’s biting comedy style. Tickets:
$17.53+. The Idiot Box, 503 N. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: idiotboxers.com.
February 7 & 9
DIE FLEDERMAUS. 7:30 p.m. & 2 p.m. Translated as “The Bat,” this comedic opera, presented by UNCSA and the A.J. Fletcher Opera Institute, tells the tale of a philandering husband, a clever wife and a fountain of champagne. Tickets: $25.35+. High Point Theatre, 220 E. Commerce Ave., High Point. Info: highpointtheatre. com/events.
February 7
FIRST FRIDAY. 6–9 p.m. Head downtown for a night of live music and happenings stretching all the way from LeBauer Park and the Greensboro Cultural Center to the South End. Free. Downtown Greensboro. Info: downtowngreensboro.org/first-friday.
NIGHT AT THE IMPROV. 9:40 p.m. Standup jokesters deliver a night of crowd-sourcing comedy. Tickets: $8.08+.
The Idiot Box, 503 N. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: idiotboxers.com.
February 8
JAZZ WORKSHOP. 3–4:30 p.m. All levels of musicians are welcome to listen, jam and discuss the feel of jazz. Free. The Music Academy of North Carolina, 1327 Beaman Place, Greensboro. Info: musicacademync.org.
THE BOOK OF ANCESTRY. 11 a.m. Phyllis Bridges and Linda Willard, authors of The Book of Ancestry: Forgotten Ones of Oakwood Cemetery, sign books and share stories of the people buried in the cemetery’s “Colored Section.” Free. High Point Museum, 1859 E. Lexington Ave., High Point. Info: highpointmuseum.org.
February 11 & 18
YOUNG ARTISTS KOLLECTIVE. 4–5:15 p.m. The YAK Club provides budding artists the opportunity to
$45; Members, $40.50. Feb. 11, Grades K–2; Feb. 18, Grades 3–5. ArtQuest at GreenHill Center for NC Art, 200 N. Davie St., Greensboro. Info: greenhillnc. org/events.
February 11, 13, 25
CELEBRATE BLACK CINEMA. 7 p.m. Celebrate Black cinema with three iconic films shown throughout the month: Drumline, Poetic Justice and Claudine Tickets: $8. Carolina Theatre, 310 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: carolinatheatre.com/events.
February 12
ARTTASTE SALON. 6–8 p.m. Savor artwork-inspired dishes and participate in a salon-style conversation led by sociology professor Gwen Hunnicutt and poet Christopher Shipman. Tickets: $75. GreenHill Center for NC Art, 200 N. Davie St., Greensboro. Info: greenhillnc. org/events.
Show Your Love
Keep your family’s health on track with timely screening exams.
Mammography, bone density and CT lung screenings are available at all THREE of our convenient locations.
Schedule your screening exams at Outpatient Imaging.
February 14, 18–20
UNCG CONCERTS. 7:30 p.m. Catch four evenings of concerts from the university’s wind ensemble, symphony orchestra, symphonic band and concert band. Free. UNCG Auditorium, 408 Tate St., Greensboro. Info: vpa.uncg.edu/events.
February 14
VALENTINE’S SERENADE. 7:30 p.m. America’s Got Talent finalist Daniel Emmet, known for his captivating voice, accompanies the Greensboro Symphony, led by guest conductor Evan Roider, in a romantic evening of music. Tickets: $42.35+. Steven Tanger Center, 300 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: tangercenter.com/events.
February 15
MATT MATTHEWS. 8 p.m. The comedian known for his relatability and situational humor hits the stage with his “Boujee on a Budget” tour. Tickets: $40+. Steven Tanger Center, 300 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info:
tangercenter.com/events.
WINTER JAM. Christian music’s biggest tour hits the stage with Newsong, Skillet and many more artists. $15 donation collected at door. First Horizon Coliseum, 1921 W. Gate City Blvd., Greensboro. Info: gsocomplex.com/events.
2GNC COMEDY. 7:30 p.m. At the 2 Guys Named Chris Comedy All Star Show, you’re in for a night of unfiltered and uncut comedy. Tickets: $25. Carolina Theatre, 310 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: carolinatheatre.com/events.
TEA FOR TWO. 11 a.m.–4 p.m. Learn about the importance of tea to the American colonies and discover why it was boycotted during the Revolution; plus, see how to set a proper tea service. Free. Historical Park at High Point Museum, 1859 E. Lexington Ave., High Point. Info: highpointmuseum.org.
February 15–28
ANDREW WYETH. “Andrew Wyeth at
Kuerner Farm: The Eye of the Earth” explores the connection between one of the most celebrated 20th-century American artists and a particular farm in his hometown, Chadds Ford, Penn. Reynolda House Museum of American Art, 2250 Reynolda Road, Winston-Salem. Info: reynolda.org/museum/exhibitions.
