bookshelf

August books

NOTABLE NEW RELEASES

compiled by Sally Brewster

Properties of Thirst, by Marianne Wiggins

Rockwell “Rocky” Rhodes has spent years fiercely protecting his California ranch from the LA Water Corp. It is here where he and his beloved wife Lou raised their twins, Sunny and Stryker, and it is here where Rocky has mourned Lou in the years since her death. As Sunny and Stryker reach the cusp of adulthood, the country teeters on the brink of war. Stryker decides to join the fight, deploying to Pearl Harbor not long before the bombs strike. Soon, Rocky and his family find themselves facing yet another incomprehensible tragedy.

Rocky is determined to protect his remaining family and the land where they’ve loved and lost so much. But when the government decides to build a Japanese-American internment camp next to the ranch, Rocky realizes the land faces even bigger threats than the LA watermen he’s battled for years.

Properties of Thirst is a novel that is both universal and intimate. It is the story of a changing American landscape and an examination of one of the darkest periods in this country’s past, told through the stories of the individual loves and losses that weave together to form the fabric of our shared history.

Daisy Darker, by Alice Feeney

Daisy Darker’s entire family, after years of avoiding one another, are assembling for Nana’s 80th birthday party in Nana’s crumbling gothic house on a tiny tidal island. Finally back together one last time, when the tide comes in, they will be cut off from the rest of the world for eight hours. The family arrives, each of them harboring secrets. Then at the stroke of midnight, as a storm rages, Nana is found dead. And an hour later, the next family member follows … dead. Trapped on an island where someone is killing them one by one, the Darkers must reckon with their present mystery as well as their past secrets before the tide comes in and all is revealed.

With a wicked wink to Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None, Daisy Darker’s unforgettable twists will leave readers reeling.

Carrie Soto is Back, by Taylor Jenkins Reid

Carrie Soto is fierce, and her determination to win at any cost has not made her popular. When she retires from tennis, she is the best player the world has ever seen. She has shattered every record and claimed 20 Grand Slam titles. But six years after her retirement, Carrie finds herself sitting in the stands of the 1994 U.S. Open, watching her record be taken from her by a brutal, stunning player named Nicki Chan.

At 37 years old, Carrie makes the monumental decision to come out of retirement and be coached by her father for one last year in an attempt to reclaim her record. Even if the sports media say they never liked “the Battle-Axe” anyway. Even if her body doesn’t move as fast as it did. And even if it means swallowing her pride to train with a man she once almost opened her heart to: Bowe Huntley. Like her, he has something to prove before he gives up the game forever.

The Last White Man, by Mohsin Hamid

One morning, a man wakes up to find himself transformed. Overnight, Anders’ skin has turned dark, and the reflection in the mirror seems a stranger to him. At first he shares his secret only with Oona, an old friend turned new lover. Soon, reports of similar events begin to surface. Across the land, people are awakening in new incarnations, uncertain how their neighbors, friends and families will greet them. Some see the transformations as the long-dreaded overturning of the established order that must be resisted to a bitter end. In many, like Anders’ father and Oona’s mother, a sense of profound loss and unease battles with profound love. As the bond between Anders and Oona deepens, change takes on a different shading: a chance at a kind of rebirth — an opportunity to see ourselves, face to face, anew.

Haven, by Emma Donoghue

In seventh century Ireland, a priest called Artt has a dream telling him to leave the sinful world behind. Taking two monks, he rows a small boat down the river Shannon in search of an isolated spot to found a monastery. Drifting out into the Atlantic, the three men find an impossibly steep, bare island inhabited by tens of thousands of birds, and they claim it for God. When one of the men takes his devout calling to an even more fervent level, it is all they can do to survive together in the harsh conditions. SP

FALL ARTS PREVIEW

DON’T HOLD YOUR APPLAUSE: HERE ARE 20 REASONS WE’RE EXCITED TO BE PART OF AN AUDIENCE THIS FALL. | by Page Leggett

Jagged Little Pill, presented by Blumenthal Performing Arts Center

August

Gladys Knight, Aug. 4

One of the undisputed queens of soul and R&B, Gladys Knight, 78, made a name for herself in the 1960s and ’70s as frontwoman for The Pips. Expect to hear hits like “Midnight Train to Georgia,” “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” and “That’s What Friends Are For.” Knight has earned the right to be called a legend. 7:30 p.m., Ovens Auditorium, 2700 E. Independence Blvd. Tickets from $52; prices may fluctuate. ticketmaster.com

