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July 2017 FEATURES 51 Wand Poetry by Anna Lena Philips Bell 52 Dinner at Ate By Billy Ingram

A selective Hall of Fame of Greensboro’s most beloved, late great restaurants

56 Playing the Market By Maria Johnson

For generations of locals, the bounty of summer awaits at the Greensboro Farmers Curb Market

58 The Cake Lady’s Best By Jim Dodson Two perfect recipes for the summer

60 A Life Worth Sharing By Cynthia Adams John Paulin’s morning glories and cottage two stories high

69 July Almanac By Ash Alder

Fishing with Papa, the full Buck moon, larkspur

DEPARTMENTS 13 Simple Life By Jim Dodson 16 Short Stories 19 Doodad By Grant Britt 21 Life’s Funny By Maria Johnson 23 Omnivorous Reader By Stephen Smith 27 Scuppernong Bookshelf 29 Papadaddy’s Mindfield By Clyde Edgerton 31 The Pleasures of Life By Maggie Dodoson 33 Gate City Journal By Ross Howell Jr. 39 A Writer’s Life By Wiley Cash 45 Birdwatch By Susan Campbell 47 Wandering Billy By Billy Eye 70 Arts Calendar 89 GreenScene 95 Accidental Astrologer By Astrid Stellanova 96 O.Henry Ending By David Claude Bailey

Cover Photograph by Mark Wagoner Photograph this page

by Amy Freeman

6 O.Henry July 2017

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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M A G A Z I N E

Volume 7, No. 7 “I have a fancy that every city has a voice.” 336.617.0090 1848 Banking Street, Greensboro, NC 27408 www.ohenrymag.com Jim Dodson, Editor • jim@thepilot.com Andie Stuart Rose, Art Director • andie@thepilot.com Nancy Oakley, Senior Editor • nancy@ohenrymag.com Lauren Coffey, Graphic Designer Alyssa Rocherolle, Graphic Designer CONTRIBUTING EDITORS

Cynthia Adams, David Claude Bailey, Harry Blair, Maria Johnson CONTRIBUTING PHOTOGRAPHERS

Lynn Donovan, Amy Freeman, Sam Froelich, John Gessner, Bert VanderVeen, Mark Wagoner CONTRIBUTORS

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The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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Simple Life

Supper on the Porch Old friends, a well-traveled table, a summer evening to remember

By Jim Dodson

On a fine summer night not

ILLUSTRATION BY ROMEY PETITE

long ago, seven friends came to supper on the porch.

They arrived bearing good wine, eager to see what we’d done with the old house we purchased six months ago. Since five of the seven guests were also serious wine buffs, bottles were quickly opened and the party moved out to our huge screened porch where my wife had set our antique English wedding table for supper. The porch is a large screened affair that spans almost the entire back portion of the house. It features a floor and foundation made from antique brick and exposed beams with large old-style ceiling fans overhead. Quite honestly, when we first saw it, we weren’t sure what to do with such a large empty space. The screens were old and dusty and the floor was uneven in places. Moreover, off the west end of the porch was a terrace with brick planters overgrown with English ivy set beneath a large pergola that had clearly seen better days. Since I knew this house as a boy — it sits two doors from the house where I grew up and was my favorite house in the neighborhood as a kid — I remembered how the Corry family seemed to live on this porch way back when, in part because it sat beneath hundred-year-old white oaks and a lower canopy of dogwoods and silver bell trees, providing deep shade and a cool retreat on the hottest of summer days. I remembered Mama Merle loving her big sprawling porch. One early thought we had was to replace the screens with oversized weathertight windows and create a four-season family room that could function as a small ballroom in a pinch. We also contemplated halving the porch in size and adding an outdoor fireplace — or even removing the rambling old extension altogether to expand a yard that resembled an urban jungle. “Let’s live with it a while,” proposed my ever-practical bride. “The porch may grow on us — and tell us what we should do.” In the meantime, over the winter and early spring, I knocked apart the aging pergola and opened up the terrace, cleaning out the overgrown planter beds and filling them with young hosta plants. I also removed a dozen wicked Mahonia plants and a small acre of English ivy and runaway wisteria, and began creating a Japanese shade garden beneath the dogwoods and silver bells. By the time true spring arrived my back garden was looking rather promising, but the big old porch remained empty until my wife had an interesting idea. “Let’s move our wedding table out there and make this our three-season dining room,” she said, pointing out that the size of the porch made it essentially indifferent to weather. Our dining table is a beautiful old thing I spotted in a Portland, Maine, The Art & Soul of Greensboro

English antique shop and purchased for my fiancée as a wedding present two decades ago. It’s an early 19th-century English farm table from Oxfordshire that came with its own documenting papers listing at least a dozen a family names that had allegedly owned it before us. Beyond its impressive strength and workmanship, the thing I most love about it are the nicks and dents and discolorations of time that mark the table’s long journey through this world. Our family has gathered around it for every holiday meal since the day it arrived in our household, and sometimes as I listen to the eddies of conversations that take place around it, I can’t help but think about the voices that table has heard over the past century and a half, the intimate stories, the debates and conversations, fiery oaths and whispers of love. Before moving it out to Miss Merle’s porch, however, my wife set about cleaning every surface of the porch including the elegant ceiling fans and screens while I got to work on the floor, leveling the bricks and using a distressing technique to paint the brick floor a faded woodland green. That’s when a kind of alchemy began to take place. The big room suddenly seemed to come alive with a human charm all its own. Soon we added plants and an antique sideboard that had never fit the in the main house even found a destined spot on the porch. I hung the custommade iron candelabra from our old house in Maine and my bride strung small clear white lights along the roofline as a finishing touch. We suddenly had the perfect place for a pair of fine old wicker chairs we’d kept in storage forever, and an antique iron table and reading lamp that had never quite found their place. A large sisal rug Wendy found online was the final piece of the puzzle. By the time our first supper on the porch was well underway, our guests were all commenting on the beauty of the room beneath the trees. “I don’t think I’ve seen a more beautiful porch,” said my childhood friend, Susan, who lived in Charleston, South Carolina for years and has a designer’s eye for everything. “It’s so rustic and simple.” “Don’t change a thing about this porch,” urged Joe, a buddy from high school who is an exceptional builder and expert on wood. He made some excellent small suggestions about replacing the vinyl soffits with wooden panels with inset lighting that would make the room even more dramatic. The lively dinner went on much longer than expected. The stories flew, the candles flickered, the wine flowed, and the earthy scent of my restored garden drifted through the screens. At their end of the table, the wine buffs had a fine time swapping tales of their intricate journeys toward grape enlightenment. Sipping my French sparkling water, it was enough for me to simply sit and listen to my friends go on about life and wine in ways I suspect that old wedding table had heard before over the years, taking its own pleasure in our screen porch fellowship. Don and Cindy talked about their extensive wine tours out West. Susan told a charming tale about being whisked away by a friend to July 2017 O.Henry 13

Simple Life

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14 O.Henry July 2017

reimagined.

Europe where she was put up and feted at a pair of the most elite vineyards in France and Italy. “It was like something from a fairy tale,” she admitted. Somewhere about the time the strawberry and whipped cream cake was being served, my closest table companion leaned over and mentioned to me that she was thinking of walking home. It wasn’t far, only a few blocks, and the night was gorgeously moonlit. “They won’t even notice I’m gone,” Terry said with a coy smile, finishing her own glass of white wine. Terry is my oldest friend Patrick’s wife. I’ve known her since we sat near each other in high school choir 45 years ago. A few years back Terry and Patrick sold their big house on the north side of town and moved back to the old neighborhood, a move that in part inspired my wife and me to do the same. We now lived just three long blocks apart. “Mulligan and I will walk with you,” I proposed, prompting my favorite dog to dutifully bolt for the kitchen door. So off we went beneath a nearly full moon that displayed one exceptionally bright planet just beneath its southern rim. Terry asked me if I knew the planet’s name but I couldn’t be sure — I guessed Mercury, incorrectly. Still, it was lovely strolling along our darkened street with its ancient trees making the darkness seem even deeper, the neighborhood even quieter. As it happened, Terry and I both had recently undergone similar kinds of surgeries. We made little jokes about that fact — at least I did — and Terry, who is one year older and many years wiser, admonished me that I would feel fatigued for many weeks yet to come, not to push myself back into my usual 15-hour work routine. “The world will still be there after you take time to rest and heal,” she pointed out. “Suppers like tonight may help,” I said. “That porch is wonderful,” she came back “I’m so glad you didn’t change it.” “I think it changed us,” I agreed, kissing her cheek goodnight. On the walk back to our house, I was thinking how all it took was a little time and Wifely creativity, a well-traveled table and a circle of close friends breaking bread and drinking wine to transform a big empty space into something intimate and special. Objects, like people, respond to love, and since that first night of supper and fellowship, the big old porch has become my favorite spot where I do everything, from writing before dawn to reading at night. It is my sanctuary where I just sit and plot my garden or simply daydream and maybe even heal. Halfway home, something else wonderful happened. A large night bird swooped low over my head and rose to an arching limb 20 feet above Old Man Dodson and his dog. I shined my light upward and discovered, rather startlingly, a large snowy owl staring down at me with an imperturbable calmness. The only one I’d ever seen was back home in Maine. I knew that snowy owls nested in the Arctic tundra and wondered how far this old fellow had come — or had yet to go. Back in our driveway, the departing wine buffs were looking up at the moon with celestial-reading apps on their I-phones. What an age of wonders, I thought. An ancient owl and phones that could decipher the night sky — all within the same block. I told them about the snowy owl visiting just down the street. “There’s a sign of some kind,” said Susan with a husky laugh. Joe the naturalist pointed out that eagles and northern species of owls had been returning to the city’s northern lakes of late, adopting new habitats in an ever-changing world. He also pointed out that the bright planet was, in fact, Jupiter, and that at least three of Jupiter’s four moons were visible at that moment, a rare celestial event. “That makes two in one night,” I heard myself say, thinking how far we’ve all come, how far we’ve yet to go. OH Contact Editor Jim Dodson at jim@thepilot.com.

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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Short Stories Worth the Drive to Winston-Salem

Another independent bookstore in the Triad? In our opinion, we can’t have too many. Joining the ranks of Greensboro’s Scuppernong Books and Sunrise Books in High Point, is . . . drumroll please: the BookMarks store. Yep, the organization that hosts the ever-popular Festival of Books and Authors each September in Winston-Salem is launching its very own shop on July 8 at 634 West Fourth St., No. 110 (just up the street from Design Archives and Foothills Brewing). Come out on July 8 at 10 a.m. for a grand opening that includes a ribbon cutting, dips of Kona Ice Cream from Kernersville, hourly drawings for prizes and more. And that’s just the beginning: On July 10 you can catch a reading by Daniel Wallace, another by John Grisham on July 12, not to mention a Harry Potter birthday bash on July 30. Read all about it at www.bookmarksnc.org.

World of Music

You’d have to go to Bonnaroo, Wolftrap and Merlefest to round up all the critters herded up in this corral for you. To celebrate its 125th anniversary, the UNCG School of Music will present more than 300 students and faculty performing in a musical extravaganza that whips around the world in an hour-long travelogue — without your having to leave your seat. Atlantic Crossings traces the roots of American music with one- to four-minute snippets of eclectic styles, from jazz to classical, Appalachian to gospel. The music doesn’t just stay on stage, but zips around the auditorium as musicians pop up out of the dark from alcoves, present their take and fade back into the darkness, while another group lights up briefly. Part of the Collage Chamber Series, the concert takes place Saturday, September 9, at 7:30 p.m. in the UNCG Auditorium. But if you plan to get onboard, book now; this world cruise has sold out quickly over its 10-year history. Tickets: Triad Stage box office, 232 South Elm St., Greensboro; (336) 272-0160 or purchase.tickets. com/buy/TicketPurchase?pid=8439456 — G.B.

Musical Market

Move over Nashville: Greensboro is inching closer to seizing the moniker of “Music City” with yet another outdoor concert series. Late last month Greensboro Farmers Curb Market launched a music series in tandem with its ever-popular Saturday market (see page 56). Bring a lawn chair with your shopping bag, and after you’ve bought your fresh eggs, tomatoes, pound cake and hanging baskets, grab a fresh cuppa Joe and listen to the Motown and blue-sy covers of Gary Mitchell on July 1 and 29, jazz saxophonist Tony Chambers and R&B/soul act, The Polk Duo on July 8. On July 22, it’s Celtic craic, as Bonnie Bows fires up their acoustic fiddle and cello. Performances sets to run from 9 to 9:45 a.m. and 10 a.m. to noon. And if you miss a Saturday, no worries: The music series continues through October 28. Info: gsofarmersmarket.org.

16 O.Henry July 2017

Cow Wow

Get a moo-ve on to the Greensboro District Junior Dairy Show! Celebrating the 75th anniversary of 4-H, the Guilford County Extension Center in Greensboro (3309 Burlington Rd.) will give kids the chance to show off their devine bovines on July 20 and 21, from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. Included in the festivities are participants of a new initiative: six inner city students from Erwin Montessori School who raised heifers in an intensive eight-week program, with assistance from Extension agents and volunteers, and the staff at A&T Dairy . . . proof positive that it’s not just cow’s milk that’s overflowing, but the milk of human kindness, as well. Info: guilfordextension.com.

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Start Your Engines!

It’s a Tar Heel tradition: stock car racing! Last month, in an homage to the good ole days, High Point Museum (1859 East Lexington Ave.) opened When Racing Was Racing, an exhibit celebrating the city’s two race tracks (which will be commemorated with historical plaques later this summer), and some of the local heroes of the sport: Fred Harb, Bill Blair Sr., Bob Welborn, Jimmie Lewallen, Ken Rush, and Jim Paschal. The show will be around for the rest of the summer, but, heh, make tracks to see it, because fall will be here before you know it. Info: highpointmuseum.org.

Screen Gems

Bored with the usual summer blockbuster fare and multiplex admission prices? Then cool off at the Carolina Theatre, (310 South Greene St.) for a mix of film classics and offbeat cinematic fare guar-awn-teed to please — without breaking the bank. Screenings kick off on July 17 with Hitchcock’s North By Northwest, which will make you think twice about wandering through cornfields, and continue on the 18th, with the snarky, behind-the-scenes look at the theater world, All About Eve. Commiserate with Ice Cube in Friday (July 19th), cheer on Paul Newman in the title role of Cool Hand Luke on the 20th and sing along with Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music on July 23. And that’s just the tip of the melting iceberg: Catch another installment of the 48-Hour Film Project, more Hitchcock thrillers (Rear Window, Vertigo, Strangers on a Train), kids’ fare (The Princess and the Frog, 101 Dalmations), and more. Ready? A-a-a-a-and . . . action! Tickets: (336) 333-2605 or carolinatheatre.com.

O Brave New World!

We may be “such stuff as dreams are made on,” says Shakespeare, but a production of his fanciful play, The Tempest, is a dream come true for the young folk performing in it. For the seventh year, Guilford County Schools and the Drama Center team up for Shakespeare in the Park (this year, at 5:30 p.m. at Gateway Gardens, 2924 East Gate City Blvd.). Enjoy the exploits of Prospero and Antonio, Miranda, Ariel and Caliban in the magical twilight hours of summer, and take to heart their lessons about very real magic: power, love and forgiveness. Info: thedramacenter.com.

Hot Fun in the Summertime

In celebration of 75 years of golf at Gillespie, the Greensboro Parks and Recreation is pulling out all the stops for its Parks & Rec Fest. On Sunday, July 31, from 4 to 8 p.m. at Gillespie Golf Course (306 East Florida St.), you can bounce around on inflatables, check out vendor booths, have your face painted, mug for the Superhero photo booth, learn how to identify plants, participate in a 3-point shoot out and a corn hole tournament, or take to the driving range. Starting at 6 p.m., it’s Music for a Sunday Evening in the Park (MUSEP), with performances from Sweet Dreams, known for covering R&B classics and jazz, and Rob Massengale Band, which plays everything from beach music to Top 40, rock ’n’ roll to Latin tunes and more. Info: greensboro-nc.gov.

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Ogi Sez Ogi Overman

Most months out of the year are rather unpredictable, weatherwise. But not July — it’s going to be hot-hot-hot, period! Luckily, so are the musical offerings, with a nice mix of indoor and outdoor shows. So, let’s find a watering hole and dive in.

• July 1-4, Durham City Park: The

shade is abundant by the banks of the Eno, as the Festival for the Eno enjoys its 38th year. With four stages and four days of world music at its finest, it’s for a most worthy cause at our doorstep. What more do you need?

• July 8, LeBauer Park: Now that it

has proven its worth as a music venue, our newest downtown park launches its own series this summer. Kicking things off is the fabulous Americana quartet Mipso. No longer up-and-comers, they have officially arrived.