February 16
HOPE FEST 4 HUNGER. 2–4 p.m. Enjoy a lively, dynamic afternoon at this multicultural dance festival — which includes African, Cambodian, Hindu, Korean, Mexican and Scottish dancers — to benefit two nonprofits, A Simple Gesture and Greensboro Urban Ministry. Free. Carolina Theatre, 310 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: hopefest4hunger.org.
February 18–23
MJ. Times vary. The Tony-winning musical tells the story of one of the greatest entertainers of all time, Michael Jackson. Tickets: $39+. Steven Tanger Center, 300 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: tangercenter.com/events.
February 18
THE ROOM. 7 p.m. In this cult classic, Tommy Wiseau stars as Johnny, a successful banker who seems to have it all when his life begins to unravel after discovering a shocking betrayal; after the 20th anniversary screening, co-star Greg Sestero will share behind-the-scenes stories and answer audience questions. Tickets: $8. Carolina Theatre, 310 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: carolinatheatre.com/events.
February 19
HISTORY TALK. 10–11:30 a.m.
Complementing the current Alpha Art Society exhibit at TAG, members of High Point’s oldest African American women’s organization discuss the group’s history and plans for the future. Free. High Point Museum, 1859 E. Lexington Ave., High Point. Info: highpointmuseum.org.
February 20
ROUGE. 8 p.m. From comedy to thrills, circus artists and dancers will entertain
in a cabaret-style performance. Tickets: $30+. Carolina Theatre, 310 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: carolinatheatre. com/events.
ARTIST TALK. 5:30–7:30 p.m. Saya Woolfalk discusses her work, which “uses science-fiction and fantasy to reimagine the world in multiple dimensions.” Free. Weatherspoon Art Museum, 500 Tate St., Greensboro. Info: weatherspoonart.org/ exhibitions/current-exhibitions.
February 21–28
EVERYBODY. Times vary. UNCG School of Theatre students invite you on a wild and unpredictable ride in this modern-day adaptation of the 15thcentury play, Everyman. Tickets: $5+. Pam and David Sprinkle Theatre, 402 Tate St., Greensboro. vpa.uncg.edu/events.
February 21–23
BOAT & FISHING EXPO. Times vary. Find all sorts of boats and accessories under one roof, learn tips from professional
Trust Us With Your Memories
anglers or, if you’re a newbie, just dip your toes in the water. First Horizon Coliseum, 1921 W. Gate City Blvd., Greensboro. Info: gsocomplex.com/events.
February 21–22
DEJAHZH HEDRICK. 8:30 p.m. This two-time winner of the Ultimate Comic Challenge takes the stage for a night of controversial and hilarious wit. Tickets: $9.65+. The Idiot Box, 503 N. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: idiotboxers.com.
February 21
AMANDA MOLE. 7:30 p.m. Catch a moving performance from a rising star among concert organists. Tickets: $5+. Christ United Methodist Church, 410 N. Holden Road, Greensboro. Info: music foragreatspace.org/season.
SPARTAN VOICES. 5:30 p.m. Kick your weekend off with a free Friday evening concert from UNCG choirs. Free. Organ Hall, 100 McIver St., Greensboro. Info: vpa.uncg.edu/events.
February 22
CREATIVE WRITING CIRCLE. 2–3:30 p.m. New and seasoned writers can connect with sources at the Greensboro Public Library as well as other writers. Free. McGirt-Horton Brand Library, 2501 Phillips Ave., Greensboro. Info: greensboro-nc.gov/government/city-news/ city-calendar.
February 25
DANCING WITH THE STARS. 7:30 p.m. See the glitz, glam and breathtaking performances of America’s favorite dance show live and in person. Tickets: $89+. Steven Tanger Center, 300 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: tangercenter. com/events.
February 26
SWAN LAKE. 8 p.m. The State Ballet of Ukraine presents a mesmerizing show set to Tchaikovsky’s timeless melody. Tickets: $45+. Carolina Theatre, 310 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: carolinatheatre. com/events.
A Place To Call Home 2025
April 3
11:30 a.m. Luncheon at Cadillac Service Garage
women’s build details: teams start forming • jan 21 kick-off • march 1
Join us in helping make the dream of affordable homeownership a reality for women in our community by joining us for Women Build 2025!
While there is no cost to attend, our guests will be asked to make a tax-deductible gift to support our work with children & families.
February 28
ALTON BROWN. 8 p.m. The famed foodist offers his “Last Bite,” a live show filled with funny food songs plus culinary mega-hacks and mayhem. Tickets: $39+. Steven Tanger Center, 300 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: tangercenter.com/ events.