Witch, presented by Charlotte Conservatory Theatre, Aug. 11-14

Charlotte’s newest theater company — comprising some local heavy hitters — presents its inaugural work. In Jen Silverman’s new play, the fate of the world is at stake when a charming devil shows up in a quiet village. Based on The Witch of Edmonton, this contemporary comedy asks the question: Would you know what to ask for if the devil offered to make your darkest wish come true? Witch had its West Coast premiere at the Geffen Playhouse in Los Angeles and starred Maura Tierney (ER, The Affair). CCT’s goal is to become a regional force in theater. It brings together professional theater artists “in pursuit of rigor and excellence,” according to the press release. “We showcase work that reimagines classical storytelling with a vibrant contemporary lens.” Recommended for ages 15 and up. Booth Playhouse at Blumenthal Performing Arts Center, 130 N. Tryon St. Tickets are $20-$30. carolinatix.org

Mary Chapin Carpenter, Aug. 20

With hits like “Shut Up and Kiss Me” and “He Thinks He’ll Keep Her,” folk/country singer-songwriter Mary Chapin Carpenter has won five Grammy Awards and two CMA awards — and she’s a member of the Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame. In 2020, the Brown University alum released two albums: The Dirt And The Stars and the hushed and powerful One Night Lonely, recorded live, without an audience, at Wolf Trap in northern Virginia during the Covid-19 shutdown. Of The Dirt and The Stars, Carpenter says, “The songs are very personal … They [speak] to life changes, growing older, politics, compassion, #metoo, heartbreak, empathy, the power of memory, time and place.” 8 p.m., Knight Theater, 550 S. Tryon St. Tickets start at $45. carolinatix.org

Andy Warhol, Marina Ferrero, 1974, silkscreen and acrylic on canvas.

Mary Chapin Carpenter September

Mean Girls, presented by Blumenthal Performing Arts Center, Sept. 6-11

Straight from Broadway, Mean Girls is the delightful musical from book writer Tina Fey (SNL, 30 Rock), composer Jeff Richmond (Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt), lyricist Nell Benjamin (Legally Blonde) and director Casey Nicholaw (The Book of Mormon). It’s adapted from the movie that gave us the line, “On Wednesdays, we wear pink.” When Cady Heron (played by Lindsay Lohan in the movie), the innocent new girl in school, comes up against reigning mean girl Regina George, the claws come out. Belk Theater, 130 N. Tryon St. Tickets from $25-$124.50. carolinatix.org

From Pop Art to NFTs: Warhol, Basquiat and Now at The Bechtler Museum of Modern Art, opens Sept. 10

Andy Warhol inspired a host of artists; among the most famous was the young Jean-Michel Basquiat. The two art-world and pop-culture icons continue to inspire emerging artists to push boundaries. From Pop Art to NFTs: Warhol, Basquiat and Now features works by Warhol (including the Bechtlers’ own family portraits) and Basquiat alongside the work of current artists they influenced. Bechtler Museum of Modern Art, Levine Center for the Arts, 420 S. Tryon St. Admission to the museum is $9 for adults; $7 for college students, seniors and educators; $5 for youth 11-18; and free for kids up to age 10. bechtler.org

American Made: Painting and Sculpture from the DeMell Jacobsen Collection, Mint Museum Uptown, opens Sept. 10

The DeMell Jacobsen Collection is one of the finest privately held collections of American art in the country. Curated by Mint President and CEO Todd Herman, American Made will include more than 100 paintings and sculptures from the collection. Featured artists include John Singer Sargent, Mary Cassatt, Charles Alston and more. With works representing everything from realism to Impressionism and still life to landscape, there’s something for art lovers of every stripe. Mint Museum Uptown, 500 S. Tryon St. Admission is $15 for adults, $10 for college students and seniors, $6 for children 5-17, and free for members and kids 4 and younger. mintmuseum.org

Charlotte International Arts Festival, presented by Blumenthal Performing Arts, Sept. 16-Oct. 2

The new, family-friendly, 17-day festival — the brainchild of Blumenthal CEO Tom Gabbard — takes place all over uptown (and beyond) and includes live performances (Billy Ocean, Little Feat), immersive art installations and more. Performance artists from all over the globe will be here for the festivities, but there will be plenty of work by local artists, too. Learn more about all the happenings, most free and some ticketed, at charlotteartsfest.com.