• July 14, Cone Denim Entertainment Center: After two bestselling mix tapes, the second of which was nominated for a Grammy for Best Urban Contemporary Album, Kehlani has now released her debut studio album, SweetSexySavage. Yes, she’s all of the above, wrapped in one package. • July 18, Greensboro Coliseum: The cofounder and face of Pink Floyd for a million years, the legendary Roger Waters brings his solo tour to the Gate City this summer. Prepare for an audiovisual spectacle like no other. • July 29, Barber Park: The second season of the Levitt AMP Music Series is in high gear and will crank it up another notch when Melva Houston and Roy Roberts appear together. Both have STAX and Motown and soul and jazz and R&B creds a mile long. Don’t tell Janet but I’ve been in love with Melva since I first interviewed her in 1990. July 2017 O.Henry 17

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Doodad

They Only Come Out at Night

The Grove Street People’s Market is open to evening shoppers

blockade-runner.com

t 6:15 on a hot Thursday night in May, about 10 vendors have set up at the Grove Street People’s Market inside the boundaries of the parking lot at the corner of Glenwood Avenue and Grove Street. Fermentologist Amy Peddie says the market promotes fellowship and entrepreneurship. Anybody in the community can set up and sell — there are no vendor fees. In addition, the market partners with Cone Health and runs a community garden where gardening classes are taught. Instead of craft beer, Peddie’s fermented items are of the kimchi variety, using the lowly cabbage as a base. Tonight she’s featuring five kinds of the pickled, savory cabbage, including Green Kraut, Beetiful Cutrido (made with beets), Red (from Korean hot peppers) Kimchi and the white version (made from Korean radish. With a B.S. in Chemistry, she is a skilled lacto-fermentation-ator and teaches courses in pickling (fermentologyfoods@gmail .com for details). A short jaunt across the parking lot, the lady with the beatific smile behind the African Sister and Catering banner introduces herself as Nsona. Featuring chicken, beignets, greens and pintos, her spread reaches from Brazil to Jamaica, from New Orleans to Africa. Sister Nsona got her start in the food business nine years ago when she ran a small restaurant and catering business out of a building on the corner of Glenwood and Grove, across the street. Her African greens stew is a one-of-akind dish and her Jamaican jerk chicken, though spicy, does the set fire to the roof of your mouth. In another interesting cultural juxtaposition, an old-time string band featuring dulcimer, banjo, fiddle and guitar releases Appalachian arias into the night air. A couple of vendors are selling small plants — eggplant, cukes, parsley, basil and cabbage sprouts. “A dollar or two, or we just give ’em away,” one young lady says of her wares from a community garden just around the corner. Diarra and Elizabeth Legget’s Boomerang Bookshop Nomad Chapter bookstore on wheels is on its maiden voyage. Founded just two weeks ago, the Leggets’ self-described “foray into entrepreneurship” grew out of Diarra’s work history in a brick-and-mortar bookstore. Mama J’s Goodness Cookies began as a healthy snack for her kids. Made with “wholesome ingredients and a whole lotta love,” her spicy popcorn seasoned with curry, chile and garlic powder really kicks your tastes buds around. The Grove Street People’s Market is open every Thursday, from 6–8 p.m. and every third Saturday from 5–8 p.m. Info: www.facebook.com/ grovestpeoplesmarket/

Photography Courtesy of Joshua McClure

–Grant Britt The Art & Soul of Greensboro

July 2017 O.Henry 19

Life’s Funny

Apron String Music Josie Kite makes the ties that bind

By Maria Johnson

I’d been looking for

a gardener’s vest or apron — something I could use to carry a trowel, pruning shears, gloves, wire, sunscreen, bug spray, water — and maybe a cell phone to call for help when I collapsed under the weight of my beautification equipment.

So when I zipped through the Greensboro Farmers Curb Market on a recent Wednesday morning, a stall with a sign that said “Angel Apron, Etc.” caught my eye. Actually, the mannequin under the sign got my attention first. It was a torso wearing a string of pearls and an apron made from a snazzy cotton print with an ice cream motif. It was whimsical enough for me to hit the brakes and notice a rack of other boisterous aprons hanging behind it. “Do you have any gardening aprons? Short ones?” I asked a twinkle-eyed lady in the stall. She was dressed in all shades of purple: lavender hat, grape blouse, amethyst scarf, lilac fingernails. “Sure, come in here,” she said, inviting me behind the counter. She reached up to a row of hangers and grabbed two candidates, both of them vinyl numbers not much bigger than mini-skirts. “See, they have the pockets in front, and you can wash them off. Try them on.” She offered a mirror. A few minutes later, I was writing Josie Kite a check for an apron blaring with a bright tropical design. “That’s a happy one,” she said. “It makes you happy to put it on, doesn’t it?” “Yeah, it does,” I said. “They all give you a different feeling,” she went on. “Sometimes when I buy these fabrics, I think, I wonder who I’m making this for? Then they find you, and I know.” There are no random aprons, customers, or meetings to Josie, who first came to Greensboro in 1973. She came from her hometown of Jacksonville, Florida, to visit her sisters, who were then students at N.C. A&T State University. Josie stayed. She raised her son, Craig Brooks, here. She ran a limousine service. Later, she did marketing for a cigarette company. She traveled a lot, and the stress wore on her. She played tennis to relax. “If I was stressed out, whoever had stressed me out was that ball. Bam! You understand? That made me feel a whole lot better,” she remembered. Around 1998, her cousin Ervin Butler asked her to make him an apron. He was 6-3 or 6-4, a tall drink of water, as Josie likes to say. He was also a fisherman, so Josie found some material with fish on it. She made a big apron for Ervin and a tiny one for his grandson E.J. “I got back to that sewing machine, and it was like I was home,” she said. Sewing soothed her. She toyed with the idea of leaving her job. Then she The Art & Soul of Greensboro

met a lady, a numerologist in California, and their conversation tipped the scale. “You’re supposed to be doing something creative,” the numerologist said. Josie told her that she’d been making aprons and that she’d dreamed of a name for a business: Angel Aprons. “‘Take the ‘s’ off, and you’ll be OK,” the woman suggested. “Each apron represents one person.” Josie took it to heart, the bond between an apron and the person who wears it. She sews a label inside every waistband: “My angel apron.” “I always say, ‘Thank you for coming in to pick up your apron,’ because that’s what it is,” she said, “There’s a spirit there. Like when you came in here, you had a certain feeling, and that apron chose you. That was your apron.” Josie makes other items, too, on her retro-colored turquoise sewing machine: tea cozies, pot grabbers, yoga mat bags, and T-shirt quilts among them. Half of her business comes from special orders. One customer, an eye surgeon, wanted a custom-made skullcap. “She said, ‘Can you find me some fabric with eyeballs on it?’ Well, I put it in Google — ‘cotton fabric with eyeballs’— and I found it,” Josie said. Another woman ordered a stack of pot grabbers covered with moose. She was taking them to a family reunion of her mother’s people, the Mooses. A carpenter asked Josie to make a denim apron embedded with rare-earth magnets so he could stick screwdrivers, nails and such to the outside. Done. A woman who welds jewelry brought Josie some purple leather, and Josie fixed her up with a long, protective sheath. Josie has lots of repeat customers. Terry Ball, a Greensboro accountant, bought an apron for her granddaughter, Anna Katharine, before she was born. Anna Katharine, now 15, is in her fourth Josie apron. Her second apron is being used as a thunder jacket for the family’s dog. “People tell me about all kinds of unintended uses,” Josie said, laughing. “Every apron has a story because every person has a story.” We talked about the memories tied up in aprons. Josie, who’s the youngestlooking 71-year- old woman you’ll ever see, remembered her mother and grandmother having two aprons: one for cooking and another, fancier one, for putting on after the cooking was done, but before company arrived. I recalled my grandmother’s apron, which kept dumpling flour off her church dresses and doubled as a hammock for shelled lima beans, pecans and sun-warmed tomatoes. Josie smiled with recognition. “One day,” she said, “someone might remember me gardening in my funky hibiscus apron.” “It’s so much more than a piece of fabric wrapped around you. It’s just magical, don’t you think?” OH Maria Johnson is hardy in USDA to Zones 7 to 13. You can reach her at ohenrymaria@gmail.com. July 2017

O.Henry 21

The only thing more unexpected than James’ stroke was how fast his medical team helped him recover. As Medical Director of the Cone Health Stroke Center, Pramod Sethi, MD, has ready access to some of the most advanced medical devices available. Perhaps none more powerful than a clock. After James Pinnix suffered a stroke while at work one Monday, he had a potentially debilitating blood clot removed within a matter of hours. He was back at work the very next week and is happily working on a more enjoyable type of stroke—the one attached to his golf game.

Learn more about how Dr. Sethi and James outraced a stroke at conehealth.com/stories

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The Omnivorous Reader

The Wickedest Town in the West An OK place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there

By Stephen E. Smith

In the mid-1980s, actor Robert Mit-

chum appeared on a late-night talk show to promote his latest film. The host asked if the movie was worth the price of admission and Mitchum replied: “If it’s a hot afternoon, the theater is air conditioned, and you’ve got nothing else to do, what the hell, buy a ticket.” Readers should adopt a similar attitude toward Tom Clavin’s Dodge City: Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, and the Wickedest Town in the American West. If you’re not doing anything on one of these hot summer afternoons, what the heck, give it a read. Dodge City is a 20-year history of the Kansas military post turned cow town that has come down in popular culture as the Sodom of the makebelieve Wild West. No doubt Dodge had its share of infamous gunfighters, brothels and saloons, including the Long Branch Saloon of Gunsmoke fame, and there were myriad minor dustups, but nix the Hollywood hyperbole, and Dodge City’s official history is straightforward: Following the Civil War, the Great Western Cattle Trail branched off from the Chisholm Trail and ran smack into Dodge, creating a transitory economic boom. The town grew rapidly in 1883 and 1884 and was a convergence for buffalo hunters and cowboys, and a distribution center for buffalo hides and cattle. But the buffalo were soon gone, and Dodge City had a competitor in the cattle business, the border town of Caldwell. Later cattle drives converged on The Art & Soul of Greensboro

the railheads at Abilene and Wichita, and by 1890, the cattle business had moved on, and Dodge City’s glory days were over. Clavin focuses on the city’s rough-and-tumble years from 1870 through the 1880s, explicating pivotal events through the lives and times of the usual suspects — Bat Masterson, the Earp brothers, Doc Holliday et al. He fleshes out his narrative by including notorious personages not directly linked to Dodge City — Billy the Kid, John Wesley Hardin, Wild Bill Hickok, “Big Nose” Kate, Buffalo Bill Cody, Sitting Bull, the Younger brothers, and a slew of lesser characters such as “Dirty Sock” Jack, “Cold Chuck” Johnny and “Dynamite” Sam, all of whom cross paths much in the manner characters interact in Doctorow’s Ragtime. Also included are abbreviated histories of Tombstone — will we ever lose our fascination with the 30-second shootout at the O.K. Corral? — and Deadwood. If all of this sounds annoyingly familiar, it is. There’s no telling how many Wild West biographies, histories, novels, feature films, TV series, documentaries, etc., have been cranked out in the last 140 years, transforming us all into cowboy junkies. Our brief Western epoch has so permeated world ethea that blue jean-clad dudes in Tashkent, Uzbekistan, might be heard to say, “I’m getting the hell out of Dodge,” in Uzbek, of course. Clavin offers what amounts to a caveat in his Author’s Note: “. . . Dodge City is an attempt to spin a yarn as entertaining as tales that have been told before but one that is based on the most reliable research. I attempted to follow the example of the Western Writers of America, whose members over the years have found the unique formula of combining strong scholarship with entertaining writing.” So what we have is a hybrid, a quasi-history not quite up to the standards July 2017

O.Henry 23

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of popular history, integrated into a series of underdeveloped episodic adventure tales that ultimately fail to entertain. If Doris Kearns Goodwin and David McCullough are your historians of choice, you’ll find that Dodge City falls with a predictable thud. It’s simply more of the same Western hokum. The writing isn’t exceptional, the research is perfunctory, most of the pivotal events are common knowledge, and the characters are so familiar as to breed contempt. If you have a liking for yarns by writers such as Louis L’Amour, Luke Short and Larry McMurtry, Dodge City isn’t going to make your list of favorite Westerns. Without embellishment, the narrative loses its oomph, and the episodic structure diminishes any possibility of a thematic continuity, which is, of course, that the lawlessness that marked Dodge City’s formative years is a metaphor for the country as a whole, that violence and corruption are a fundamental component of American life. On a positive note, readers of every persuasion will likely find the book’s final chapter intriguing. Clavin follows his principal characters to the grave. Wyatt, the last surviving Earp brother, ended his days in Los Angeles at the age of 80. Doc Holliday died in Colorado of tuberculosis at 36, his boots off. “Big Nose” Kate, Doc’s paramour, lived until 1940 at the Arizona Pioneers’ Home, dying at the age of 89. Of particular interest is Bartholomew William Barclay “Bat” Masterson, Wyatt Earp’s dapper buddy in the “lawing” business. Whereas Earp’s claim to fame ended with his exploits as a Western peace officer and cow town ruffian, Masterson went on to a life of greater achievement. He became an authority on prizefighting and was in attendance at almost every important match fought during his later years. He was friends with John L. Sullivan, Jack Johnson and Jack Dempsey. In 1902, he moved to New York City and worked as a columnist for the New York Morning Telegraph. His columns covered boxing and other sporting events, and he produced oped pieces on crime, war, politics, and often wrote of his personal life. He became a close friend of President Theodore Roosevelt and remained a celebrity until his death in 1921. It promises to be a long, hot, unsettling summer. If you’ve got nothing better to do, turn off cable news, slap down $29.99 and give Dodge City a read. It’s little enough to pay for a few hours of blessed escapism. OH Stephen E. Smith is a retired professor and the author of seven books of poetry and prose. He’s the recipient of the Poetry Northwest Young Poet’s Prize, the Zoe Kincaid Brockman Prize for poetry and four North Carolina Press awards. The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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Scuppernong Bookshelf

Juvenile July New summer releases to occupy young readers’ time and imagination

By Brian Lampkin

Admit it. It’s only July and already, the kids

have driven you to serious thoughts of how good it would be for them to have extended summer camp in the Arctic. They could help feed the polar bears. At the very least you’ve moved cocktail hour several clicks closer to noon. Don’t worry, your case of frayed nerves is nothing a good book won’t help. Your sprouts will stay happily immersed in these great new children’s and young adult books and won’t bother you again until August. Here’s the highlights of kids literature released this month:

July 4: The Unicorn in the Barn, by Jacqueline Ogburn (Houghton Mifflin, $16.99). The Story of Doctor Dolittle meets The Last Unicorn in this tender and illustrated middlegrade fantasy about a boy and the unicorn that changes his worldview. Ms. Ogburn lives in Durham.

July 4: You Can Fly: The Tuskegee Airmen, by Carole Boston Weatherford (Atheneum, $16.99). This is the paperback release for High Point’s own Ms. Weatherford. This history in verse celebrates the story of the Tuskegee Airmen: pioneering African-American pilots who triumphed in the skies and soared past the color barrier. July 4: Who Was Andrew Jackson? by Douglas Yacka (Penguin, $5.99). In which we learn that Mr. Jackson died before he could have prevented the Civil War. Another in the long line of great Who Was books from Penguin. July 11: 75 Years of Little Golden Books: 1942-2017: A Commemorative Set of 12 Best-Loved Books (Golden Books, $59.88). This beautiful, celebratory boxed set of 12 iconic The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Little Golden Books honors Golden Books 75th anniversary in 2017. Gold foil and beautiful cloth adorn this special package containing the following titles: The Poky Little Puppy, I Can Fly, The Sailor Dog, Scuffy the Tugboat, Wonders of Nature, The Three Bears, A Day at the Seashore, The Blue Book of Fairy Tales, I’m a Truck, I Am a Bunny, The Whispering Rabbit, and Katie the Kitten, a newly reissued 1949 title available only in this box. July 11: The Land of Stories: Worlds Collide, by Chris Colfer (Little Brown, $19.99). In the highly anticipated conclusion to The Land of Stories series, Conner and Alex must brave the impossible. All of The Land of Stories fairy tale characters — heroes and villains — are no longer confined within their world! July 18: Fragile Like Us, by Sara Barnard (Simon Pulse, $17.99). In the tradition of Sarah Dessen and Morgan Matson comes a pitch perfect YA novel about friendship and what it takes to break the bonds between friends. July 25: Steven Universe Original Graphic Novel: AntiGravity (Kaboom, $14.99). Electromagentic disturbances cause objects and people around Beach City to hover off the ground, and the gang goes to the Gem Temple to figure out what’s happening. Beach City has always been proudly weird, and this trip to the moon and back is no different. July 25: Far from the Tree: Young Adult Edition — How Children and Their Parents Learn to Accept One Another (Simon & Schuster, $18.99). When all else fails, perhaps we can live together after all. Elegantly reported by a spectacularly original and compassionate thinker, Far From the Tree explores how people who love each other must struggle to accept each other — a theme in every family’s life. OH Brian Lampkin is one of the proprietors of Scuppernong Books. July 2017

O.Henry 27

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Papadaddy’s Mindfield

Back at the Pound Reflections on the Fourth

By Clyde Edgerton

Dog 1: What was all that shooting last night?

Dog 2: Wasn’t shooting, it was fireworks. July 4th. It was going until after midnight. I know. What is July 4th? Independence Day.

What does that mean? It means that America got its freedom from England on July 4th, 1776 — and citizens have been celebrating ever since. Once a year. Gosh, that was a long time ago. You bet. Did anything change for dogs after 1776? Naw. Same old stuff. Good owners; bad owners; some in-between.