THE ADDAMS FAMILY: YOUNG@PART. 7:30 p.m. Adapted for youth and teen performers and presented by High Point Community Theatre, this quirky musical tells the story of Wednesday Addams’ coming of age. Tickets: $16.81+. Centennial Station Arts Center, 121 S. Centennial Ave., High Point. Info: highpointtheatre. com/events.
FAMILY GAME NIGHT. 5:30–7:30 p.m. Bring the whole family for a night of snacks, prizes and playful fun, including board games, card games and even a scavenger hunt. Free. High Point Museum,
1859 E. Lexington Ave., High Point. Info: highpointmuseum.org.
WEEKLY HAPPENINGS
SUNDAYS
BARRE CLASS. 10 a.m. Strengthen, tone and stretch your way into the week. Tickets: $10. Grandover Resort & Spa, 1000 Club Road, Greensboro. Info: grandoverresort.com.
TUESDAYS
PELVIC HEALTH YOGA. 8:30–9:30 a.m. This Vinyasa-style flow class works toward lengthening and strengthening the pelvic floor and surrounding muscles. Free, registration required and donations accepted. Triad Pelvic Health, 5574 Garden Village Way, Greensboro. Info: triadpelvichealth. com/classes.
WEDNESDAYS
LIVE MUSIC & PAINTING. 6–9 p.m.
Evan Olson and Jessica Mashburn of AM rOdeO play covers and original music while artist-in-residence Chip Holton paints. Free. Lucky 32. 1421 Westover Terrace, Greensboro. Info: lucky32.com.
FAMILY NIGHT. 5–7 p.m. Enjoy an artdriven evening with family and friends in the studios. Free. ArtQuest at GreenHill Center for NC Art, 200 N. Davie St., Greensboro. Info: greenhillnc.org/events.
THURSDAYS
JAZZ AT THE O.HENRY. 6–9 p.m. Sip vintage craft cocktails and snack on tapas while the O.Henry Trio performs with a different jazz vocalist each week. Free. O.Henry Hotel Social Lobby, 624 Green Valley Road, Greensboro. Info: ohenryhotel.com/o-henry-jazz.
THURSDAYS & SATURDAYS
KARAOKE & COCKTAILS. 8 p.m. until midnight, Thursdays; 9 p.m. until
Bringing you the intel you need about happenings in and around Greensboro every Tuesday morning.
midnight, Saturdays. Courtney Chandler hosts a night of sipping and singing. Free. 19 & Timber Bar at Grandover Resort & Spa, 1000 Club Road, Greensboro. Info: grandoverresort.com.
FRIDAYS
MASTERPIECE FRIDAY. 10 a.m.–noon. Parents and caregivers are welcome to bring their kiddos to spend an enchanting morning exploring the wonders of storytelling and crafts. Registration: Nonmembers over 1, $8; Household Level Members, free. ArtQuest at GreenHill Center for NC Art, 200 N. Davie St., Greensboro. Info: greenhillnc.org/events.
FRIDAYS & SATURDAYS
LIVE MUSIC. 7–10 p.m. Enjoy drinks in the 1808 Lobby Bar while soaking up live music provided by local artists. Free. Grandover Resort & Spa, 1000 Club Road, Greensboro. Info: grandoverresort.com.
SATURDAYS
YOGA. 9:30 a.m. Don’t stay in bed when you could namaste in the spa studio. Tickets: $10. Grandover Resort & Spa, 1000 Club Road, Greensboro. Info: grandoverresort.com.
WATER AEROBICS. 10:30 a.m. Make a splash while getting a heart-pumping workout at an indoor pool. Tickets: $10. Grandover Resort & Spa, 1000 Club Road, Greensboro. Info: grandoverresort.com.
BLACKSMITH DEMONSTRATION.
10 a.m.–4:30 p.m. Watch the sparks and red-hot iron turn into farm implements as the past is recreated. Free. Historical Park at High Point Museum, 1859 E. Lexington Ave., High Point. Info: highpointmuseum.org.
HISTORIC WALKING TOURS. 1 & 5 p.m. Take a guided walking tour through the history of downtown Greensboro at 1 p.m. or, if you’re into true crime, stroll through The Gate City’s darker side, covering 1953–1997, at 5 p.m. Tickets: $14. The Bodega, 313 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: trianglewalkingtours. com/book-online. OH
KNOW WHO TO CALL FIRST!
GreenScene
Future Fund Annual Celebration: Garden of Giving
Boxcar Bar + Arcade
October 24, 2024
Mary Grace Photography
Patti Callahan Henry FRIDAY, MARCH 21, 2025 • 3 — 5 p.m.