Elton John: Farewell Yellow Brick Road The Final Tour, Bank of America Stadium, Sept. 18

Sir Elton, aka Rocket Man, is iconic. And at 75, he can still rock the joint. Wear your biggest, most outlandish glasses, and you’ll fit right in. 8 p.m., 800 S. Mint St. Tickets start at about $106; prices may fluctuate. ticketmaster.com

John Frederick Kensett (1816-1872). Singing Beach & Eagle Rock, Magnolia, Massachusetts, 1864, oil on canvas. American Made opens Sept. 10 at Mint Museum Uptown.

An original sculpture by artist Jason Hackenwerth will be on view at the inaugural Charlotte International Arts Festival.

Fall Works, presented by Charlotte Ballet, Oct. 13-15

Fall Works features the return of an audience favorite — choreographer Helen Pickett’s “IN Cognito,” created for Charlotte Ballet in 2019, with inspiration taken from novelist and North Carolina native Tom Robbins. The audience will also get to see, for the first time in Charlotte, “Under the Lights,” choreographed by Charlotte Ballet II Director Christopher Stuart and set to the music of Johnny Cash, plus a third piece titled “A Picture of You Falling.” Knight Theater, 550 S. Tryon St. Tickets from $30. charlotteballet.org

Puccini’s Tosca, Opera Carolina, Oct. 13, 15-16

A melodramatic political thriller/romance in three acts, Tosca is one of the world’s most beloved operas. It tells the story of Rome’s passionate opera singer Floria Tosca as she fights to save her lover, Cavaradossi, from the malevolent police chief, Scarpia. The action takes place over the course of just 24 hours. It’s riveting and intense. Belk Theater, 130 N. Tryon St. Tickets from $22-$160. operacarolina.org

The Crown - Live! Presented by Blumenthal Performing Arts Center, Oct. 18-23

The Netflix series “The Crown” is gorgeous, lavish, dignified. It has all the pomp and ceremony one would expect of a program that chronicles the reign of Queen Elizabeth II – a woman who practically invented the stiff upper lip. No matter what indignity she’s faced with, HRH Elizabeth maintains her regal bearing. And that makes her perfect parody material. The writer who combined all seven Harry Potter books into a spirited 90-minute Potted Potter has now turned his attention to the Windsors. The plot: Having been overlooked for her dream role as Queen Elizabeth in the series “The Crown,” Beth brings her own take on the story of the royal family to the stage instead … with her agent coerced into playing (almost) all the other roles. Stage Door Theater, 155 N. College St. Tickets are $54.50 for cabaret table seating and $34.50 for general admission. carolinatix.org

Jackie Robinson: A Game Apart, Children’s Theatre of Charlotte Puccini’s Tosca, Opera Carolina

Something Rotten! Presented by Theatre Charlotte, Oct. 21-Nov. 6

It opened on Broadway in 2015 and earned 10 Tony nominations, including Best Musical. Set in 1595, the story follows the antics of the Bottom brothers, whose dreams of theatrical success keep getting dashed by their more successful contemporary, Shakespeare. The brothers attempt to write the world’s first musical, having heard from a soothsayer that the future of theater includes song and dance. This will be the first time Theatre Charlotte welcomes patrons back to their Queens Road home since a fire damaged the building in 2020. 501 Queens Rd. Tickets from $28-$32. theatrecharlotte.org

A Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Murder, presented by Piedmont Players Theatre, Oct. 21-Nov. 6

The musical comedy traces the path of the charming Lord Montague “Monty” Navarro on his quest for family fortune. Navarro is eighth in line for an earldom in the D’Ysquith family. With a few tricks up his sleeve, he plots to knock off the seven in line in front of him while juggling the affections of two women, dodging suspicions and relying on incredibly lucky breaks. The Broadway production won four Tony Awards, including Best Musical, in 2014. The Meroney Theater, 213 S. Main St., Salisbury. Tickets from $21-$23. piedmontplayers.com

November

Jackie Robinson: A Game Apart, Children’s Theatre of Charlotte, Nov. 12 and 19

Mike Wiley’s one-man show highlights the triumphs and struggles of baseball legend Jackie Robinson. This powerful story takes the audience from the baseball diamond, where Robinson was king, to beyond the stadium walls, where he was treated as a second-class citizen. It’s a powerful look into America’s not-so-distant, separate (but not equal) past. Recommended for ages 9 and up. Performances are at 11 a.m. and 3 p.m. The Wells Fargo Playhouse at ImaginOn, 300 E. 7th St. Tickets from $18. ctcharlotte.org