ILLUSTRATION BY HARRY BLAIR

What was wrong with England? They had a king — and since we were part of England, he was our king. What was wrong with that? Well, nothing as long as the king was a good king. If he was a bad one, like the 1776 one was — I think his name was Louis the 15th — then bad things happened to people and dogs because they didn’t have a chance to say what they wanted or needed. See, with a bad king, somebody could come into your owner’s house and shoot you and the king wouldn’t do anything about it. Really? That’s right, but then when America got free, Americans, under the Founding Fathers, made a lot of rules that were better than the rules in England. Like what? Well, if somebody goes into somebody’s house in America and shoots a dog then the police goes and gets the shooter, arrests him and then the justice system makes things right. The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Really? Oh, yes. Who pays for that? Well, the dog owner pays for that, of course. The dog owner has to buy property insurance to protect against the unwarranted and surprising destruction of a citizen’s property — like if somebody breaks in a human being’s house or steals a car, all that. Really? Oh yes. It’s done with something called “insurance.” Since nobody makes humans buy property they have to pay the policeman — on each policeman visit — a “co-pay.” Somewhere between 15 and 90 dollars. Then insurance, bought by the citizen, pays the rest. Sometimes an employee might pay part of it somehow, something called Propertycaid. But the protection of a human’s property is a human’s responsibility in the end, so they pay for that protection out of their own pocket — it’s not a “right.” But wouldn’t everybody want to pitch in and help everybody else take care of their property? Like a big community where everybody looks out for everybody else. So that the police could be free? Maybe paid by taxes? Oh no. Protection of property is not a right, it’s privilege that people must pay for individually — or in groups. I don’t get it. What about when a germ invades a human’s body — why shouldn’t people have to buy their insurance for that? Something like health insurance. Humans can’t predict if a germ is going to ruin their health or if cancer will invade their body. They pay taxes to take care of that kind of stuff — we band together as a community to take care of that since health is more important than property. That’s why health care is free and police protection is not. Or is it the other way around? Hmmmm. Let me think. Surely property is not considered more protectable than health. Oh well, just be happy that since July 4th is over we don’t have to worry about all that human noise until next year. And we don’t have to worry about bad kings anymore either, thank goodness. OH Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels, a memoir and most recently, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW. July 2017

O.Henry 29

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Pleasures of Life

Food For Thought On the final night before graduation, a young waitress discovered the more important lessons learned in college

By Maggie Dodson

The first and only time I cried as a

waitress was the night before my college graduation. The restaurant was fully booked, I was late (procuring a lastminute graduation gown), and it had been days since I’d washed my uniform. Kathi, the owner’s wife with a meticulous eye for detail, noticed a smudge on my apron and made a note of it in my file. The evening, which was to be my last at the restaurant, didn’t look promising. Almost 365 days had passed since I’d started my first shift at L’Amante: an entire year of balancing hot plates on my arm and learning about Italian wine, of taking orders alongside a complex cast of characters who’d teach me about intimacy and friendship. On my first day, Sarah, a staff veteran, told me that making mistakes was a part of life, but not a part of L’Amante. She also warned me not to cry. “No one likes a crier,” she said, “especially not Kevin,” the owner and head chef. As I trailed her around the dining room, learning her duties, I thought about my upcoming, final year of school. One more year of classes. One more year of nurturing the friendships I was told would last a lifetime. One more year to discover who I was. Relatives, pop culture and guidance counselors all promise that you will not just find your calling in college, but your people. The sheer number of individuals makes it easier to find others with the same interests, passions and affinity for Hawaiian pizza. By the end of my junior year, I realized that though I had made some friends on campus, most were in the kitchen at L’Amante, sneaking bites of focaccia between rushing food out to hungry customers. Dena was the most memorable. She talked while she worked, often speaking of the difficulties of being a young mom, the fears she had for her son and how her body had changed with age. And she never held her tongue when it came to politics or sex. She talked openly about her mistakes and I was eager to listen; her attitude, a blueprint for unflappability. Her laugh was soft but full, like her blue eyeliner. I loved her.

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

As I quickly learned from Dena, working in a restaurant is inherently intimate. The chemistry between employees is palpable, mostly due to the proximity the job demands, and less because of actual attraction. Hands brush as plates are passed. Bodies press against each other while navigating space. Cheeks flush, brows sweat, and revealing stories are shared because there’s nothing better to do than talk. After a year, I knew everyone’s story: how Kevin had worked in Tuscany and Kathi had followed him there, uneasy on her own but happy with him. That Sarah was a real estate agent who didn’t need a second job, but craved human connection. I knew Casey longed to reconnect with his daughter, but something in his past — maybe his temper or his drinking — had gotten in the way. I watched as Ian and his girlfriend broke up, got back together, and broke up again, each parting and subsequent reunion more explosive than the last. And I spent many nights, post-shift, dancing with Anna, each of us navigating the confusing world of male text messages. What I remember most about my final night had nothing to do with the food or the mistakes I made during service. As I ate chicken liver pâté out of a tin ramekin (strictly forbidden), Dena told me she’d just found out that her son didn’t qualify for financial aid. Her dream of sending him to college was in danger of being deferred or broken altogether — and she wasn’t sure if she could shoulder the cost of tuition and make ends meet. She cried softly and wondered aloud about his future. I stood there, silent. The only thing left for me to do was to get my degree and to walk across a stage. The evening ended with goodbyes, some tears and a promise to stay in touch. On my walk home, I marveled at the city’s atmosphere: the streetlights illuminating soon-to-be-graduates, drinking happily on patios and swaying to music. As I got to the front porch of my house, I received a text from my dad. “Proud of you,” it read. My mind strayed to Dena, her son and their future. Before bed, I ironed the fancy graduation dress I’d bought with my tips, and thought about the people I’d just left. They were my family. They were my college memories. They were my people, my close-knit group. Over the past year, we’d shared stories, meals, jokes, innuendo, sadness, cabs and that night, tears. College had shaped my intellectual world, but my nights as a waitress gave me a framework for the real one. OH Maggie Dodson is a wroter who lives in Brooklyn, New York. July 2017

O.Henry 31

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Gate City Journal

The Crazy Rib Man How a helping of ribs becomes a helping hand

By Ross Howell Jr.

The first time I met the Crazy Rib Man

PHOTOGRAPHS BY SAM FROELICH

was at a Zeto’s wine tasting about three years ago. His tent and cooker were set up at the popular downtown Greensboro wine shop, so I figured I’d take supper home after the event.

One of my buddies I’d invited didn’t show, so I used his tickets along with mine to sample wines. By the time I’d visited all the tasting stations and stepped outside, I was feeling very good about the cosmos and the space I was occupying within it. In my elevated state, I saw there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The sun was just setting behind the Grasshoppers’ stadium, and its light washed the sidewalks and buildings around me with gold. I stepped up to a folding table covered with a paper tablecloth and squeeze bottles of barbecue sauce, ketchup and mustard. I studied the posted menu a little unsteadily, then ordered a half rack of ribs. White smoke purled from the cooker as a man sliced ribs and scattered them on the grill. I watched the ribs sizzle as he turned them occasionally. After a few minutes, he stepped back from the cooker and picked up a Styrofoam box. He put a thick piece of white bread in the bottom, then expertly lined up the ribs atop it. He closed the lid and handed me the box. I handed him a twenty. “Barbecue sauce is right there,” the man said. “The Rib Man makes it special.” He stepped away from the table with the bill and walked toward a white Dodge pickup parked by the cooker. There were big propane bottles stacked in the bed of the pickup. Maybe it was my elevated state, maybe it was the beautiful evening light, or maybe it was just my active imagination — whatever it was, the man sitting in the pickup, making change for my twenty grew larger than life. He was large in life, mind you, his broad shoulders taking up half the width of the pickup cab. His hair and beard were cropped close, with a tint of gray and his black T-shirt was just slightly darker than the color of his skin. I opened the Styrofoam box, shook the barbecue sauce bottle, and prepared to squeeze the contents all over the ribs.

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

“You might not need much barbecue sauce,” the Crazy Rib Man said. “Taste those ribs first.” I sampled one. He was right. The tender meat evaporated in my mouth like smoke. I squirted a small swirl of sauce in the corner of the container, reclosed it, and took my change. “Thanks,” I said. “Do you have a card?” He draped his arm from the pickup cab with a business card between his fingers. I could see his bright smile in the shadows of the cab. The cook brought me the card and I headed for home. I’m not even sure how I came to learn his name, but it was somewhere over the years of picking up his ribs for my birthday parties, or for gatherings of neighbors and friends, or for just whenever I had a hankering for them. His name is Rex Durrett. Somehow it’s perfect — better than any name my novelist’s imagination could invent. I friended him on Facebook. He’s from Memphis, Tennessee, and grew up in a family of 13 brothers and sisters. His mother was a cook and his father was a garbage collector. Durrett was a boy during the time of the Memphis Sanitation Workers strike, when African-American men marched downtown carrying “I Am a Man” placards, and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. joined them in a march just a day before he was shot dead on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel on Mulberry Street. “I was just a boy, you know,” Durrett says. “I don’t remember much about all that.” What he remembers clearly is the love both his mother and father had for cooking. “In those days there weren’t many restaurants in Memphis, especially outside of downtown,” he says. “So people in the black communities would cook, you know? And if people liked somebody’s cooking, they’d come and buy it.” Durret got started cooking while watching my mother and father, and working with them. “It was real on-the-job training,” he says. “I liked it. And I made a little money at it as a kid.” After finishing high school in Memphis, Durrett lived in Texas for a while. That was followed by enlistment in the U.S. Army. Then he returned to Memphis. “I was offered a scholarship to attend college at North Carolina A&T,” he says. “That’s how I first came to Greensboro. I was a little different, you know, since I was older than my classmates.” July 2017

O.Henry 33

Gate City Journal

What matters to you, matters to us

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July 2017

Durrett studied under Professor H. D. Flowers II, head of the A&T professional theater department at the time. A tough taskmaster, Flowers was remembered as “Papa” by former students when he passed away in 2010. Durrett admired Flowers, but found that college just wasn’t for him. “I’ve always been a hands-on type of guy,” he says. “This idea of sitting back and listening, like you’re a vessel receiving information, it just wasn’t for me.” Durrett found that he preferred independent study, working in the library, reading on his own. Though he left college, he is fully committed to higher education. “This country needs minds,” he says. “But it’s insane what we have to pay for education. We wind up with young people saddled with all this debt.” While at A&T, Durrett “met a lady,” and stayed on in Greensboro. He managed a Pizza Hut. He delivered pizzas for Domino’s. “That was a ball,” Durrett says. “I enjoyed the freedom, being out there, meeting all kinds of people.” Then, about 10 years ago, he decided to start cooking ribs. “I’m being honest,” Durrett says. “It was for revenge. A man I knew didn’t treat me right in business, and I thought, ‘You know, I’m going to mess in his business a little bit.’” A little bit turned into quite a lot. He traveled widely, cooking ribs at automobile shows, motorcycle shows, music festivals and sports events. “Football games are great,” Durrett says. “People are in a good mood, there’s camaraderie. It’s fun.” He’s done all sorts of festivals. “Wine festivals, cooking festivals, church festivals,” Durrett says. “Oh, there was this big Jamaican party in Asheville,” Durrett says. “And we did the Gullah Festival in South Carolina. That was a blast.” According to the Original Gullah Festival website, the program in Beaufort, S.C., was established to honor a celebration first called Decoration Day — now Memorial Day. When United States Colored Troops (USCT) had arrived in Charleston after the Civil War, they discovered that fallen comrades had been buried in a mass grave. They dug up the remains and reinterred them in individual graves. The first parade and celebration honoring the dead is said to have had 10,000 participants. While Durrett still drives his cooker to a variety of historic festivals, wine festivals, food festivals and beer festivals, he recently purchased a trailer emblazoned with the words, “Army Man.” These days, it’s often parked in the lot of the Fairway 21 convenience store on South Elm/Eugene Street at Florida Street. It’s a good idea to call ahead, because Durrett’s The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Country Sausage

Sausage Dip 1 lb. Neese Sausage (hot or mild) 1 pkg. (8 oz.) cream cheese 1 can Ro-tel Tomatoes and Chilies

Sausage Pinwheels

1 lb. Hot Neese’s Sausage 2 cups all purpose flour 1 Tbsp. baking powder 1 tsp. salt

1/4 cup shortening 2/3 cup milk grated cheese (optional)

DireCtionS: DireCtionS: Brown sausage, drain and crumble. Add cream cheese and Ro-tel. Heat and stir until cream cheese has melted and all ingredients are mixed well. Serve with tortilla chips.

Combine flour, baking powder and salt. Cut in shortening and add milk. Turn dough out onto floured surface. Roll dough into 18″ x 12″ rectangle. Spread uncooked sausage over dough. Spread grated cheese on top of sausage. Roll dough into jelly-roll fashion starting with the longest side. Cover and refrigerate one hour. Slice dough into 1/4 inch slices. Back at 350 degrees for 20 minutes. Makes 3 1/2 dozen.

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The Art & Soul of Greensboro

July 2017

O.Henry 35

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Gate City Journal

schedule at that location is somewhat sporadic depending upon what festivals he may be attending. In addition to ribs, chicken, fish and shrimp are on the menu — along with coleslaw and French fries. The last time we spoke, I commented that I’d never seen Durrett outside the cab of his pickup. He laughed. “That goes back to my Army days,” he says. “I have this degenerative problem with my kneecaps. It’s hard for me to walk around.” I figure that must make his business even more difficult, always being on the move with his operation. “You know, I never wanted a restaurant,” Durrett says. “Things change. You can have this nice building, and competition pops up next to you. Or someplace builds a road or bypass, and there goes your drive-by business.” I ask Durrett what his dream situation would be, after his rib-cooking and barbecue-sauce-making days are over. “Oh, man!” he says. “When I was cooking at these festivals at the beach, I got to know this fellow. In his 50s. One of those Wall Street types. He’d stop by, all sun-tanned, wearing his shorts and flip-flops, headed to the Borders Bookstore, you know, before they closed them all. He’d say, ‘I worked hard, Rex, so I could live poor.’ He just hung out at the beach, you know, then went to the bookstore. That would be me.” Then I ask Durrett about his employees, the men and women who set up the grill, lug around the big propane bottles, cook, serve customers. “Employees?” he replies. “I don’t have employees. The people who work with me are volunteers.” They come from 18 different groups in Durrett’s community — church organizations, Boy Scout troops, service providers. They share in the financial benefits of the Crazy Rib Man’s cooking. “One lady, she provides guidance for young black men looking for employment,” Durrett says. “She’s out there working alone, telling them to hitch up their pants, stop showing their butts and underwear, you know? What she does is important. And she needs help.” Durrett nods slowly. “You got to give back to the community,” he says quietly. “That’s a given.” Maybe Rex Durrett doesn’t remember much about the historic events in Memphis when he was a boy there, but something left him with a belief in his responsibility to share with others the benefits of his work. The Crazy Rib Man. Still larger than life. OH Ross Howell Jr. recently celebrated his 67th birthday with ribs from the Crazy Rib Man.

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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The Art & Soul of Greensboro

A Writer’s Life

Revenge of the Lawn

Covet not thy neighbor’s grass. Just go hire the right organic lawn care specialist

By Wiley Cash

I’m standing on

ILLUSTRATION BY ROMEY PETITE

my lawn in Wilmington, North Carolina, recalling the time I heard a mindfulness teacher condense the many years of the Buddha’s teachings into one sentence: Cling to nothing as I, me, or mine. That’s good advice, life-making or life-changing advice depending on when you receive it, but it’s hard advice to follow in my neighborhood, especially as my gaze drifts from the weed-choked, shriveled brown grass at my feet to the lush, pampered golf course-green of my neighbors’ lawns. All around me are weeds I don’t understand, things I’ve never seen before, things I never could have imagined: monstrous tendrils that snake into the air in search of something to strangle; vines covered in thorns and bits of fluff that cling to the skin like the pink fiberglass insulation your dad always warned you not to touch in the attic; scrubby pines no taller than 6 inches with root systems as long as my legs and twice as strong.

Roughly 250 miles west sits the city of Gastonia, where I was raised in a wooded suburb that always felt to me as if the houses in the neighborhood of my youth had been forged from the landscape. In my memory, dense forests loom in our backyard, the smell of wood smoke curls through the air, grass looks like grass: thick blades that grow up toward the sun instead of clumping and crawling like desperate snakes wriggling toward prey. Another 100 miles west, nestled in the cradle of the Blue Ridge Mountains, is the city of Asheville, where I grew into adulthood and made the decision to become a writer. This meant I worked odd jobs and lived in relative — if not romantic — poverty throughout my 20s. I inhabited a slew of rental houses with friends of similar ages and similar interests, each house having one thing in common: a wild expanse of unkempt lawn where nature grew in a heady, beautiful The Art & Soul of Greensboro

containment — variegated hostas, blue and pink and purple hydrangeas, English lavender and flame azalea. We didn’t water anything or spread fertilizer. The only people who ever cut the grass were the landlords, and that was done sporadically with the weather and season. Yet, it seemed that we could have dug our heels into the black earth and something beautiful would have sprung forth. Down here on the coast my lawn is nothing but sand with a thin skin of sod draped over it. I live in a region where if you buy plants at the garden store, you’d better buy the soil to plant them in. Nothing but the most tenacious, native weeds can survive in this boggy, sandy soil. Some days I have doubts about my own survival. It too often feels like I don’t belong here, but then again, my lawn doesn’t belong here either. Just a few months before we moved in, this landscape was marked by piney swamps dotted with ferns, maples and the occasional live oak. Not long ago, bulldozers plowed through and pushed over all but a few of the pines. Then dump trucks flooded the wet spots with tons upon tons of fill dirt. The developer carved out streets, piled the dirt into 1/4 acre squares, and called them lots. The builder began constructing houses. Finally, landscapers rolled out strips of St. Augustine, punched holes in the ground and dropped cheap shrubs into the earth. My wife and I bought one of the first lots, and there were only a handful of houses in the development when we built ours. We moved in just in time to watch nature attempt to reclaim its domain. We’ve been here almost four years. Now, the streets bubble where swamp water pulses through cracks in the asphalt. The drainage ponds are full of alligators that behave more like residents than those of us who have built homes. At dusk, tiny bloodthirsty flies, what the locals call “no-see-ums,” dance in the night like specters, biting your ears, eyeballs and neck. And then there are the weeds. The canopy of trees is gone now, and the weeds have ample sunlight and plenty of room to spread. I lie in bed at night pondering the use of industrial-strength fertilizers and weed killers, and I weigh their environmental destruction and the health risks they pose my children with the possibility of having a lawn of which I can be proud. I begin to empathize with companies responsible for accidental coalash spills (Everyone wants electricity!) and incidental pesticide contamination (Everyone wants bananas in January!). Deciding to forgo potential carcinogens, at least for now, I appeal to someone who seems expert in all things related to lawns and manhood. Tim lives three houses down and has the most perfect yard in the neighborhood. He’s tan and tall and lean. He could be 40 or 65, the kind of guy who rides his road bike to the beach each day at dawn with his surfboard strapped to his back, the kind of guy July 2017