The Colonnade at Revolution Mill: 900 Revolution Mill Drive • Greensboro, NC 27405
O.Henry magazine proudly presents Patti Callahan Henry, New York Times-bestselling author of 19 novels, including Becoming Mrs. Lewis, Once Upon a Wardrobe and Surviving Savannah. We invite you to celebrate the release of Patti’s latest novel with us. The Story She Left Behind, out on March 20, is a tale that spans decades and continents, crossing from the coast of South Carolina to England’s Lakes District, and weaving together mystery and family legacy with the lyrical prose Patti’s fans know and love. Books are available for purchase with ticket to be picked up at event, plus we will have The Country Bookshop on hand with more.
Book your tickets today at:
Dr. Beth Mulberry, Chris Ringuette, Chrisma Brock, Robin Hamilton
Yayra Adjrah, Thierry Agossa
Lisa Duck, Connie Leeper Anisha Sharma, Aaron Carpenter
GreenScene
GreenHill Center for NC Art
Winter Show Collector’s Choice
Saturday, December 7, 2024
Galen Draper Photography
Kelly Frye, Matthew Davis
Kelli Coley, Kisha Kelley, Jackie Plemmons
Arlene Gutterman, Nancy Doll, Kate Panzer
Margaret Brown, Arden Craft
Julie Pyrtle, Erica Worth
Cheryl Stewart, Sarah Britt
Julie Blacutt, Wilke Black
David & Ann Raper
Zaire Miles-Moultrie, Phillip Loken, Karrington Gardner, Quan Apollo
Barnaby Jones, Soumya Iver
Polly FInn, Edie Carpenter, Kelli Coley
Anjaarkl Daw, Micha Daw, Julie Anne Greenberg
Chocoholics Beware
Lemon might be gaining on you
By Ruth Moose
Achocoholic I am not. On a desserts table with lots of chocolate and other dark delights I can take or leave the chocolate stuff. I leave it for those who would kill their own mother for a bite of anything chocolate. Not me. I don’t even, forgive me friends, like Oreos. No. Never. I must be in the minority everywhere.
A friend told me that once in the ditch of despair during a diet, and dying for chocolate, she had not trusted herself to have even the least bit of chocolate of any kind in her house. Then, in sheer desperation, she climbed high and hunted deep in every corner of every cabinet and finally hidden behind rusted tins of Old Bay and boxes of baking soda, she laid her hands on a long forgotten and now dusty can of pure cocoa. She pried off the lid and dug in, eating every smidge with her bare hand then licking her fingers. That’s desperation. That, my friends, is a chocoholic!
I grew up with good Scottish people who, if it came to the last crumb on the plate, would fight over a caramel layer cake or, even better, a brown sugar pound cake with burnt sugar icing. I’ve seen it happen at church picnics and potluck dinners.
In a show of support for anything other than chocolate I once entered a cupcake contest sponsored by the Chapel Hill Historical Society. First prize, $100. I wanted to see if something, anything, could beat chocolate.
So I spent some weeks developing a lemon cupcake. Not just any old lemon cupcake but an over-the-top and knock-your-sensesto-the-moon lemon cupcake. I mixed. I baked. I tasted. I added. I subtracted. Until I finally ended up with marinating some mango and embedding it in the middle. I made a lemon icing, fluffy and tart, and in a flourish, sprinkled on shredded coconut. It even looked prize winning.
On the day of judging the downtown historic house had three rooms filled with tables full of cupcakes. Rows, double and triple deep, with cupcakes. Every kind of chocolate. It was chocolate heaven. The air felt heavy with the scent of chocolate, so heavy you could taste it when you breathed in.
I felt very small, greatly outnumbered, and wished I had never in a million years decided to take on the world of chocolate. I was a very small David in a room filled with cocoa Goliaths. Until, out in the front yard, filled with cupcake lovers who paid $10 for as many as they could eat, the judges announced their decisions. Third went, of course, to one of the many, many chocolate cupcakes. No surprise.
I held my breath and hugged the tiny amount of hope I still had left. Second went to . . . Shaggy Lemon Cupcakes with Marinated Mango in the Middle. Mine! I got a fancy, official award certificate and a $25 gift card from a local stationery shop. Later, one of the losers said to me out of the corner of her mouth, “Your title’s what won it.”
I didn’t care. Lemon had placed. Lemon had beaten out chocolate.
The first prize, the big prize winning cupcake — when it was announced and the 13-year-old girl went up to claim her award and get her $100 check — was a plain-Jane vanilla cupcake with plain vanilla icing. After gasping, the applause was wide and astonished. Not only had lemon beaten out chocolate, vanilla had, too. The judges praised the texture of the vanilla cupcake and, of course, the delicate but absolutely perfect flavor of vanilla.
So there you go, chocoholics. You may outnumber those of us of other persuasions, but we still sometimes win a prize or two. Sometimes. 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.