A Motown Christmas, Nov. 27

and present members of The Temptations, The Miracles and The Contours. The high-energy show combines Motown’s greatest hits with beloved holiday classics. A soulful way to kick off the holiday season. 7:30 p.m., Knight Theater, 550 S. Tryon St. Tickets from $28.50. carolinatix.org

Handel’s Messiah, presented by Charlotte Symphony Orchestra

Jagged Little Pill, presented by Blumenthal Performing Arts, Nov. 29-Dec. 4

The musical inspired by Alanis Morissette’s era-defining music is directed by Tony Award winner Diane Paulus (Waitress, Pippin) with a Tony-winning book by Diablo Cody (Juno) and a Grammywinning score. Much more than a jukebox musical, Jagged Little Pill chronicles the travails of a modern-day American family as they deal with marital woes, addiction, social-media pressures, LGBTQ issues and more. Belk Theater, 130 N. Tryon St. Single-ticket pricing not determined at press time. carolinatix.org

The Play That Goes Wrong, presented by Actor’s Theatre of Charlotte, Dec. 1-Jan. 14

The Play That Goes Wrong features a play-within-a-play that includes a terrible script executed poorly by a group of amateur actors. Welcome to the production of Murder at Haversham Manor, produced by the earnest but inept Cornley Drama Society. A rickety set, a leading lady with a concussion and a corpse that can’t be still are a few of the mishaps in this uproarious slapstick comedy. Actors Theatre of Charlotte, 2132 Radcliffe Ave. Tickets from $34.50-39.50. atcharlotte.org

Handel’s Messiah, presented by Charlotte Symphony Orchestra, Dec. 2-4

Conductor Laureate Christopher Warren-Green returns to the Charlotte stage to lead his world-renowned interpretation of Handel’s Messiah. The oratorio is one of the best-known and most frequently performed choral works in Western music. Hallelujah! Knight Theater, 550 S. Tryon St. Tickets from $19. charlottesymphony.org

The JAZZ ROOM Holiday Edition: Duke Ellington’s Nutcracker Suite, Dec. 8-10

This swinging jazz interpretation of Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker is recognized as one of Duke Ellington’s most important albums of the 1960s. Featuring a full jazz orchestra, solo vocalists and an ensemble of dancers, this performance is the perfect way for jazz lovers to celebrate the season. Shows at 6 and 8:15 p.m. on Friday and 7 and 9:15 p.m. on Saturday. Stage Door Theater, 155 N. College St. Tickets start at $25. thejazzarts.org

Ongoing

See a movie at The Independent Picture House. The Manor Theatre is gone (moment of silence), but a few of the people who ran The Manor set up shop near NoDa and opened in late June. They even brought the old popcorn popper with them. Independent Picture House/Trailhead Arts Building, 4237 Raleigh St. Tickets from $9; save on individual tickets by buying a membership, starting at $40 per year. indepedentpicturehouse.org SP DECEMBER 9-23 BELK THEATER

CHARLOTTEBALLET.ORG

life in bloom

ARTIST AND DESIGNER BARI J. ACKERMAN CAN’T STOP CREATING.

by Cathy Martin | photographs by Megan Easterday

Bari Ackerman traces her love for florals back to her childhood, from her mom’s Rose Chintz china and Desert Rose everyday dishes to the tiny rose-print wallpaper in her bedroom growing up in Chicago.

“My mom’s an artist. She hasn’t painted in many, many years, but I grew up watching her paint and do needlepoint,” says Ackerman, who moved to Charlotte from Scottsdale, Ariz., with her husband Kevin in 2021. “I always said my mom can make anything.”

Apparently, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Since she started making digital art in 2007, the artist behind the Bari J. lifestyle brand has created more than 20 fabric collections, along with art for wallpaper, rugs and other home-décor items. Ackerman’s designs are found on rugs at Anthropologie.com, shower curtains at Target — even sofas from Joybird, upholstered in Bari J. fabric. **

Ackerman’s art career didn’t begin to blossom until she was in her early 30s. She learned graphic design while working in the advertising department of a real estate company. When her two daughters were young, she started a

▲ The rug in the dining nook is from Ackerman’s Wild Bloom collection for Loloi. The rugs are sold at Anthropologie, Grandin Road and other online retailers.