O.Henry 39

A Writer’s Life

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40 O.Henry

July 2017

who looks like Lance Armstrong or Laird Hamilton, depending on whether he’s wearing spandex or board shorts. I find Tim watering his lawn with a garden hose. The rest of us turn on our irrigation systems and hope for the best. Not Tim; he waters like a surgeon. He’s barefoot, and I wonder what it feels like to be able to walk shoeless in one’s yard without feeling the sharp crinkling of dead grass blades beneath your feet. I explain my lawn problems to him, at least insofar as I understand them. He listens with patience, perhaps even sympathy. “Fertilize,” he finally says. “Organic. Commercial. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. And then wait until it rains.” He turns off his garden hose and finds the one weed in his yard that’s apparent to the naked eye: a dandelion that looks more like a flower than any flowers I’ve planted in the past year. Tim reaches down and plucks the dandelion from the earth with the ease of lifting it from a vase. “They come up easier when the ground’s wet,” he said. “Roots and all.” So, early in the spring, I fertilize the yard with liquid corn gluten meal. The air smells like a combination of popcorn and barnyard, but it seems to have enough nitrogen in it to green up the grass. And, after the next rain, I pull weeds. For hours. It works. By early summer my lawn is green and nearly weed-free, but I never get too comfortable. I’m out of town one morning when I text my wife and ask for an update on our lawn. I receive a photo reply within a few minutes. I hesitate to open it the way young people hesitate to open report cards, the way old people hesitate to open medical tests: There’s nothing I can do about it now, I think. To my surprise the photo my wife sent shows a vibrant green lawn dappled with early morning dew. I can’t help but wonder if she’s walked up the street and snapped a picture of Tim’s grass. Regardless, I allow relief to wash over me: The C- I’d been expecting has become a B, the heart disease diagnosis I knew awaited me has ended up being indigestion. Life can go on as long as it rains — but not too much — and the sun keeps shining, but not on the west side of the lawn because there is no shade there, and if we don’t get enough rain the grass will crisp up pretty quick. Late in the summer the grass begins to turn brown in strange semicircles, and when I look closely I can see the individual blades stirring. I kneel down and spot a tiny worm at work. I look closer, spot hundreds, no, thousands more. Our neighborhood has been invaded by armyworms. Instead of spending my time on the novel that’s months overdue, I spend a small fortune coating the grass in organic neem oil. To make myself feel better about not writing I listen to podcasts about writing, but my attempt to stave off writer’s guilt is just as futile as my attempt to fight the armyworms. Our green grass is eaten away within a matter of days; my soul The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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(from left to right)

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O.Henry 41

A Writer’s Life treating every patient

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42 O.Henry

July 2017

follows suit, and I can only hope both will re-emerge come spring. But that spring, something else happens instead. In May, my father is diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor, and the lawn and its calendar of fertilizing and hydrating slips from my mind. He passes two short weeks later, and as I ease into grief the summer spins away from me, and I don’t even look around until August, when my yard comprises more weeds than grass. I’ve missed the opportunity to fertilize, and there’s no amount of safe weed killer that’s going to make a dent. I wait for it to rain. Then I fall to my knees, and I pick weeds. My 2-year-old daughter joins me. Sometimes she’ll yank up fistfuls of grass because it comes up easier than the weeds. I don’t have the heart to correct her, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s on to something. How long would it take us to tear out all this grass and start over? I look at my neighbors’ thriving lawns, and I assume that the pain of death or responsibilities for children or work-related obligations have not touched their lives in the ways they’ve touched mine. If only my life could be as clear and clean and healthy as their lawns appear to be. This year, I decide that I don’t have the patience, the faith, the head space, or the heart space to battle my lawn, and I call a local company that specializes in organic lawn care. I’m surveying the yard when the technician arrives. His name is Steve, and he’s actually the owner, which puts me at ease. He’s middle-aged, clean-shaven with glasses and silvery hair. He speaks quietly, confidently. I can’t help but think that he senses something about me. Perhaps he knows that I’m embarrassed to admit that I can’t do something as simple as grow grass, that I’ve put too much pressure on myself, that things have gone too far, that I’m clinging to something that does not deserve my clinging. In my recollection, he puts a hand on my shoulder. Maybe he even takes my hand. He leads me around the yard, whispering the names of the weeds he finds, the ways in which he can stop them. He tells me it’s not my fault. It’s hard to grow grass in this environment, especially in new neighborhoods like mine where the sod hasn’t had time to take root or an existing organic structure to give it life. And my ground is too hard, he says. It needs to be aerated. It needs to be softened. We agree on a treatment regimen. They’ll start next week, provided it doesn’t rain. “You’re going to have a beautiful lawn,” he says. “You’ll be happy.” “I appreciate that,” I say. “But it’s all yours now.” OH Wiley Cash lives in Wilmington, North Carolina, with his wife and their two daughters. His forthcoming novel The Last Ballad is available for pre-order wherever books are sold. The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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The Art & Soul of Greensboro

July 2017

O.Henry 43

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44 O.Henry

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The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Birdwatch

It’s a Bird! It’s a Plane!

Nope, that reddish, winged creature in the garden is a hummingbird moth

By Susan Campbell

I am waiting — just waiting for the first

call to come in from someone who has seen a “baby hummingbird.” Although this is the time when young rubythroateds are appearing at feeders and flowers across the state, the first report of the year is usually from a very puzzled observer. Not only has he or she spotted a very small hummer, but it looks to be of another species: The color pattern is very different. So, what is it?

The answer is always the same: It is not a hummingbird at all, but a moth. Indeed, these insects hover to feed from brightly colored flowers and appear to have a long bill but they are insects. The obvious give-away is the long antennae. But on such a small, fast flier the antennae — and three pairs of legs — are easily overlooked. The odd behavior and body coloration are what grab one’s attention. The confusion is so common that many bird identification guides depict these moths on the same page alongside the details for ruby-throated hummingbirds. Here in the North Carolina Piedmont and Sandhills, we have at least three kinds of so-called hummingbird moths all of which are in the Sphingidae family. Two are “clearwing” moths: the hummingbird clearwing and the hummingbird hawk moth. We also have white-lined sphinx moths in late summer. They are all exclusively nectivorous feeding, and they like the very same blooms that hummingbirds frequent. With their The Art & Soul of Greensboro

long proboscises, they can reach down into the tubular flowers of impatiens, fuchsias, and assorted salvias, just to name a few. The clearwings are named for the transparent midsection of their wings. The rest of the body is frequently reddish but may be a shade of blue. They are active during the day, flitting from plant to plant in search of a sweet meal. Typically clearwings are not intimidated by human activity; probably because four-legged mammals do not prey on moths in our area. That means one can usually approach these beautiful creatures very closely. If you have the patience as well as a fast shutter speed, you may be able to get some excellent shots of these photogenic insects. Sphinx moths are large, striking and interesting moths. And unlike the clearwings, they are creatures of the night. They can be abundant at the very same flowers hummingbirds use during the day. But most people are totally unaware of their existence given their nocturnal habits. It is the caterpillar of this group that is more familiar. Typically called a hornworm (given the yellowy head projections), they are voracious pests on a variety of plants such as tomatoes, peppers, eggplant and tobacco. However, not only are the adult sphinx moths eaten by bats and small owls but as caterpillars, hornworms are sought out by tiny Braconid wasps. The eggs of the wasp develop under the skin of the caterpillar. Once they pupate, they attach themselves externally and are mistakenly thought to be the eggs of yet more caterpillars. When gardeners find caterpillars in this state, they are no longer a threat to the plants, with very little time to live. So keep your eyes peeled around the yard this summer. You may be lucky enough to spot one of these “baby hummers” hovering among the blooms! OH Susan would love to receive your wildlife sightings and photos at susan@ncaves.com. July 2017

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The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Wandering Billy

Save Our Historic Buildings

Local architectural beauties are threatened with the wrecking ball

By Billy Eye

“We are made wise not by the

recollection of our past, but by the responsibility for our future.” — George Bernard Shaw Was it really 40 years ago when, in an effort spearheaded by Betty Cone, the city acquired the Carolina Theatre, saving it from demolition? On the first weekend in 1975 that the city took possession Dee Covington and I cleaned each and every rocking seat in the place. Being a teenage volunteer, I was determined to explore the theater’s nether regions — heretofore off limits — like the “colored” balcony where the chairs were decidedly smaller and stiff. In the storage area we now know as The Crown, an overflowing pallet of paper 3-D glasses with transparent red and green plastic lenses left over from the 1950s waited in vain for that craze to reignite. But the most amazing discovery was hanging in the fly space above the stage floor. The Carolina was built as a Vaudeville venue in 1927, the year Al Jolson’s The Jazz Singer ushered in the era of motion pictures with sound. Very soon after, the “Showplace of the Carolinas” was refitted as a movie palace. Meanwhile, one by one across the nation, repertory companies folded, leaving performers stranded in the last city they played. Apparently, one of the Keith Vaudeville chain’s touring acts had their last performance at the Carolina, because they abandoned several spectacular pastoral scenes on canvases spanning the length of the stage. Richly detailed, colorful oil paintings hanging in stasis, virtually unnoticed for a half-century — until I came across them as a teenager. In all the histories I’ve read about the theater, I’ve never seen mention of the stage sets. What happened to them is a mystery to me. The Carolina was successfully resurrected in 1977 as a performing arts center; only a kook would argue that the parking lot intended in its stead would The Art & Soul of Greensboro

have served the city as handsomely, or profitably, over the last 40 years. So it’s vexing to me that two gorgeous, nearly century-old landmarks downtown are slated to be demolished for, yes, parking lots! The Christian Advocate Publishing building at 429 West Friendly is the only example I know of locally with a quintessential Egyptian Revival motif, designed in the mid-1920s by Charles C. Hartmann whose myriad architectural wonders practically define our city. His achievements include the Jefferson Standard (now Lincoln Financial) building; the F.W. Woolworth Building, home of the International Civil Rights Center; the Price Mansion, Hillside, that’s made recent headlines; and Grimsley High School. Let’s consider how 429 West Friendly fits in with the other historical properties in that area. In addition to butting up against the palatial Greensboro Masonic Temple, the Christian Advocate Publishing building sits within strolling distance of two impressive antebellum mansions, primo examples of downtown’s first homes repurposed for modern use. Directly across the street is the white columned wonder that is the Michael Sherwood House from around 1850 and, around the corner on North Edgeworth, the Weir-Jordan House, longtime home of the Greensboro Woman’s Club. Next door to that is a Craftsman-style bungalow built in 1910 when this neighborhood was originally developed. Grace Methodist United Church from the 1920s seamlessly connects this tableau. It’s only due to the vociferous objections of preservationists that the former headquarters for Christian Advocate Publishing wasn’t demolished back in May. However, if a contingency can’t be reached over the next few months, it will come down. If you want a parking lot, Greensboro, I say buy the nearby Hardee’s and tear that down. I doubt future generations will lament the loss of artery-clogging Thickburgers and faux Mexican food. July 2017

O.Henry 47

Wandering Billy The madness doesn’t stop there. A venerable one-story building that wraps around the corner

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of East Market and Davie, featuring three decorative storefronts of brick, sandstone and green marble with glass brick accents, has a date with the bulldozer at year’s end. With roomy interiors, deep showcase entranceways and high ceilings, this scrappy survivor was once a cornerstone to one of the busiest intersections in town. Established in 1928, Showfety’s Uniforms had done a brisk business here until 1971, when it was displaced by the motel recently leveled for GPAC three blocks away. Rather than getting stuck with the unsightly and soon-to-be-vacated News & Record complex that supplanted it, wouldn’t it have been nice if we hadn’t imploded the King Cotton Hotel in 1978, even if it were to sit empty for lo these many decades? Think of the possibilities. We’re fortunate South Elm wasn’t obliterated in the name of progress back in the early-1970s. Are we poised to make an egregious error in judgment like the one we narrowly avoided 40 years ago? Again, for parking lots? This demonstrates a staggering lack of imagination. * * * My favorite combo, Basement Life, took to the nonexistent stage at New York Pizza not long ago for a ferocious set. Bouyed by Caleb Gross’s hypersonic drumming and Eric Mann’s bass onslaught, lead singer Gavan Holden proved again to be an incredibly powerful singer songwriter with a raw but measured intensity, a defiant high energy authenticity that grows more belligerent with each new band incarnation. His poses aren’t poseur but true affronts to your fragile sense of self. (Music critique isn’t supposed to make sense, get over it.) Basement Life’s new CD, Love Is Not Real, is one you’ll listen to over and over again, until they inevitably drag you away in a straightjacket. OH Billy Eye moved downtown 20 years ago when everyone asked, “Why would you want to live downtown? There’s nothing there.” Every Thursday afternoon this month from 3 p.m. until 6, Billy Eye will be at Parts Unknown: the Comic Book Store at 906 Spring Garden, near the corner of Mendenhall, to talk with you about Old Greensboro, classic comics, TV history, my books, or whatever else you can think of. Stop by and say hello!

48 O.Henry

July 2017

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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July 2017 Wand We opened the wrappers of yellow lightsticks and broke the plastic tubes — the sound like knuckles popping, satisfying — to let the glow loose. Threw them high into the dark, to see their fluorescence against the clouded sky. No moon. Hers had just fallen to the lawn again when I tossed mine up and it didn’t come down. Sideways, twenty feet high, it moved along the air toward the branches of the pecan trees, drew a neon trail over the monkey bars my dad had built, then dropped. She ran for the house, scared. But I was busy: how had mine traveled? A bat must have carried it off — flown thirty feet to be convinced this was no snack — and let it fall. Triumphant, already retelling the story to myself, I followed her in to dessert, to the lit, warm space of my family, suddenly terribly dull, even as the wand, touched by the night world, began to fade in my hand. – Anna Lena Philips Bell from Ornament courtesy of University of North Texas Press

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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Dinner at Ate A selective Hall of Fame of Greensboro’s most beloved, late great restaurants

he average lifespan of a restaurant is less than a decade so it’s little wonder, in a city the size and as old as ours, there are a great many long gone but fondly remembered eateries. Seems like yesterday, but it’s more like a decade or two, since names like Equinox, Peppermill, Market Street West, George K’s, Giovanni’s, Sunset Cafe, Madison Park, and Paisley Pineapple jumped to mind when considering where to dine out. And has it only been a scant five or six years since Bianca’s and stalwarts like the original Ham’s and Bert’s Seafood closed their doors? In the 1940s and ’50s, dozens of greasy spoons were clustered downtown: Bill’s Grill, Joe’s Grill, Matthew’s Grill, Charlie’s Grill, Bee’s Grill, Irene’s Grill, along with cozy cafes named Princess, Savoy, Half Moon, Eat Well, and Gay Lee (wait, what?). Almost all served basically the same blue-plate specials but, because so many were owned by Greek immigrants, it wasn’t uncommon for in-the-know patrons to order something more Old World off-menu. There were lengthy lunch counters in almost all the variety and drugstores as well as luxuriant cafeterias like the Mayfair (“Eat the Mayfair Way”) on North Elm. Raconteur William “Buck” Nutt recalls how grabbing a bite for lunch has dramatically changed: “In those days, when women went downtown they dressed up, they’d put on a hat, stockings, gloves, the whole works, to go to Meyer’s Tea Room.” Men were more likely to congregate in hotel coffee shops where a midday meal cost about $2, dinner twice that. Buck notes, “The King Cotton had a great restaurant and the O.Henry had a fine place as well.” Across the street from the O.Henry Hotel was Puritan Cafe, where, Buck remembers, “During World War II you couldn’t get steak but somehow this guy Spiro could, so everybody couldn’t wait to go over there to get a steak to eat.” PHOTOGRAPH COURTESY OF GREENSBORO You have to be older than me HISTORY MUSEUM

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to remember the many confectionaries that populated the city, the kind seen in 1940s Andy Hardy movies and Archie comics, where kids of all ages sipped ice cream floats over Formica counters at Fordham’s Drug Store or Wolfe’s Soda Shop on the corner of Spring Garden and Howard. When car culture exploded in the 1950s the drive-in became a more common sight, with car hops skating by with trays loaded with milkshakes, hot dogs and fries to clamp on Chevy doors. The most beloved of these was Boar and Castle, the subject of Jim Schlosser’s superb cover story in 2012 for this magazine, but McClure’s Sky Castle on High Point Road was perhaps the most impressive with a broadcast booth atop a tower where WCOG deejays spun stacks of wax for bobbysoxers and greasers in hot rods cruising the boulevard below. In the 1960s favorites included Ivanhoe’s on Battleground, a cafeteria-like steakhouse that included a fresh oyster bar; The Colony on Bessemer, known for all-American fare and homemade pastries; the darkly intimate atmosphere, Italian dishes and Fitz behind the bar at Cellar Anton’s. Elegant Swaim’s Steak House was a top draw from 1962 until 1985, soon after that grand building on Farragut became the site of the most notorious strip club in the city. The stately Sedgefield Inn enjoyed a better fate. Once a major convention center just outside town, it now serves as the clubhouse for the country club, home of the Wyndham Championship in August. An online poll with hundreds of responses tells me these delicacies are still tantalizing taste buds with an unrequited love: Casey’s Whiz Burgers, M ‪ ister Steak’s teriyaki sirloin, a‬ ll-you-can eat crab washed down with‪ sangria‬ at The Hungry Fisherman, Valentine’s prime rib and baked brie, Tony’s spaghetti and meatballs, along with almost everything on Tijuana Fats’ menu.‬‬ Because people like lists, what follows is a random roundup of beloved local eating places that are long gone but so fondly remembered. The Art & Soul of Greensboro

PHOTOGRAPH COURTESY OF CAROL W. MARTIN/GREENSBORO HISTORY MUSEUM COLLECTION

By Billy Ingram

COURTESY OF GREENSBORO HISTORY MUSEUM

Nuckles

Louis Our city had only 19,000 residents when Louis Ademy and his two brothers started De Luxe Cafe in 1927. Just a few years earlier the three siblings had been refugees fleeing the Turks’ brutal persecution of Christians in Lebanon. After buying out his brothers in 1950, the crimson neon sign in the window was changed to read Louis. The hashery eventually became a one-man operation, although Ademy’s wife Marie would help out on busy days, as he plated plantation-style meals along with his specialty, Shish-Ka-Bob. A stack of nine homemade pies sat in the center of the counter, alongside an ample number of ashtrays. Pouring coffee from an industrial-sized tanker, Louis rarely jotted down anyone’s order, as a good number of his customers remained regulars for decades. Hanging up his apron in 1967, the lone restaurateur wouldn’t recognize the neighborhood today, populated with skyscrapers and concrete parking towers, but it’s somehow fitting that a bronze statue of O.Henry is positioned almost exactly where Louis Ademy flat-top grilled burgers and breakfast six days a week for 40 years on Bellemeade near North Elm.

There were two Nuckles Barbecue locations with somewhat different menus. The I-29 drive-in was run by A ‪ rnold and Elsie Nuckles‬ while the Summit Avenue location, spearheaded by Jesse and Sadie Nuckles, was known not just for savory chopped pork and hush puppies but for their crispy chicken, fried up in large cast iron skillets. Anyone on a budget could wolf down three gravy sandwiches and a Coke for less than a buck. Kimberly Case Hayes provided a photograph of her mother Loretta (below), standing at the far left with her fellow waitresses at Nuckles in 1963. Established in 1937, Nuckles remained a Summit Avenue fixture until they closed in the ’90s. That Bavarian-inspired building was raised for a shopping center while the I-29 property was converted into a funeral home.‬

PHOTOGRAPH COURTESY OF GREENSBORO HISTORY MUSEUM

PHOTOGRAPH COURTESY OF CAROL W. MARTIN/GREENSBORO HISTORY MUSEUM COLLECTION

Bliss

A couple of years after WWII ended, Bliss opened at 1416 Northwood Drive, situated in a handsome white Neoclassical Revival home, not unlike those around the corner on Huntington Road, with large sunrooms on either side for private parties and a modified entryway to accommodate a hostess station. Margaret Underwood remembers Bliss for “the best steaks and salads with Roquefort dressing. It was beautiful.” A spectacular fire in 1957 ended Bliss’s run, but that address remained a destination for beef lovers for years to come; it was Charcoal Steak House in 1958 then Al Boling’s Sirloin Steak House before the Janus Theatre built the city’s first multiplex on this property in 1968. Underwood recalls another memorable destination in the ’50s, “‪Steve Bartis was the chef at Airport Restaurant, he brought the first pizza to Greensboro.” Reflecting on a simpler time, she adds, “You could walk out on the tarmac then.”‬ ‬

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O.Henry 53

Sammy’s

He played with Billie Holiday and Lenny Bruce but drummer Sammy Anflick made his mark locally between 1971 and 1983, when Sammy’s in the Plaza Shopping Center was the jumping-est joint in town. Located where Tap Room is now, music lovers slid into padded leather booths or congregated around tables with black vinyl tablecloths on Thursdays, Jazz night, to cut a rug or marvel at the three-piece combo backed by Sammy’s percolating, percussive style that leaned heavily on cymbals augmented with rolls and rat-a-tat-tats. His wife Miriam sent Reuben sandwiches flying from the kitchen. A Beatnik-era hipster who called the ladies “Babe” and earned the appellation “Mr. Jazz of the Triad,” Sammy Anflick passed away a decade ago but, in 2006, he manned his four-piece drum kit for a gig with Melva Houston in New York that can be found online.

Darryl’s 1808

In the mid-1970s, Darryl’s 1808 was far and away the funkiest spot in town, with a wood paneled, double-decker interior decorated in early-American brothel, where patrons could dine inside a jail cell or in the bucket seats of a Ferris wheel. Maureen McCullough’s first waitressing job was at Darryl’s. “I think they had a special room over at Moses Cone for our employees, on Friday and Saturday nights someone went to the emergency room with a burn, a cut, or a waitress running in front of a car crossing Church Street,” she remembers. There would be lines around the building with young people vying for a choice spot on the weekends. Founded in 1971 by the creator’s of Raleigh’s famed Angus Barn, the restaurant chain expanded to several cities across the state. These days, under name Darryl’s Wood Fired Grill, the longtime favorite on Gate City Boulevard still frames the crowds.

Jacque’s Continental

Beginning in 1972, a brilliant red neon sign greeted visitors to Jacque’s Continental at 1310 Wendover, where the Lamborghini dealership is today. Owned by Jacques (sans apostrophe) and Lou Iclef, this was the city’s premier dining experience during the polyester decade, their specialty was Chateaubriand, prepared table-side. It was where politicians and captains of industry rubbed shoulders. The No Name Band jammed in one corner on weekends alongside a small dance floor. Coincidentally, Maureen McCullough found herself waitressing here after leaving Jordan’s, “It was like a family.” Jacques was notorious for barking at the waitresses but McCullough was unfazed by the ruckus. “I knew he loved us and I never let it rattle me at all,” she says. “He was a mixture of French and Italian and I always said he had the arrogance of the French and the temper of the Italian.” He made up for it by preparing a lavish meal for the staff at 5 p.m., before the dining room opened to the public. “Jacques was doing it to be nice but, also, how were we going to describe dishes to customers if we’d never tasted them?” McCullough posits. “I had never eaten coq au vin.” Jacques’ wife Lou made an impression on the young waitress, “She was gorgeous, I always wondered how those two had ever gotten together. She was like a cool older sister to us girls.” A young Bill Mangum painted several 6 feet by 14 feet canvas murals of French street scenes that were mounted on the walls, an early opportunity for exposure that the world-renowned artist appreciated. “It must have been while I was in college,” he says now. Jacques was a big promoter of my art back in the day.” Mangum recalls a late night trip to Cape Hatteras with Jacques to go deep-sea fishing: “Riding in this old Jeep Wagoneer with the floorboard rusted out, I watched the pavement go by underneath me for about eight hours as we made our way down to the coast. We had good success catching lots of fish, served up the next day at the restaurant.” When Jacque’s closed in 1984, the restaurateur offered the murals back to the painter. “But there was nothing I could do with them at the time, Mangum says. “To be honest I thought they were kind of amateurish, but he was elated and, you know, in a dark restaurant, anything looks good. Certainly after a few cocktails. . .”

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The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Jordan’s Steak House

In a stand alone building on Church near Cornwallis, Jordan’s Steak House was one of my favorites. Maureen McCullough waited tables there, too, in 1977, after leaving Darryl’s. “Jordan’s was purely steak, I think we had one pork chop on the menu and that was it,” she says. “You went there when you wanted to eat aged prime beef and a lot of it!” The chef would roll up table- side with a chilled cart containing slabs of New York strip, filet mignon, rib eyes and, one night a week, prime rib. Diners would then have their selection carved to order. “We charged by the ounce,” McCullough says. “You got a salad and you got to choose what you wanted on the baked potato. There were not a lot of menu options but what they had was excellent. They concentrated on one thing and that was it.” Commonplace today but largely unheard of 40 years ago, Jordan’s featured an open kitchen so folks could watch their steak being grilled to perfection but at the bottom of the menu there was this admonishment: “‪Please don’t ask our chef to cook your steak well-done. He hates to see a good piece of meat ruined.” ‬‬ Jordan’s was naturally a key destination for furniture market visitors. “I had a gentleman come in with a woman, her dress and the big age differential made me think that this was not his wife, you know what I mean?” (We’re with you, Maureen!) It was the worst kept secret ever that shady ladies would migrate from up North to entertain market attendees and exhibitors. McCullough continues the story: “Midway through their meal a couple of younger guys sat at a table nearby. When her ‘date’ went to the restroom the guys started chatting the woman up. From what I got from the conversation, she was lining up her next gigs for the night.” McCullough left Jordan’s after Greensboro passed liquor by the drink in March of 1979, “Nobody at the time was trained as a bartender and we didn’t have a bar, it was a very small restaurant.” As to why Jordan’s closed in 1987, she could only speculate based on her experience a decade earlier: “There was a lot of partying going on back there. It was the ’70s!”

PHOTOGRAPH COURTESY OF GREENSBORO HISTORY MUSEUM

Lawndale Drive In

Established in 1942, Lawndale Drive In dropped the word “Restaurant,” and the pretense that went with it, from its signage in the ’80s. Enshrined into the Lawndale Shopping Center in 1950, it was only a few years later that Mrs. Bernice McCloskey became LDI’s proprietor following the death of her husband. Known as Ms. Mac, her slogan was, “Just good food.” And beer, on ice or on tap. Situated at the edge of Irving Park (there was only one then) and Kirkwood, the scant menu items like hot dogs and sandwiches were an edible alibi that gave LDI a whiff of respectability, a somewhat plausible deniability, so that ladies strolling past the big picture window in the ’50s could imagine their neighbors lining the bar were merely enjoying tuna fish on rye. Katie Willard Troebs told me, “Mrs. McCloskey lived really close to my folks in Madison, and was a lovely and amazing woman. My dad often stopped there for a beer after work; he called it the Long Branch Saloon.” Indeed, this place was big with the Irving Park crowd who preferred the smoke-filled confines of “Ms. Mac’s” to the stuffiness of the Greensboro Country Club bar. In the ’60s, Lawndale Drive In was open seven days a week until 11 p.m. but, even though she started pouring at 9 a.m. on Saturdays, the place always seemed shrouded in perpetual darkness. It was Greensboro’s pre-eminent dive bar by the 1970s and the current owners are rightfully proud of that designation.

Don’t care to dwell on the past, just luxuriate in it? We are fortunate to have three authentic diners remaining, where eating out is not just a taste treat but a journey back to another era. Bernie’s Bar-B-Q, way out on Bessemer, is an immersive experience, with essentially the identical menu and atmosphere that existed when this was Beverly Barbecue in the ’50s. It’s been Bernie’s since 1983, but you halfway expect Sam Spade or Johnny Dollar, Private Eye to sashay into the joint and take a seat at one of the original chrome swivel stools at the counter. Frosty’s B.B.Q. on Summit has that same feel, as does Church Street Café aka What-ABurger, which is still run by the family that’s owned it since it was a lunchtime hangout for teenagers and the Page High lunch crowd in the ’60s. Yum Yum Better Ice Cream has been run by the Aydelette family since 1922, when it began life as West End Ice Cream. Brown-Gardiner is one of the few drug stores in the nation that still operates their classic lunch counter where you’ll enjoy the best chicken salad sandwiches and fresh-squeezed lemonade anywhere. The menu has expanded tremendously, but you can still taste the 1970s at Beef Burger on Gate City Boulevard and at Mayberry Ice Cream Restaurant on Summit. Bon appétit! OH The author, Billy Ingram, fired up his time machine and returned to 1978 to have his picture taken in front of Jacque’s Continental. Unfortunately, only the photos made it back while Billy remained stranded in the past knowing all too well the bleak future that awaits everyone. Except for him, he bought Microsoft at 32 cents a share. Billy passed away at the age of 85 in 2003.

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

July 2017

O.Henry 55

Playing the

Market

For generations of locals, the bounty of summer awaits at the Greensboro Farmers Curb Market By Maria Johnson • Photographs by Amy Freeman

ollar bills? Check. More dollar bills because you know how you are? Check. Reusable shopping bag? Check. A hankering for the happy din of early-morning chatter? Check. You’re at the right place: the Greensboro Farmers Curb Market. It doesn’t get any more real than this. The genealogy of this gathering goes way back, to 1874. Over the years, the market, the city’s oldest, has moved and grown and adapted, as all living things must. It nests, for now, in a former National Guard armory at the corner of Yanceyville and East Lindsay streets, just across from the old War Memorial Stadium. Once home to tanks and artillery, the concrete-block building with a Quonset-hut profile, now functions as a citadel of congeniality, where people flow in from all walks of life every single Saturday morning of the year. Whether you’re packing cash, a platinum credit card, or a debit card for food stamps, you circulate slowly over concrete floors lined with long wood tables and vendors fishing for your eye. “Can I help you?” A hundred sellers from a hundred miles around Greensboro populate their stalls with just about everything that people can grow, gather and fashion by hand. Fresh brown eggs. Gooey amber honey.

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July 2017

Fuzzy, blushing peaches. Vibrant, veiny greens. Ruddy, obese tomatoes. Sweet corn with sticky tassels. Coffee so strong the aroma opens your eyes before the first sip. Warm sweet potato doughnuts, the best outcome a root vegetable can hope for. Sour cream pound cake. Ooooh. With a smidge of lemon. Hummus and baba ghanouj, earthy with tahini. Lavender soap that smells like you want to. Beef and pork and fish over white melting ice. Perky posies, beeswax candles, wooden toys, handmade jewelry. And the berries. Oh Lord, the berries, all plump and sweet and just graduated from the vine. Shut up, fancy grocery stores. You want bluetooth access? Ha! You want bluetooth access? The Farmer’s Market can top that. How about blue teeth, plural. Check out Blueberry Pancake Day on July 15. Get there early so you can smile, all purple-mouthed and pretty, at folks who won’t judge you for your syrupy ways. We can be ourselves here. Bus riders and Benz drivers. Yoga pants and sarongs, jeans and hijabs, buttondowns and tees. Old school, new school, no school. We go to the old armory in the heart of the city, when the dew is on the clover, and we are fortified. OH The Art & Soul of Greensboro

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

July 2017

O.Henry 57

The Cake Lady’s Best

By Jim Dodson • Photograph by Mark Wagoner

efore our second official date two decades ago, my wife-to-be Wendy put me to work boxing up wedding cakes. Please note that I said “cakes.” For there were more than 100 of them — perfect little wedding cakes meant for two, gorgeously decorated confections created for a Bridezilla who believed all guests deserved their own personal wedding cake. “She saw it in a magazine and went to all the local bakeries but nobody wanted to take on the job,” Wendy explained with a laugh as we set about carefully boxing up the baby bridal cakes. Once they were packaged, they were ferried into the kitchen by various neighbors in her cul-du-sac in Syracuse, N.Y., who’d graciously offered their refrigerators for storing the miniature works of art. Following the delivery, she even rewarded me for my assistance with a cake that didn’t make the final cut. It was spectacularly good, some

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kind of buttery white cake with a raspberry filling. The bride, for the record, was over the moon with the diminutive delicacies. Over dinner later that night, I asked Wendy how she had developed her cake-making chops. She explained that she’d always been the natural baker

in her family of three daughters, but really found her footing when Karen, her middle sister (Wendy is the eldest) needed a wedding cake. Wendy offered to make it, expertly copying an elaborate cake fromMartha Stewart’s 1995 bible on nuptials, Weddings. The cake apparently was a big hit and word

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

quickly circulated. Within a relatively short time Wendy had developed a cottage industry she called The Cake Lady and saw a steady stream of folks wanting cakes for all occasions showing up on her suburban Syracuse doorstep. By then she had deepened her considerable knowledge of cakemaking by taking an advanced course in the craft and by devouring every classic and modern book she could find on the subject of making cakes. One afternoon not long after my serious courtship of her commenced, I breezed into her kitchen and saw a large wicker basket filled with freshpopped popcorn sitting on her kitchen counter. I blithely grabbed a handful of it, discovering, to my horror and embarrassment, that I was holding a gooey glob of icing. The cake was actually a groom’s cake, meant for a fellow whose favorite snack food was popcorn. I was caught literally licking my fingers — the icing was excellent — when my own unflappable girlfriend entered the kitchen, took one look at my boneheaded gaffe, laughed it off and got to work repairing the damage. Soon that basket of “popcorn” was as good as new — and I knew without question this gal was the one for me. Two years later, she made our own stunning wedding cake crowned by a bouquet of beautiful summer flowers for the rowdy lobster bake and reception we threw under a harvest moon on our forested hilltop in Maine. A crowd of 100 was expected. A crowd at least half again that size showed up. The cake was gone within minutes after we cut the first piece, which I never even got a taste of (only the remnant cake tops saved in the refrigerator), an indication not only of how beautiful Wendy’s cakes typically are but — far more important in her view — how delicious. Over the next decade, as the schoolteacher, wife and part-time baker made cakes for every sort of occasion for friends, co-workers and relatives — rarely charging anything save for major wedding cakes — I was often pressed into service as the cake delivery man and general factotum. There were some memorable near disasters — like the three-pedestal all-butter cream wedding cake some mad bride in love with the fountains of Versailles ordered for the hottest summer day in Maine. As it sat in an unair-conditioned alumni house on the Bowdoin College campus, there was an interminable delay during which the butter cream began to melt and the entire back of the cake ran downhill. I received a remarkably calm telephone call from Wendy asking me to bring several of our children’s wood alphabet blocks, a screwdriver and some shims to the alumni house. By the time I got there, she’d managed to somehow recreate the back of the cake and soon stabilized the pedestals with the aforementioned blocks. Talk about grace under fire — or heat wave, as it were. Then there was the wedding party where, moments after we delivered the cake, the groom’s auntie The Art & Soul of Greensboro

slapped the bride’s mother and all hell broke loose — almost taking Wendy’s beautiful cake with it. After that, Wendy more or less hung up her wedding cake apron and concentrated simply on making outstanding cakes for friends and family. In our household, the joke is that mama’s cake tops — the portion sliced off the top of a baked cake to allow a flatter surface for decorating — are works of art in and of themselves and never fail to disappear to the last crumb. Requests for her cakes always seem to surge at the holidays and in summer, when friends are going away and need something special for family dinners. These two summer standouts are my favorites: a spectacular coconut cake and a strawberrywhipped cream cake that never fails to set picky brides aswoon. Like all gifted bakers, the former Cake Lady is happy to share her favorite recipes — especially since her husband no longer has to worry about delivering them.