► Ackerman converted a downstairs laundry room to a stylish butler’s pantry. The paint is Wildflower by Benjamin Moore, and the tile is by Morris and Co. from The Tile Shop. The light fixtures are from Mitzi.

business sewing handbags. To differentiate her products from others, she decided to design her own fabric. “And that was the foray into all the different product designs,” says Ackerman, sitting in her light-filled studio at Dilworth Artisan Station in South End..

After a few years and some success growing her business, she decided to try painting. “I think the reason I didn’t [previously] try putting anything on canvas and paper was because then it was permanent. I could just drop and drag to the trash if I was on the computer,” Ackerman says.

“And when I started painting, even though there were tangible things to mix and do, it felt like I’d been doing it for years. I was like, ‘Oh, this is what I was supposed to be doing.’ It’s so much more of a visceral experience.”

Product sales picked up, too, after she shifted from digital design to painting. “I think there was an expression that wasn’t captured necessarily in the digital art that was captured in the paint,” she says. An instructor in an entrepreneurship class had once told her, People buy your joy.

“And I just think that is so true. People buy things that they feel were created in joy, and I was just so filled with joy painting. I think that it translated, and it translates, to the products.”

Fabric is by far her bestseller, she says. Since 2012, Ackerman has licensed her designs to Art Gallery Fabrics, a Florida company that markets to DIY-ers and modern-day quilters. She teamed with Loloi Rugs on the Bari J. Wild Bloom collection that’s sold at Anthropologie, Grandin Road and other online retailers. Pillows, bedding, wallpaper and more can also be purchased on her website, barijdesigns.com.

Ackerman calls her look curated maximalism. “I really feel like with maximalism, there’s this connotation that it’s all about collecting and filling the space. My feeling about maximalism is that it’s

In the kitchen, Ackerman added open shelves instead of cabinets and installed Patina green subway tile from Mercury Mosaics with a terra cotta grout. The hardware is from Modern Matter in Charlotte. The wallpaper is Blackthorn by William Morris from Zoffany. Ackerman and her husband, Kevin, did much of the remodeling work themselves, as labor was difficult to find during the pandemic.

about layers of color and pattern put there intentionally and to create the vibe ... For me, it’s not about collections or stuff, because I’m very tchotchke-averse.”

Florals are her jam, though she’s recently branched out into other subjects, such as food and pets. “Flowers are woven into our lives because they truly inspire positive emotions,” she writes in her book, Bloom Wild, published in 2020 by Abrams. The book is filled with tips for decorating with florals, from choosing complementary patterns to creating tablescapes to picking fabrics that work together with art. “For me, flowers and blooms are natural healers,” she writes. **

While her art career keeps her plenty busy, Ackerman is equally enthusiastic about home design. “I didn’t want [our house] to look like a page from a home décor catalog,” she writes in her book.

And in just one year in Charlotte, she’s already transformed the main living areas of her Myers Park home, which she documents on her Instagram

In the dining room, Ackerman hand painted a botanical mural, inspired by vintage chinoiserie murals. The trim and ceiling are Malted Milk from SherwinWilliams. The table is from ModShop1, and the light fixtures are from Corbett Lighting and Hudson Valley Lighting.

“Flowers are woven into our lives because they truly inspire positive emotions.”

account @barij. Next, she plans to turn her attention to a powder room and the outdoor living spaces.

Ackerman dabbled in interior design during the decade she lived in Arizona, creating mood boards and helping clients select finishes for interior projects. She’s looking to ramp up her design career now that she’s settled in Charlotte.

**

Despite her own success building a brand using social media, in her book Ackerman suggests drawing inspiration from real-life experiences — botanical gardens, museums, bookstores — versus sites like Pinterest and Google, where algorithms create a relatively homogenous search experience. “You’ll see the same images over and over. I find this disables my creativity.”

That’s difficult to imagine, given all she’s accomplished so far. As she writes in her book, “Nothing is safe from my paintbrush.” SP

Tasting change in global Charlotte

by Tom Hanchett | photographs by Baxter Miller

The following adapted excerpt by Tom Hanchett is taken from Edible North Carolina: A Journey across a State of Flavor. Copyright 2022 by Marcie Cohen Ferris. Used by permission of the University of North Carolina Press, uncpress.org.

——— In today’s South, traditional food doesn’t just mean barbecue, collard greens and cornbread. It’s also pan dulce, cevapi, banh mi, shawarma and much more. Since the 1990s, in big cities and small towns, a wave of new immigrants has added global flavors to our regional foodways. The east side of Charlotte, North Carolina’s largest metropolis, offers a case study. In 2017 its diverse food cultures attracted scholars from the Southern Foodways Alliance, who recorded oral histories of immigrant entrepreneurs. What had drawn the newcomers to Charlotte? How did they launch businesses? What foods did they offer? How did they interact with other immigrants and with the wider city? How have foodways changed — especially as younger family members raised in the United States find their way into food-related businesses?

Desperation pushes some immigrants. Opportunity pulls others. Dino Mehic, a refugee from Bosnia, and Zhenia Martinez, who came with her parents from Mexico, personify those two extremes.

Dino bustles back and forth from his tiny Bosna Market down a step and through a door into his 10-seat Euro Grill. He takes special pride in his cevapi, the sandwich of stubby sausages that’s wildly popular in Bosnia. He’s got a smile and a wry sense of humor, but there’s an underlying sadness, too.

“My Bosnia was a beautiful country,” he says. “I left because of the war. In 1995, I lost my father in Srebrenica.” The notorious mass killing there wiped out more than 7,000 Bosnian Muslims, mostly men and boys. “I lost him. And he” — Dino’s son Mesa, who joined us for this interview — “was born in 1996. He took my father’s name.”

Dino fled to Germany, then to Charlotte. His wife found work in a local warehouse for a drugstore chain. “Then,” Dino explains, “somebody must take care of Mesa, take him to school, pick him up from school. Somebody must take care of our daughter, our home.” Was there a way for Dino to be a stay-at-home dad? “Can we open something, or do something and take care of our kids?

“When I came here I had no idea what I would do. I didn’t speak English, I needed a job, I needed to make some money. I had two family members [a wife and son, and a baby girl on the way]. All my life I am in the restaurant business and groceries, and that was my first idea, can I open a small grocery?

“The first year I went every Friday morning to Atlanta and brought stuff here. When we were beginning, I bought a van. I remember I paid twelve hundred dollars and prayed to God, ‘Come on, do not stop, please. I need you, I need you, I need you.’ That first year, every Friday I woke up at three o’clock in the morning to pick up the stuff.”

Soon Dino found a tiny storefront in a shopping plaza on Central Avenue. “All refugees, almost, were around here in Central Avenue apartments, the first two, three years. Our apartment was found for us by the refugee office; it was on Green Oaks Lane [off Central Avenue]. Many Bosnian refugees were in these apartments and the Morningside Apartments. That’s the reason why we opened on Central Avenue.

“Central Avenue at this time, it was scary. So much crime. It was not nice. There’s a lot of change. Now it’s great.”

In these same years a few blocks farther out Central Avenue, Aquiles Martinez founded Charlotte’s first panaderia, or Mexican bakery. While Dino Mehic had food experience in his previous life to draw on, Aquiles Martinez completely reinvented himself. A government bureaucrat in Mexico, he took what work he could find in menial labor after arriving in the United States. Later, a construction-related accident pushed Aquiles to learn a new trade as a baker.

“He was from a family that liked knowledge and sought knowledge,” his daughter Zhenia remembers. “In his 20s he put himself through college, studying economics. He always had books around him. In all the houses where we lived in Mexico, we had at least one wall completely covered from floor to ceiling with books. He loved politics as well. He held various jobs in government while we lived in Mexico.”

Aquiles and his wife, Margarita, a government secretary, worried for their children’s future in impoverished Mexico. “My mom said, ‘My god, how are my kids going to find a job here?’ So that’s when they decided to move us to the U.S.”

They settled first in Columbia, S.C., where a relative ran a Mexican restaurant. “They worked as cooks. They did the prep work and line work and even, when necessary, dishwashing. I don’t think they ever saw it as bad work. It was an honest way to make a living and feed your family.

“They came here with visas, but they overstayed their visas. Luckily, with President Reagan’s amnesty program in 1986, they got papers. That’s when they brought us. My brother and I stayed with my maternal grandmother in northern Mexico for about a year.

“My dad found work in construction; my mom worked in a factory. While my dad was working, he fell from a second floor. He couldn’t keep working in construction. In his fifties, he had to find another way to make a living.

“He started selling Mexican products out of a van. He had driven through the small farming towns of North Carolina and South Carolina. He saw a growing Latino population.

“One of the things he bought was pan dulce,” the sweet pastries beloved in Mexico. “When he saw how much people looked forward to that, he decided to open a bakery.”

But neither Aquiles nor Margarita Martinez knew anything about commercial baking.

“They went to Mexico to Chihuahua to a small bakery which still had a brick oven. They said, ‘We want to learn. Will you teach us?’ They were there for six months, and they learned everything that they could about pan dulce.