Coconut Cake Icing:

6 cups confectioners’ sugar 6 sticks (1/2 cup each) of unsalted butter 1 tablespoon vanilla 1/4 cup coconut milk Combine all ingredients in the bowl of an electric mixer and beat on high for 10 minutes.

Cake:

2/3 cups of unsalted butter 2 1/2 cups of sifted cake flour 1 2/3 cups of sugar 1 teaspoon salt 3 1/2 teaspoons of baking powder 3/4 cups milk 1/2 cup coconut milk 3 eggs 1 teaspoon vanilla One large bag of unsweetened, grated coconut Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Lightly butter and flour the bottom and sides of two 9-inch cake pans (or use Baker’s Joy spray). In the bowl of an electric mixer, combine the flour, sugar, salt and baking powder. Mix for 30 seconds. Add the remaining butter and 1/4 cup milk and coconut milk and start beating. While beating, add another 1/2 cup milk. Add eggs, the remaining 1/2 cup milk and vanilla. Beat 2 minutes longer. Pour equal amounts into each pan and bake 35 to 40 minutes. Let pans stand for 5 minutes and then remove cakes to cooling racks.

To Assemble:

Set one layer on a cardboard round. Spread one cup of icing on the top of the first layer and generously sprinkle grated unsweetened coconut on top. Place second layer on top and ice the top and sides with the coconut icing. Sprinkle coconut on top and sides of cake, pressing coconut into sides as you go. Serve!

Whipped Cream Strawberry Cake Icing:

6 cups confectioners’ sugar 6 sticks (1/2 cup each) of unsalted butter 1 tablespoon vanilla 1/4 cup heavy cream Combine all ingredients in the bowl of an electric mixer and beat on high for 10 minutes. Remove 1 1/2 cups of icing and beat in 1/3 cup of strawberry purée (recipe below) Strawberry purée: 2 cups fresh or frozen strawberries (if using frozen store-bought strawberries, use unsweetened) 1 teaspoon sugar Combine and purée in the bowl of a food processor.

Cake:

2 cups sifted cake flour 1/2 teaspoon salt 3 teaspoons baking powder 3 egg whites 1 cup (1/2 pint) heavy cream 1 1/2 cups sugar 1/2 cup cold water 1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Lightly butter and flour the bottom and sides of two 8-inch cake pans (or use Baker’s Joy spray). Sift the flour, salt and baking powder together three times and set aside. Beat the egg whites until stiff but not dry. Whip cream until stiff and fold into eggs. Add sugar gradually and mix well, folding in with a rubber spatula. Add dry ingredients alternately with water in small amounts, beginning and ending with the flour mixture. Blend well. Pour equal amounts into the pans and bake until the center is set, about 30–40 minutes. Let cool in pans for 10 minutes and then remove to cooling racks.

To Assemble:

Spread the strawberry icing in the middle. Top with second layer and cover the entire cake with the vanilla frosting. Add decorative boarders on top and bottom. Fill in top with fresh strawberries. Serve with additional strawberry purée on side. OH July 2017

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Story of a House

A Life Worth Sharing John Paulin’s morning glories and cottage two stories high By Cynthia Adams • Photographs by Amy Freeman

s designer John Paulin turns the key and opens the quaintly curved door to his 1927 home, it’s impossible to miss the plaque by the entrance: “This property has been placed on the National Register of Historic Places.” Those are sobering words. And “historic” could mean a property frozen in time, in firm check, in the hands of a more conformist owner. The cottage, as it exists, from the custom stained glass to the quirks and curves of the roofline, is a fairytale illustration. Yet it is also uniquely Paulin’s, bearing many imprints of his design skills. Paulin, of Alan Ferguson Interiors and Grassy Knoll (1212 North Main Street in High Point) has his feet planted in two worlds: design and the floral business. And

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He has maintained the 1927 vibe of the 2,100-square-foot home while making an unmistakable stamp of his own upon the property.

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so both interior and exterior have a master’s touch, with extra dashes of curb appeal. From the street, it is a sedate English cottage with wondrously lush vines climbing the front, sloping roofline, and a profusion of white flowers in the garden and grounds. In spring, the compact property explodes with intensely bottle-green foliage. As a neighbor confides while walking her dogs, many stop to openly admire this cottage garden. “I’ve always loved the beauty of the garden. My grandmother, the influence,” Paulin explains, while observing that a new planting (a delicately blue-veined white morning glory) could use a drink of water. In the popular English style, the flowers he’s planted are dominantly white, largely supplied by a controlled riot of Annabelle hydrangea. (If you close your eyes, you imagine Vita Sackville-West’s Sissinghurst Castle . . . in miniature.) In Paulin’s own words this house in the city, only a mile or so from his workplace, is a sanctuary. Here is where a master designer, stylist and florist retreats, along with two white Westies, Lily (the puppy, now 1 1/2 years old) and Lola (age 4). He has maintained the 1927 vibe of the 2,100-square-foot home while making an unmistakable stamp of his own upon the property. For example, the mosaic tiles at the front entry, ones recently laid, aren’t exactly like the ones that replaced, but better. The tile pattern is vaguely familiar, yet exotic, perhaps Moroccan. It is not the same old, same old — nor is much else. To the right of the foyer, a former screened porch has been transformed into one of Paulin’s primary living areas. It has soaring rough beam rafters and stained-glass windows on three sides, cocooning the room in filtered, softly colored light. “This is where I live,” Paulin says. “I tore the ceiling out and opened it up,” and he steps down into what is a masculine, yet cheerful place with a large-screen TV discretely placed. “Can you tell that the windows on the ends are different?” he asks and pauses. “Most people don’t notice, but I had to have them made. These are old,” Paulin says, indicating the longest glass-lined wall. “The others I had made. I did well without copying them directly. Same colors. Most don’t notice the difference.” But the differences are definitive. Among them: a leather upholstered handrail on the front staircase. Then there is the second floor guest room ingeniously carved from the attic, with crimson fabric upholstered walls and vaulted ceiling. Leaded and stained glass gracing doorways and windows on both floors are designed to allow for colorful light to dance across walls and spill onto floors. The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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As much as anything, these are clues that Paulin is not interested in playing by the rules. He’s interested in creativity, and this, well, is his laboratory where “historic” rules go out the window. The interior, a playful mélange of the unexpected, and a few genuine surprises, points to the fact he’s not following some stodgy template, not for a design this expressive. He came to High Point from Ohio, where Paulin formerly worked for a wholesale rose grower. Fussy roses in a cold climate were a challenge. “Six acres under glass,” Paulin chuckles. “You have to heat roof and floor to keep them going in the winter. I did that for three years.” Paulin used to vacation in High Point, owing to his family’s business and a change of scenery and climate. The family owned furniture showrooms on South Main Street, and an aunt and uncle lived and worked in High Point. “Growing up, that was a cost-effective vacation,” he laughs. After a stopover in the city, the family continued to South Carolina to another relation. “My aunt was in Charleston, South Carolina, and we would go to her little cabin on the Santee Cooper River.” In 1976, he left greenhouse roses behind permanently and came to High Point to join the family furniture business. “I was ready. I loved the Carolinas. It has every season and the seasons are mild.” Paulin adds, “It was home.” Through his family’s business, he met his presentday business partner, Alan Ferguson. When Alan Ferguson Interiors merged with the florist business, Grassy Knoll, two passions combined under one roof. The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Eight years ago, Grassy Knoll took over the first floor of a historic building on Main Street. “We knocked out the walls and opened it all up. When we moved into the present building, I moved the florist in first,” Paulin explains, and the design building followed. The building formerly contained a group of apartments and five private apartments remain on the second floor.

esign — whether floral or interior — was his abiding passion — and still is. Passion is a word he uses frequently. “I think you’re born with it. And being exposed to it does a lot.” Paulin says he is largely self-taught, and he continues learning through Ferguson. It is a pay-it-forward business concept. “Alan started with Thayer Coggin, and learned from them.” Paulin mentions how he admires the furniture company and family that founded and still runs it. He found his own historic cottage after living on Thayer Coggin’s farm for 15 years in rural High Point. His quarters there were a historic house, part of what was once a working dairy farm. Paulin deeply admired the house and the properties. “It was gorgeous,” he says with a twinge of nostalgia. Later, Paulin moved into a guesthouse on the farm. Some of the properties were stone and others were log, with features built by the WPA during the Great Depression. “A wonderful family,” he muses. “When Thayer passed, I moved,” he adds. “But the farm was so beautiful.” He explains having planted and labored on July 2017

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the grounds of the 150-acre property, he couldn’t help but become attached to it. Though it was wrenching to leave, Paulin sought something of his own. Now, the designer and florist was starting over. He had always admired historic Woodrow Avenue and fell in love with one of the first houses he considered. “When I walked in it, I knew this was where I was going to live. Everything is original to it but the kitchen,” he says. There, he had to knock out a wall or two. Otherwise, walls remained intact. “The bathrooms were small in the ’20s. I’ve never had a large bathroom,” Paulin points out. “It’s a sink, a commode, a bath tub and a radiator!” It is also wonderfully efficient and satisfies his preference for the intimate scale afforded by rooms. He even creates them in his gardens. “A designer lived in the house before me . . . so he had done the downstairs bath in brown marble.” The upstairs bath is white marble. There, too, are the warming radiators. Paulin loves the popping, cracking and hissing of radiators. “I warm my towel on it!” Someone tried to get him to remove them . . . but, “No.” At more than 2,000 square feet, Paulin says his cottage is “deceiving” as he walks through and points out different aspects. Larger than it appears, the house contains many rooms, each treasure-filled. “It has good bones. I walked in, and just knew. I said, this is it.” The leaded windows, he says, were just sheets of glass before he changed them. “I put the lead in,” Paulin jokes. As for his particular style or taste? Change. Paulin says he is about to redecorate, and open things up more with the décor. A sectional sofa is going, and there will be more chairs and conversation areas.

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The house has retained only a few of the casement windows. Plaster moldings are set above plaster walls, all of which are in good condition, deep, curved and classic in design. Upstairs, he installed a tall stained-glass window to enliven what was formerly a dark hallway. Two plaster mold forms rest against the hallway; Paulin picks one up and demonstrates the significant heft of it. For him, they are art forms in and of themselves. His Charleston aunt owned them; he inherited them from her son. He jokes about how he’s probably the only person who would love them, or understand their value. French antique leaded glass doors open to a former attic space, which he converted into a bedroom as if with a magic wand and some alchemy. It’s a fantasy room, worthy of Harry Potter film sets. “There’s no rhyme or reason to what’s in it,” Paulin says. “It’s just a mixture of stuff.” His master bedroom is done in earth tones, a palette he finds soothing. At the bedside, a mounted acrylic box contains butterflies, something he particularly loves. A fabric designer who lived in Argentina creates the art boxes from farmed butterflies. Paulin describes precisely how the butterflies are mounted as an art installation, an exacting process. This was a gift, he says. Nearby, an art piece modeled from feathers, a “feather lady” he laughs, stands under glass on his bedside table. Back on the main floor, a massive carved tobacco leaf four-poster bed dominates the guest room. Throughout the house, antiques are in evidence. There are also art pieces — bronze sculptures and the glass that he so loves. “I collect Lalique, and champlevé . . . and bronzes” he says, then adds that he also collects

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Erté, the Russian-born French artist whose fashion designs epitomize the Art Deco period. On display in the living room is a bronze statue of a gymnast, one that is a copy of the original, which is in Atlanta. “When you’re in the business you just collect a little bit of everything.” For instance, “funky lamps,” Paulin says, “odd lamps,” he adds with a grin. In the cozy-scaled kitchen, which is largely redone, a pressed tin ceiling is the largest visual point. By modern standards it is small. The door casings, as in much of the house, are lined with smoked, bronze mirror. “It brings daylight in, and now that you notice, you’ll see it everywhere.” Paulin doesn’t particularly like mirrors, but the reflected light brightens his days and nights. A stained-glass rear door leads to a sitting porch, and ultimately, his shaded, well-appointed (by Mother Nature and his own hand) exterior rooms. He has literally put down deep roots. “I’ve been here 20 years,” he says. Beds with vigorous planting and other landscaping features turn the area into a lush Eden. “It’s a little paradise,” Paulin says contentedly. His property backs up to the Greenway, and a park, which makes him happy. Fountains gurgle and wind chimes trill in the breeze. “And I love water,” he says, pausing by yet another fountain. Paulin defines the backyard sense of individual rooms by architectural pieces, gateways, and water fountains. A gremlin fountain has pride of place at The Art & Soul of Greensboro

the foot of his porch stairs. His favorite decompression spot outdoors is the sitting porch just off the kitchen. Here, he enjoys rare idle time with a beverage, perhaps, “and two dogs.” The prior evening at 10:30, Paulin awakened and found himself still on the porch. He had collapsed there to relax after a tough day helping a friend in their garden. Lily and Lola were snuggled against him. “I love a Westie,” he sighs. Paulin has also created a dining room at the far reaches of the garden in a leafy, shaded area. A garden table features a sculpted deer on the tabletop; there is ample room to seat a full-on dinner party. And he does this when he can. Paulin is fond of house guests and of entertaining. “Why not share it?” he asks. “C’mon! Why have it if you’re not going to share it?” Inside, a tall clock at the top of the stair chimes. The dinner hour approaches. “It’s fun to come home and have guests here.” And Paulin disappears, saying he has to get back to work and, later, to collect Lily and Lola who spend their days with Ferguson’s pets. The Westies’ daybed, a curving affair in black upholstery, is tucked in at the foot of the stairs, awaiting their return. OH

Cynthia Adams is a contributing editor to O.Henry. In her daydreams, she is sipping Prosecco on Paulin’s sitting porch, midst dappled shade, ivy, moonflowers, and Annabelle hydrangeas. July 2017

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The Art & Soul of Greensboro

By Ash Alder

Time Traveling

July is here and you are fishing on the bank with Papa, readjusting his faded straw hat seconds before it slips down your brow again. You don’t notice. You are busy staring at the water’s surface, thinking about the dancing cricket at the end of the line. Summer sends us time traveling. Shucking sweet corn on the front porch with mama. Potato sack racing with your cousins. Sparklers on the lawn. Ripe blackberries straight from the bush, but nothing tastes sweeter than summer love. You relive that first kiss, stolen beneath the Southern magnolia, and daydream at the pool with flushed cheeks and pruned fingers. Papa reaches for the bagged lunch you packed together, unwraps a tomato sandwich, takes a pull of iced tea from the thermos. He is flashing back to his own childhood summers when you feel the tug on your line. You wrestle a tiny sunfish, straw hat now slipping down past your eyelids. The fish is too small to take home, but Papa won’t let you know it. He puts down his sandwich to help you remove the hook. You slip your first-ever catch into Papa’s bucket. He lifts the straw hat from your eyes, winks, and then kisses your brow.

Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass on a summer day listening to the murmur of water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is hardly a waste of time. — John Lubbock

Full Buck Moon Magic

Sure as our summer garden delivers fresh cabbage (read sauerkraut), July inspires cucumber salad, pickled melon, cantaloupe gazpacho, blueberries and whipped cream. Fourth of July falls on a Tuesday this month. We prepare for backyard barbecues, look for cool

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Ah, summer, what power you have to make us suffer and like it. — Russell Baker

and simple dishes to delight friends and family. At market, baskets of golden peaches spell homemade ice cream. The kids will love it. Hosting or traveling, stock up on pickled okra, scuppernongs, and heirloom tomatoes. This is a season that knows how to throw a delicious party. We oblige. The Full Buck Moon falls on Sunday, July 9. If you’re gardening by the lunar cycle, pop flowering bulbs such as gladiolus and butterfly lily into the earth July 10–22 — day before the new moon. Not too late to plant squash, corn or snap beans, plus heat-loving herbs like basil, thyme and sage. Summer doesn’t last forever. We’ve lived long enough to know that. As the cicadas serenade you into dreamland, allow visions of your autumn garden to come into focus. A gardener must always plan ahead.

Larks and Nymphs

Seeing as the spur of this month’s birth flower resembles the hind toe of a crested songbird, it’s little wonder how delphinium consolida got its common name. Larkspur (or Lark’s heel as Shakespeare called it) belongs to the buttercup family and, like the orchid, is a showy and complex flower. It’s also highly poisonous if consumed — but perhaps that’s what makes this striking beauty all the more appealing. Color variations convey different meanings. Purple says first love. Water lilies aren’t just for frogs. Also a birth flower of July, genus Nymphaea takes its name from the Greek word meaning “water nymph” or “virgin.” A symbol of purity and majesty, the lotus flower is a spiritual icon in many cultures. Chinese Buddhists describe Heaven as a sacred lake of lotus flowers. Imagine.

Something Different Dept.

Among the obscure holidays celebrated this month — Sidewalk Egg Frying Day (July 4), National Nude Day (July 14), and Yellow Pig Day (July 17), to name just a few — Build A Scarecrow Day is celebrated on Sunday, July 2. Egyptian farmers swaddled wooden figures with nets to create the first “scarecrows” in recorded history. Only they weren’t scarecrows, per se. They were used to keep quails from the wheat fields along the Nile River. If you’ve a corn crop to protect, consider making an art of it. But just remember, crows are smart cookies — and perhaps better friends than foe. July 2017

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July 2017

Hey, Mon! 7/

July 1 DOWNWARD DOG(WOOD). 9 a.m. Relax among green things at Yoga in the Garden, courtesy of Mindful Bodi Movement Center. Paul J. Ciener Botanical Garden, 215 South Main St., Kernersville. To register: (336) 996-7888 or cienerbotanicalgarden.org. JAM-BOREE. 7:30 p.m. Bell Biv Devoe, SWV and Black Street throw down, with guests Teddy Riley and Dave Hollister. Greensboro Coliseum, 1921 West Gate City Blvd., Greensboro. Tickets: (800) 745-3000 or ticketmaster.com.

July 1 & 2 POUND FOR POUND. 10 a.m. and 1 p.m. The forge is raging and so is he, but The Blacksmith never lets you see him sweat. High Point Museum, 1859 East Lexington Ave., High Point. Info: (336) 885-1859 or highpointmuseum.org.

July 1–3 HOPPERS HERE. The Greensboro Grasshoppers are home again. First National Bank Field, 408 Bellemeade St., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 268-2255 or www.milb.com. EMF. 8 p.m. They’re y-u-u-ge! Hear “Titans: Copland, Beethoven

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Meet Carlie Sorosiak

July 2017

Blueberry Pancake Day

and Mahler.” Dana Auditorium, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 1–August 20 GLASS MASTERS. Artists affiliated with the North Carolina Glass Center exhibit their works at the InFocus Gallery. GreenHill, 200 North Davie St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 3337460 or greenhillnc.org.

July 1–August 26 SAME BUT DIFFERENT? Similarities in paintings’ structure, theme and technique are apparent in Affinities & Variations. Weatherspoon Art Museum, 500 Tate St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 334-5770 or weatherspoon.uncg.edu.

July 1–October 15 LATEST AND GREATEST. See Red-Hot and New: Recent Additions to the Collection. Weatherspoon Art Museum, 500 Tate St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 334-5770 or weatherspoon. uncg.edu.

July 2 EMF. 1:30 p.m. Key notes rule at a free, Young Artists piano

recital. Dana Auditorium, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Info: easternmusicfestival.org. EMF. 3 p.m. Make room in your sked for the Eastern Chamber Players. Dana Auditorium, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 3 EMF. 8 p.m. Nadja Salerno-Sonnenberg on violin, Horacio Gutiérrez on piano and a program of Brahms. ’Nuf said. Recital Hall, UNCG School of Music, 100 McIver St., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 3 & 4 LET FREEDOM RING. Road race, block party, street festival, music, fireworks . . . It can only be the Fun Fourth. Downtown Greensboro. Info: funfourthfestival.com.

July 4 DOORBUSTER! 10 a.m. Find a gently used tome at Scuppernong’s Used Book Sale. Scuppernong Books, 304 South Elm St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 763-1919 or scuppernongbooks.com.

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Arts Calendar

Summertime Brews Festival 7/

All Thumbs

MUSEP. 7:30 p.m. Oh say, can you C sharp? It’s the Fireworks Patriot Concert, including a lineup of classical and pops tunes from Greensboro Concert Band. First National Bank Field, 408 Bellemeade St., Greensboro. Info: musep.info.

July 5 TIE ONE ON. 10 a.m. Grab a cotton T-shirt and get in touch with your inner Jerry Garcia at a tie-dyeing workshop. High Point Museum, 1859 East Lexington Ave., High Point. Info: (336) 8851859 or highpointmuseum.org. EMF. 3 p.m. Don’t ask, just go: Pianist William Wolfram delivers the Signature Performance with Bach’s Goldberg Variations. Recital Hall, UNCG School of Music, 100 McIver St., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 6 EMF. 4 p.m. Pianist Awadagin Pratt offers some pratt-ical advice at a free master class. Sternberger Auditorium, Founders Hall, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Info: easternmusicfestival.org. EMF. 8 p.m. Conductor Grant Cooper leads the Young Artists Orchestra in a program of Bruckner. Dana Auditorium, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. The Art & Soul of Greensboro

MUSEP

29-30

Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 7 EMF. 4 p.m. Violinist Midori takes a — heh — bow at a free master class. Sternberger Auditorium, Founders Hall, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Info: easternmusicfestival.org. HEY, MON! 6 p.m. Transport yourself to the Caribbean with live music from Island Vibes whose sound combines reggae, calypso, Soca and a pop twist. GreenHill, 200 North Davie St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 333-7460 or greenhillnc.org.

Mussorgsky . . . no, not Russian collusion but “Russian Tableaux.” Just say “da,” and go! Dana Auditorium, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 8 & 9 PEN-ULTIMATE. 10 a.m. and 1 p.m. Where there’s a quill there’s a way. Learn ink-making and quill pen writing. High Point Museum, 1859 East Lexington Ave., High Point. Info: (336) 885-1859 or highpointmuseum.org.

July 9

EMF. 8 p.m. Young Artists Orchestra plays Bach, Revueltas, Ginastera and Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring. Dana Auditorium, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

AUTHOR, AUTHOR. 3 p.m. Meet Carlie Sorosiak, Young Adult author of If Birds Fly Back. Scuppernong Books, 304 South Elm St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 763-1919 or scuppernongbooks. com.

July 7–10

EMF. 3 p.m. The keyboardists are killin’ it at a free Young Artists Piano Recital. Stermberger Auditorium, Founders Hall, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Info: easternmusicfestival.org.

HOPPERS HERE. The Greensboro Grasshoppers are home again. First National Bank Field, 408 Bellemeade St., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 268-2255 or www.milb.com.

July 8 EMF. 8 p.m. Rimsky-Korsakov, Tchaikovsky, Glazunov,

MUSEP. 6 p.m.; 7:15 p.m. The Draves deliver some blues, roots and rock, followed by Soul Central with Jaybird, with a program of more blues, R&B, jazz and soul. Gateway Gardens, 2924 East July 2017

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Arts Calendar

Gate City Blvd., Greensboro. Info: musep.info. EMF. 8 p.m. In case you missed it the first time, “Russian Tableaux” and Eastern Festival Orchestra hit the road for an Appalachian Summer Festival. Schaefer Center for the Performing Arts, Appalachian State University, Boone. Tickts: appsummer.org/tickets.

July 10 EMF 8 p.m. Eastern Chamber Players offer up some Brahms, Toru Takemitsu and Schubert. Recital Hall, UNCG School of Music, 100 McIver St., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 11 EMF. 8 p.m. Still bringin’ it! Hear the Eastern Chamber Players’ performance of Telemann, Philippe Gaubert and Brahms. Dana Auditorium, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 12 EMF. 6:30 p.m. The young ’uns show what they can do at a free Young Artists Chamber Music Recital. Sternberger Auditorium, Founders Hall, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Info: easternmusicfestival.org. EMF. 8 p.m. It’s a mane attraction with EMF and Greensboro Opera’s “Shave and a Haircut . . .”, a Joseph M. Bryan Jr. Festival Orchestra Series, featuring works from Samson and Delilah, The Barber of Seville, Sweeney Todd, Hairspray and more. Temple Emanuel, 1129 Jefferson Road, Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 2720160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 13

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EMF. 4 p.m. Jeffrey Multer becomes Jeffrey the Jefe at a free master class on violin. Sternberger Auditorium, Founders Hall, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Info: easternmusicfestival.org. EMF. 8 p.m. Prokoviev! Ravel! Elgar! Young Artists Orchestra! Don’t miss it! Dana Auditorium, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 14 EMF. 4 p.m. Clarinetist Jon Manasse gets reedy at a free master class. Sternberger Auditorium, Founders Hall, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Info: easternmusicfestival.org. EMF. 8 p.m. Under Grant Cooper’s baton, Young Artists Orchestra performs Prokoviev, Haydn and Strauss. Dana Auditorium, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 15 KINDA BLUE. 8 a.m. Line up for some brain food at Blueberry Pancake Day. Greensboro Farmers Curb Market, 501 Yanceyville St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 373-2402 or gsofarmersmarket.org. HOOFIN’ IT THROUGH HISTORY. 8 a.m. Let historian Glenn Chavis guide you through the Washington St. his-

72 O.Henry

July 2017

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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The Art & Soul of Greensboro

July 2017

O.Henry 73

Arts Calendar toric district, once a thriving African-American business and entertainment district. Changing Tides Cultural Center. 613 Washington St., High Point. Info: (336) 885-1859. AUTHOR, AUTHOR. 11 a.m. Meet Ellen Fischer, children’s author of If an Elephant Went to School. Scuppernong Books, 304 South Elm St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 763-1919 or scuppernongbooks.com. HOPS TO IT! 1 p.m. More than 500 craft brews? Food trucks? Live music? Must be the Summertime Brews Festival. Greensboro Coliseum, Special Events Center, 1921 West Gate City Blvd., Greensboro. Tickets: summertimebrews.com or ticketmaster.com. EMF. 8 p.m. It’s another concert in the Joseph M. Bryan Jr. Festival Orchestra Series. This time: “The American Scene,” including four dance episodes from Copland’s Rodeo. Yeee-haaw! Dana Auditorium, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 19 AUTHORS, AUTHORS. 7 p.m. Hear various literary points of view at a women’s writers panel. Scuppernong Books, 304 South Elm St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 763-1919 or scuppernongbooks. com.

July 19–25 HOPPERS HERE. The Greensboro Grasshoppers are home again. First National Bank Field, 408 Bellemeade St.,

Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 268-2255 or www.milb.com.

July 16 THE AGONY AND THE ECSTASY. 2 p.m. Learn how to create conflict in the scenes, action, dialogue and point of view in your Great American Novel from Sisters in Crime’s sage and former book editor Chris Roerden. High Point Library 901 North Main St., High Point. Info: murderwewrite.org. EMF. 3 p.m. The ivories come alive at a Young Artists Piano Recital . . . gratis. Sternberger Auditorium, Founders Hall, Guilford College, 5800, West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Info: easternmusicfestival.org. EMF/MUSEP. 6 p.m. Young Artists Wind Ensemble blows into LeBauer Park for Music for a Sunday Evening in the Park. 208 North Davie St., Greensboro. Info: easternmusicfestival. org; musep.info.

July 17 EMF. 8 p.m. Eastern Chamber Players serve up some Brahms, Ravel and Weber. Recital Hall, UNCG School of Music, 100 McIver St., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 18 BRAIN DAMAGE. 8 p.m. Pink Floyd classics shine on like a crazy diamond at Roger Waters “Us + Them” Tour. Greensboro Coliseum, 1921 West Lee St., Greensboro. Tickets: (800) 7453000 or ticketmaster.com.

EMF. 8 p.m. Hear a night of Beethoven, Shostakovich and Mozart at “In Recital: Eastern Music Festival Fellowship Quartet.” Triad Stage, 232 South Elm St., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 19 EMF. 6:30 p.m. There’s no charge for the Young Artists Chamber Music Recital. Sternberger Auditorium, Founders Hall, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Info: easternmusicfestival.org. EMF. 8 p.m. A Signature Performance features the Mile-End Trio (violinist Jeffrey Multer, pianist Marika Bournaki and Julian Schwarz on viola). Dana Auditorium, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 19–25 HOPPERS HERE. The Greensboro Grasshoppers are home again. First National Bank Field, 408 Bellemeade St., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 268-2255 or www.milb.com.

July 20 EMF. 4 p.m. Pianist William Wolfram gets keyed up for a free Master Class. Sternberger Auditorium, Founders Hall, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Info: easternmusicfestival.org. STRETCHING LIMBS. 6:30 p.m. Bliss out among plants at Pilates in the Garden, with instruction by Mindful Bodi

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74 O.Henry

July 2017

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The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Arts Calendar Movement Center. Paul J. Ciener Botanical Garden, 215 South Main St., Kernersville. To register: (336) 996-7888 or cienerbotanicalgarden.org. EMF. 8 p.m. Conductor Grant Cooper and double bassist Leonid Finkelshteyn join Young Artists Orchestra. Dana Auditorium, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org. EMF. 4 p.m. Don’t be late for a free Master class from violinist Anne Akiko Meyers. Sternberger Auditorium, Founders Hall, Guilford College, Greensboro. Info: easternmusicfestival.org.

July 21 AUTHORS, AUTHORS. 6 p.m. Hear new literary voices at Young Writers Camp reading. Scuppernong Books, 304 South Elm St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 763-1919 or scuppernongbooks.com. EMF. 8 p.m. Young Artists Orhestra is at it again under the baton of José-Luis Novo with Jason Vieaux on guitar. Dana Auditorium, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave.. Tickets: (336) 2720160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 22 BOOK TALK. 2 p.m. Joing the WFDD/Scuppernong Book Club for a discussion of Janette SadikKahn’s Streetfight. Scuppernong Books, 304 South Elm St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 763-1919 or scuppernongbooks.com. EMF. 8 p.m. The Joseph M. Bryan, Jr. Festival Orchestra Series continues with “A Hero’s Life.” Dana Auditorium, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 23

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EMF. 1 p.m. – 6 p.m. It’s a free open house, starting with a percussion ensemble recital, followed by a guitar recital, “Pianopalooza,” Conducting Fellows Showcase and Music for a Sunday Evening in the Park (MUSEP) featuring Piedmont Triad Jazz Orchestra on Founders Lawn. Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Info: easternmusicfestival.org.

July 24 EMF. 8 p.m. Eastern Chamber Players crank it up with Anne Akiko Meyers on violin. Recital Hall, UNCG School of Music, 100 McIver St., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 25 EMF. 6:15 p.m. Catch a free Young Artists chamber music recital. Sternberger Auditorium, Founders Hall, Guilford College, Greensboro. Info: easternmusicfestival.org. EMF. 8 p.m. Hear a night of chamber music from the Eastern Chamber Players. Dana Auditorium, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 26 EMF. 6:30 p.m. Experience youthful exuberance with a Young Artists piano recital. Sternberger Auditorium, Founders Hall, Guilford College, Greensboro. Info: easternmusicfestival.org.

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EMF. 8 p.m. Strum de dum! The Guitar Summit returns. Temple Emanuel, 1129 Jefferson Road, Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 27 EMF. 8 p.m. The 2017 Concerto Competition winners take the stage. Dana Auditorium, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 28 EMF. 8 p.m. The Young Artists Orchestra and conductors José-Luis Novo and Grant Cooper perform their finale concert of Bernstein and Respighi. Dana Auditorium, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org. The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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July 2017

O.Henry 75

Arts Calendar July 28–30 LIVE LONG AND PROSPERO. Catch Drama Center’s and Guilford County Schools’ joint production of The Tempest, by William Shakespeare. Barber Park, 1500 Dans Road, Greensboro. Info: greensboronc.gov.

July 29 EMF. 1:30 p.m. Hear the last Young Artists Chamber Music recital, gratis. Sternberger Auditorium, Founders Hall, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Info: easternmusicfestival.org. VOICES CARRY. 7:30 p.m. Hear a cappella sensations Straight No Chaser and Post-Modern Jukebox. White Oak Amphitheatre, Greensboro Coliseum, 1921 West Gate City Blvd., Greensboro. Tickets: (800) 745-3000 or ticketmaster.com. EMF. 8 p.m. So long, farewell, Aufwiedersehen, adieu! Eastern Festival Orchestra plays its finale concert of Wagner, Grieg and Shostakovich. Dana Auditorium, Guilford College, 5800 West Friendly Ave., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or easternmusicfestival.org.

July 29 & 30 ALL THUMBS. 10 a.m. and 1 p.m. Learn how to water a garden without a hose, using a thumb-waterer. Costumed interpreters will show you how. High Point Museum, 1859 East Lexington Ave., High Point. Info: (336) 885-1859 or highpointmuseum.org.

July 30 MUSEP. 6 p.m. and 7:15 p.m. Sweet Dreams performs jazz, R&B and Soul, then Rob Massengale Band kicks out the jams with a variety of rock and pop. Gillespie Golf Course, 306 Florida St., Greensboro. Info: musep.info.

July 31–August 6 HOPPERS HERE. The Greensboro Grasshoppers are home again. First National Bank Field, 408 Bellemeade St., Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 268-2255 or www.milb.com.

WEEKLY HAPPENINGS Mondays BUZZING. 10 a.m. Your busy little bees engage in a Busy Bees preschool program focusing on music, movement, garden exploration and fun in the kitchen, at the Greensboro Children’s Museum, 220 North Church St., Greensboro. Preregistration: (336) 574-2898 or gcmuseum.com. CHAT-EAU. Noon. French leave? Au contraire! Join French Table, a conversation group. Scuppernong Books, 304 South Elm St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 763-1919 or scuppernongbooks.com.

Tuesdays READ ALL ABOUT IT. Treat your little ones to story times: BookWorms (ages 12–24 months) meets at 10 a.m.; Time for Twos meets at 11 a.m. Storyroom; Family Storytime for all ages meets at 6:30 p.m. High Point Public Library, 901 North Main St., High Point. Info: (336) 883-3666 or highpointpubliclibrary.com. PINT-SIZED GARDENERS. 3:30 p.m. Instill a love of gardening and growing edible things in your kiddies at Little Sprouts (ages 3 to 5 years). No session on 5/30. Greensboro Children’s Museum, 220 North Church St., Greensboro. To register: (336) 574-2898 or gcmuseum.com. PICKIN’ AND GRINNIN’ 6 until 9 p.m. Y’all come for Songs from a Southern Kitchen featuring Molly McGinn & Friends (7/4); Graymatter (7/11); Diana Tuffin & Turner Battle (7/18); Crystal Bright & Jeremy Haire (7/25) at Lucky 32 Southern Kitchen. 1421 Westover Terrace, Greensboro. Info: (336) 370-0707 or lucky32.com/greensboro_music.htm.