“The variety of pan dulce, it’s crazy. I’m trying to grasp a number — maybe about a hundred different ones? There are 10 doughs, and from those doughs you make the different breads. The thing about pan dulce is that it’s artisan made. You could never make it with a machine. It’s so artful. Anyone that underrates the pan dulce should spend a day trying to make it and have it come out beautiful. Everything has to be shaped by hand.”

Where to launch their shop? Charlotte’s Latino population was growing rapidly in 1997, and there was an inexpensive space for rent on Central Avenue. Aquiles and Margarita Martinez named their new bakery Las Delicias, in honor of Margarita’s Mexican hometown of Delicias. “That was the first Mexican bakery in Charlotte. I remember the first spring they opened, my aunt was here, my father’s sister. We literally sat at the door waiting for customers, because nobody would come in.”

The customers eventually did come — not only Mexican immigrants but migrants from every part of Central and South America. Today the panaderia is known as Manolo’s, led by Manolo Betancur, who is from Colombia. Zhenia Martinez reflects, “What started out as a Mexican bakery is now a Latin American bakery. In Charlotte as we’re growing so intertwined, we’re seeing the influx of other cultures and the sharing that results. We’re growing as a global culture and as a global business. We do not tailor our business to just one customer but rather to everyone.” SP

Global flavors are abundant in east Charlotte. Pictured: La Shish Kabab

Zhenia Martinez

Euro Grill

Edible North Carolina is an anthology of essays along with photographs and 20 recipes highlighting the state’s diverse food landscape. The book tells the stories of the people behind the plates, from fishermen to farmers to restaurateurs from the coast to the mountains, providing a historical context that informs today’s contemporary food scene. Contributors include Charlotte area food writers Keia Mastrianni and Kathleen Purvis, acclaimed Triangle chefs Cheetie Kumar and Bill Smith, and Durham chef and James Beard Award winner Ricky Moore. — Cathy Martin

CHARLOTTE’S CULINARY JEWELS SHINE AT LESSER-KNOWN EATERIES SHOWCASING TRADITIONAL CULTURAL FARE. PHOTOGRAPHER TONYA RUSS PRICE TAKES US ON A JOURNEY TO SOME OF THE CITY’S HIDDEN GEMS.

by Michael J. Solender | photographs by Tonya Russ Price

One tasty byproduct of Charlotte’s dizzying population growth over the last decade has been a dramatic expansion of the culinary landscape. Options abound for culturally curious restaurantgoers, with new bakeries and cafes opening nearly every week.

Growing alongside restaurants led by headline-making, culinary institute-trained chefs are legions of independent, immigrant-owned bistros and cafes bringing rich cultural traditions and vibrant flavors of distant homelands to eager new audiences.

Charlotte photographer Tonya Russ Price makes it her mission to discover and share the best of our city’s lesser-known restaurants, one delicious food photo at a time. Price, who works in catering sales for a local restaurant group, has spent 25 years in the hospitality business and knows her way around the plate. She’s also the founder of Poprock Photography, where for the past 11 years she’s photographed events, weddings and restaurant openings. Her Instagram account @poprockphotography regularly features photos of her favorite finds, mostly mom-and-pop places in working-class neighborhoods around town.

For Price, the friendships are even more important than the tasty food she finds on her journeys around town. “It really is all about the connections for me,” she says. “Exploring different cultures through the experience of food is such a great way to get to know and understand others. Sharing that through my photos is a way to build those bonds, too. I’m always looking to capture the love.”

SouthPark Magazine recently tagged along with Price recently to experience some of her go-to destinations. Here’s what we found.

Sri Balaji Caffe 716 Main St., Pineville

This tiny vegetarian/vegan eatery off Main Street in Pineville is one of Price’s mainstays. “Indian food is so comforting,” she says. “All the warm spices and complex curries come together in ways that leave me craving for my next visit, even when I’m still here.”

Sri Balaji, the name of a Hindu god, offers an extensive menu of south Indian staples. Tiffin (think: an Indian version of the Japanese Bento Box) is a great beginner’s option. Trays come with choices of fragrant sambar (a type of lentil stew), poori (light, airy fried bread pockets), lentil cakes, potato masala and a variety of chutneys.