Wednesdays TO MARKET, TO MARKET. 8 a.m. until 1 p.m. The produce will be fresh and the cut fleurs belles at the Greensboro Farmers Curb Market, 501 Yanceyville St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 373-2402 or gsofarmersmarket.org. CREATIVE KIN. 5 to 7 p.m. Moms, dads, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles and cousins: Enjoy a free

76 O.Henry

July 2017

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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78 O.Henry

July 2017

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

evening of artistic expression at ArtQuest. GreenHill, 200 North Davie St., Greensboro. Info: 336) 333-7460 greenhillnc.org. MUSSELS, WINE & MUSIC 7 until 10 p.m. Mussels with house-cut fries for $15, wines from $10–15 a bottle and live music by AM rOdeO — at Print Works Bistro, 702 Green Valley Road, Greensboro. Info: (336) 379-0699 or printworksbistro.com/ live_music.htm. ONCE UPON A TIME. 2 p.m. Afterschool Storytime convenes for children of all ages. Storyroom, High Point Public Library, 901 North Main St., High Point. Info: (336) 883-3666 or highpointpubliclibrary.com.

Thursdays TWICE UPON A TIME. 11 a.m. Preschool Storytime convenes for children ages 3–5. Storyroom, High Point Public Library, 901 North Main St., High Point. Info: (336) 883-3666 or highpointpubliclibrary.com. ALL THAT JAZZ. 5:30 until 8 p.m. Hear live, local jazz featuring Dave Fox Neill Clegg and Matt Kendrick and special guests: Clinton Horton (7/6); Courtney Hudson (7/13); Nishah DiMeo (7/20); Joey Barnes (7/27). All performances are at the O.Henry Hotel Social Lobby Bar. No cover. 624 Green Valley Road, Greensboro. Info: (336) 854-2000 or www.ohenryhotel.com/ jazz.htm. JAZZ NIGHT. 7 p.m. Fresh-ground, fresh-brewed coffee is served with a side of jazz at Tate Street Coffee House, 334 Tate Street, Greensboro. Info: (336) 275-2754 or tatestreeetcoffeehouse.com.

OPEN MIC COMEDY. 8–9:35 p.m. Local pros and amateurs take the mic at the Idiot Box, 2134 Lawndale Drive, Greensboro. Info: (336) 274-2699 or idiotboxers.com.

Fridays THE HALF OF IT. 5 p.m. Enjoy the hands-on exhibits and activities for half the cost of admission at $5 Fun Fridays ($2 on First Fridays). Greensboro Children’s Museum, 220 North Church St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 574-2898 or gcmuseum. com.

Fridays & Saturdays NIGHTMARES ON ELM STREET.. 8 p.m. A 90-minute, historical, candlelit ghost walking tour of Downtown Greensboro. Tickets: (336) 905-4060 or carolinahistoryandhaunts.com/ information.

Saturdays TO MARKET, TO MARKET. 7 a.m. until noon. The produce is fresh and the cut fleurs belles. Greensboro Farmers Curb Market, 501 Yanceyville St., Greensboro. Info: gsofarmersmarket.org. THRICE UPON A TIME. 11 a.m. Hear a good yarn at Children’s Storytime. Scuppernong Books, 304 South Elm St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 763-1919 or scuppernongbooks.com. WORD UP! 3 p.m. Join other scribes at Come Write In!, a community writing hour. Scuppernong Books, 304 South Elm St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 763-1919 or scuppernongbooks.com.

Arts Calendar

JAZZ ENCORE. 6:30 p.m. Hear contemporary jazz cats, The Mondre Moffett Quartet (7/1); Aaron Gross Quartet, (7/8); Vaughan Penn (7/15); John Trotter Quqrtet (7/22); Steve Haines Quartet (7/29) and enjoy seasonal tapas at O.Henry Jazz series for Select Saturdays. O.Henry Hotel, 624 Green Valley Road, Greensboro. Info: (336) 854-2000 or ohenryhotel.com. IMPROV COMEDY. 10 p.m. on Saturday, plus an 8 p.m. show appropriate for the whole family. The Idiot Boxers create scenes on the spot and build upon the ideas of others, creating shows that are one-of-a-kind — at the Idiot Box, 2134 Lawndale Drive, Greensboro. Info: (336) 274-2699 or idiotboxers.com.

Sundays HALF FOR HALF-PINTS. 1 p.m. And grown-ups, too. A $5 admission, as opposed to the usual $10, will allow you entry to exhibits and more. Greensboro Children’s Museum, 220 North Church St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 574-2898 or gcmuseum.com. MISSING YOUR GRANDMA? 3 p.m. Until it’s gone, tuck into Chef Felicia’s skillet-fried chicken, and mop that cornbread in, your choice, giblet gravy or potlikker. Lucky 32 Southern Kitchen, 1421 Westover Terrace, Greensboro. Info: (336) 3700707 or lucky32.com/fried_chicken.htm.

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The Art & Soul of Greensboro

July 2017

O.Henry 79

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80 O.Henry

July 2017

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The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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The Art & Soul of Greensboro

July 2017

O.Henry 81

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82 O.Henry

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July 2017

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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ON STANDS NOW! AVAILABLE AT THE FOLLOWING LOCATIONS 1618 Midtown • New Garden Nursery • Randy McManus Design • Shores Fine Dry Cleaners Willam Mangum Gallery • Grandover Resort • Harris Teeter • Barnes & Noble • Brown Gardiner Drug Store Carrige House Antiques • Cultrural Arts Center • Greensboro Historical Museum Greensboro Central Library • State Street Jewerly • O. Henry Hotel • Proximity Hotel • Red Collection Schiffman’s • Tex & Shirley’s • Weatherspoon Art Museum • Whole Foods

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

July 2017

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O.Henry 83

shops • service • food • farms

support locally owned businesses

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If you are a Triad Local First member and would like to advertise on this page, please call 336.601.1188 84 O.Henry

Sometimes it’s smarter to lease than to sell your home. Call us when you think you’re there! Michelle will be pleased to discuss how Burkely Rental Homes can help you. -Sterling Kelly, CEO Burkely Communities

July 2017

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Join the effort. Visit www.triadlocalfirst.com.

Arts & Culture

CHRISTMAS IN JULY Order Order your your holiday holiday greenery greenery and and lighted lighted christmas christmas balls balls online online from from greensboro greensboro beautiful beautiful during during the the month month of of July July to to save save 10%! 10%! www.GreensboroBeautiful.org www.GreensboroBeautiful.org Pick Pick up up your your order order at at Greensboro Greensboro Beautifulâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Beautifulâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Holiday Holiday Greenery Greenery Festival Festival on on Sunday, Sunday, December December 3, 3, 12-5 12-5 pm pm The Art & Soul of Greensboro

July 2017

O.Henry 85

Titans: Copland, Beethoven and Mahler

Sat., July 1 | Dana Aud. | Guilford College | 8:00 PM

Gerard Schwarz, conductor Horacio GutiĂŠrrez, piano The Burlington Boys Choir | The North Carolina Boys Choir

Russian Tableaux

Sat., July 8 | Dana Aud. | Guilford College | 8:00 PM

Arts & Culture

Gerard Schwarz, conductor Midori, violin Hunter Bockes, saxophone

Rosen-Schaffel Competition Winner

The American Scene

Sat., July 15 | Dana Aud. | Guilford College | 8:00 PM

Gerard Schwarz, conductor Jon Manasse, clarinet series continues:

July 22 | Anne Akiko Meyers, violin, and July 29 | Awadagin Pratt, piano

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FOR MORE INFORMATION: EasternMusicFestival.org

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July 2017

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336.275.1555 1724 Battleground Ave. Suite 104 Greensboro, NC 27408

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July 2017

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July 2017

O.Henry 89

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90 O.Henry

July 2017

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GreenScene Richard Petty’s Blue Jeans & Boots Celebrating the King’s 80th Birthday Benefiting The Petty Family Foundation Wednesday, May 10, 2017 Photographs by Lynn Donovan Mark & Rena Norcross, Gypsy, Savannah Washburn, Wendy Jones

Sharon Petty Farlow, Richard Petty, Rebecca Petty Moffitt Brett & Nina Goodwin

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Bea & Michael Odom

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July 2017

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GreenScene Ribbon Cutting & Grand Opening Greensboro Childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Museum Outdoor Play Plaza Saturday, May 13, 2017 Photographs by Lynn Donovan

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92 O.Henry

July 2017

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1 8 0 2 C o l o n i a l av e n u e GReenSBoRo Wonderful Kirkwood Bungalo in great location! Exceptional condition with updates of new roof & windows 2012, gutter guards, updated kitchen, open living room with fireplace, office with doors to patio. Large den & separate laundry room with cabinets & sink. Deep lot, storage building.

1 5 0 8 i n d e p e n d e n C e R oa d GReenSBoRo The heart of desirable Kirkwood. Rare find for family or empty nester this large & spacious home with over 2600 sq ft offers hardwood floors, several fireplaces, updated kitchen, large master with walk-in closet. Great fenced lot for play, entertaining & gardening. Storage building. Lots of storage. Must see! One of a kind!

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94 O.Henry

July 2017

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

The Accidental Astrologer

Shell Game

C’mon in . . . the Water’s Fine, You Crabby Chic Cancer! By Astrid Stellanova

Reliable and loved, you are — even if crabby. Let’s

not forget that you are nocturnal and persistent, but when disappointed you really, really wanna dart back into that shell and run for cover. Shifting sands under your feet make you skittish, but come on out and test the waters! You’re in intense company, too: Nelson Mandela, Gary Busey, Tom Hanks, Princess Diana, Sylvester Stallone, Meryl Streep and Sofia Vergara all share the sign of the crusty critter. — Ad Astra, Astrid

Cancer (June 21–July 22) Did somebody say crab cakes? If you had your druthers, you’d have your cake, top it with cholesterol-bustin’ whipped cream, lob on some ice cream, and watch your healthnut buddies holler loud enough to blow out the birthday candles. Cancer babies have more friends than Carter had liver pills. But — when you start counting your blessings, Baby, and bless your heart you should — do add diligence to the list and forget that LDL number for just one day. You worked for what you have achieved, which goes to show that perspiration is more important than inspiration. Sweat, don’t fret! And keep dreaming that big dream, cause it isn’t too late to see it happen. But hey, nobody has to remind a Cancerian to be tenacious or to eventually trust, do they? Leo (July 23–August 22) Sugar, you’re fast and nobody in your age class can beat you in a foot race. But collar that fight-or-flight impulse for now. Keep that dog on the porch —the one about to run to the front of the pack. You are this close to advancing to the lead without having to put one dirty sneaker on the ground. Virgo (August 23–September 22) It was true you could splurge a little, but Honey, was that your idea of a try at wild abandon? Lord help us, you burned through cash like a Cub Scout with a pack of wet matches trying to burn a wet mule in a storm. So let’s try this again: Indulge yourself, even if it is the Dairy Queen special at Happy Hour, OK? Libra (September 23–October 22) Count to ten. Say Amen. Bless your heart; you are fixin’ to have a breakthrough. If you ever thought you had an idea that might be worth something, this one is it. Take care of the legal bits and don’t go bragging at the farm supply about what you are up to until you have your horse saddled and you are ready to roll. Scorpio (October 23–November 21) What happened to you recently is about as obvious as a tick on a yellow dog. You are mad as all get out. You have a reason to be, but don’t just do something. Sit there. Think it through before you start tootin’ or tweetin’ or bleatin’. A turnaround in your thinking and your temper is the gift in all this, Honey. Sagittarius (November 22–December 21) Last month was about as much fun as a colonoscopy. This month is a reward — but don’t get drunk as Cooter Brown just because the blame train left the station and you got a family pass. Bless your heart, you are about to have a big reveal concerning an old friend. Don’t be surprised to learn an old love never forgot you.

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Capricorn (December 22–January 19) It amounted to no more than a hill of beans, Sugar, and that got you all het up. Now, you are ready to plow the back 40 just because that head of steam needs to be released. Bait a hook and go fishing. Whoever got your dander up, they were a small minnow in the fish pond, not Moby Dick, and let it pass. Forgiving thoughts are needed. Aquarius (January 20–February 18) You never should “coulda, woulda” on yourself. But you do. Honey, you are looking back over your shoulder way too much. The trouble is, you don’t see the double rainbow looking backwards. This isn’t a breakdown, but a breakthrough. When you’re deep in it, they feel about the same. Time, this month, is your friend. Pisces (February 19–March 20) It’s blowin’ up a storm and you put your favorite bathing suit on. That, Sugar, is part of your quirky charm and sunny nature. But right about now, galoshes and a raincoat might be needed. Take refuge in the fact that you have found a silver lining when just about anybody else couldn’t. That is worth a lot and makes a mighty storm pass mighty fast. Aries (March 21–April 19) Sweatin’ like a hooker in the front row at a tent revival? Well, you got called out for entertaining the choir with a story about the preacher and the teacher. It would be wise to hold your tongue a hot minute. Not everything that is confided in you is meant to wind up in one of your stories. Discretion, Darlin’, is the word of the day. Taurus (April 20–May 20) You’ve been navigating the China Store of Life like a bull on steroids. This is a breathedeep-and-release time. You could scare your own Mama with your determination, and make small children shake in their boots. What almost nobody knows is what a sugar pie you really are. It won’t cost a nickel to let a few more in on the secret, either. Gemini (May 21–June 20) When the month ends, you will look back with no small pride over the fact that you finally acted like a grown-up, Honey Bunny. By turning the other cheek, you have passed a milestone. It was donkeywork for you, but you did it. Don’t neglect your health right now, and drop a weight that could be on your shoulders. OH For years, Astrid Stellanova owned and operated Curl Up and Dye Beauty Salon in the boondocks of North Carolina until arthritic fingers and her popular astrological readings provoked a new career path. July 2017

O.Henry 95

O.Henry Ending

Sinking Feelings Sometimes, lifeguards just don’t get no respect

By David Claude Bailey

His skin white as a catfish belly, legs and

Me? I said, “You can do it.” He didn’t. Like the sodden branch he resembled, the 8-year-old, who had forgotten everything he learned about swimming last summer, sank straight to the bottom. It was my first day of work as a lifeguard at Reidsville’s Elks Club pool. I was freshly certified as a Red Cross water safety instructor, a notch above what was required to sit atop the lifeguard stand and acquire the tan and regal demeanor sure to attract the attention of lasses wearing skimpy bathing suits. Reach, throw, row, then go flashed through my mind. No reaching for him from the side. No boat. Life preserver useless, I dove to the bottom, put him in a cross-chest carry and headed for the shallow end — only to encounter his mother’s purple face and flailing limbs. Understandably, she too had decided to rescue her boy, but without the advantage of knowing how to swim. No problem, I thought, remembering the drill for preventing a rescuer from being pulled under by someone else needing rescue. You come up under the second person, holding your free arm forward like a charging quarterback, and push them up and backwards until they find his or her footing. By the time I got the boy to the side of the pool, he had stopped coughing, but his mom could barely get her breath between hysterical sobs. Not a bad day’s work, my father was saying that evening when the phone rang. Dad answered it. He listened for a minute or two, and then said, “You need to talk to him about it,” handing the phone to me with his signature quizzical look. It was the president of the Elks Club, who said he needed me to call the woman who had almost drowned . . . and apologize to her. “For what?” I asked. “She says her chest is pretty bruised up and her husband says you treated her in an unprofessional manner.” Unprofessional, I thought. Was I supposed to have asked her permission before saving her life? Without a moment’s hesitation — and to my utter surprise — I told him that he needed to find himself a new lifeguard. Tomorrow. After hanging up the phone, I sheepishly looked at my mom and dad. My father had an enormous grin on his face and said, “Good for you.” At least I had Dad on my side. But what is it about drowning victims?

96 O.Henry

July 2017

Yes, there were others. The second, exhausted from an all-night drive from New Jersey to Holden Beach, had been swept out by a rip tide. It was quite a chore to get him ashore, where an ambulance and EMT’s were waiting. He was probably dazed and distracted, but I didn’t get a word of thanks from him, though a medic patted me on the back and said, “Rough surf, today. Good job.” But his encouragement didn’t quell the sting from two boaters my buddy and I saved from certain drowning in the Edisto River. Paddling this South Carolina cypress-lined waterway, Bob and I heard a motorboat approaching at top speed. The boat’s operator weighed at least 250 pounds. In front of him was a huge cooler, and a hefty passenger sat in the middle seat instead of in the front. The outboard engine added another hundred or more pounds — all of which resulted in the jonboat planing along at a 40-degree angle that surely defied the laws of physics. Seeing our canoe, the operator immediately cut his engine. And, immediately, a flood of water rushed in over the transom. Then, like some slow-motion cartoon, the boat knifed into the water almost vertically, the weight of water, men, cooler and engine pulling the boat to the bottom. I remember most distinctly two things: the fear that the two fishermen displayed as they tried to dog paddle — and the cascade of Budweiser cans floating all around them. “Get him to shore,” the boat operator said. “He just had bypass surgery.” We paddled over to his friend, and Bob helped him flounder onto dry land like some walrus. I took the canoe and pursued the captain, who was being swept downriver by the current. Floating facedown on the boat cushion, he was taking in a lot of water. He was determined to board our canoe from the water, a real nonstarter given his weight. I finally managed to convince him to stand up. Bob and I retrieved their boat and their empty cooler. Then we had a grand time chasing the flotilla of red-and-white cans, whose tops barely bobbed above the water line, unlike soda cans that sink. Once we’d returned their beer and anything else that floated, the two were still arguing and trying to blame the accident on each other and us. We didn’t linger. The last thing we heard was one of them saying, “You know those assholes stole most of our beer, don’t you?” As my dad used to say, “No good deed goes unpunished.” O.Henry’s contributing editor David Claude Bailey majored in Greek at UNCG, but learned something worthwhile in his phys ed classes there. The Art & Soul of Greensboro

ILLUSTRATION BY HARRY BLAIR

arms almost stick-like, the toe-headed boy inched out to the end of the diving board, obedient to his mother’s hectoring. “You can do it,” she said from the shallow end, her arms outspread as if she could catch him. He looked around as if someone might deliver him from his predicament.

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