Dosas — impossibly thin, spongy Indian crepes as big as a stop sign — come filled with potatoes, lentils, onions, spinach, sesame seeds, chutney and sambar. Uthappams, spicy rice-flour pancakes, are served with fiery chili paneer (a fresh Indian cheese) or a sweet-and-spicy coconut gravy. Heavenly aromas of turmeric, cumin, coriander, ginger, cardamom and tamarind surround diners inside the tiny, sunshine-yellow dining room. Eat in or dine outside on the covered patio at this casual, counter-service bistro. “I come here at least once a week,” Price says. “It’s that good.”

Crispy Banh mi Three locations: 5100 South Blvd., Ste. C; and 2934 Shamrock Dr.; and 2130 Ayrsley Town Blvd., Ste. C

Upon entering the original Crispy Banh mi on South Boulevard, Trung “Joe” Do greets Price with an ear-to-ear smile and a welcome reserved for special guests. Do, who co-owns the popular cafe with his brother Than, hails from Vietnam, where warm, toasty baguettes stuffed with salty, sweet marinated and grilled pork and crisp pickled vegetables are the favored fuel for the on-the-go working class. “Everyone loves the convenience and flavors of banh mi,” says Do, who serves up more than 1,500 of these classics weekly from his three shops.

Price is such a frequent regular, Do practically has her drink order ready before she even requests it: Thai tea, tall, iced with a floater of sweetened condensed milk and tapioca pearls (boba). Specialty drinks and juices are not an afterthought here. Vietnamese coffees, milk and fruity teas, and juice libations all sing with Asian ingredients like fresh sugarcane juice and coconut milk. The slightly sweet tea is a perfect complement to the classic Bar-B-Que Pork Banh mi. Chicken, fried fish, meatball, cold cut and vegetarian versions are also available. “The baguettes are the perfect texture of crusty outside and soft and chewy middle. It’s the best cheap eats in Charlotte,” Price says. “It makes me happy.”

La Unica Supermarket

Internacional 5938 South Blvd.

Mini-mart, bakery, taco and torta shop combine at this ‘blink-andyou’ll-miss-it’ Latin-style market on South Boulevard. Colorful desserts line refrigerated pastry cases filled with Mexican specialties such as chocoflan (chocolate egg custard) arroz con leche (sweet rice pudding), mi hojas (flaky layered pastry with custard filling) and freshly baked cakes. Head baker Sergio Ruis shows off tray after tray of Mexican pan dulce (sweet bread pastries) like conchas, picones, ojo de buey and mantecados (shortbread sugar cookies). Buttery cinnamon churros are in abundance here, as are Mexican cookies and muffins.

Price knows to ask at the counter for the torta and taco menu, today ordering tacos barbacoa — low-and-slow barbecued beef on fresh tortillas with pickled radish, cilantro salsa and fresh pico de gallo.

There’s a small eat-in area here, but most visitors prefer to take their goods home for a Mexican feast on the cheap.

Everest Bistro 9010 Monroe Rd., Unit 1

Climb a mountain of Nepali flavors at this tiny bistro on Monroe Road serving lunch and dinner. “I’m mad about the chai tea here,” says Price, who often comes in for a snack when she’s out and about. The special tea is a custom blend of mountain black and green tea, cardamom, pepper and bay leaf. “It’s sweet and spicy and is nice to savor with their samosas.” Crispy fried patties with a potato and green pea filling, the triangular stuffed pockets come with tamarind and mint dipping sauce.

Nepali cuisine is similar to that of northern India. The landlocked country is an international crossroads, and its cuisine reflects Himalayan influences from around the region. Everest’s Cauliflower Furaula is a house specialty. Crispy florets are bathed in a spicy mélange of ginger, garlic, onion and cilantro in a tangy furaula sauce. Order on a heat scale of 1-10, paying mind to the mid-range as the top end is reserved for brave souls and Nepali natives only.

Momos, Nepali-style filled dumplings, come stuffed with ground chicken or mixed veggies. One order is easily an appetizer for two or a meal for one.

Manolo’s Latin Bakery 4405 Central Ave., Ste. C

Manolo Betancur is a community connector and an entrepreneur with a mission to help Charlotte’s immigrant community by providing jobs — and a taste of their homeland. Betancur’s Central Avenue bakery and production kitchen serves as the base for his expansive outreach. His business employs 35, and his baked goods are sold in more than 100 restaurants and markets throughout Charlotte.

Our visit finds Betancur just back from a relief mission to Poland and Ukraine. He spent two weeks rebuilding a bakery in Bucha, a Ukrainian town devastated in the recent Russia/Ukraine conflict. To date, he’s raised more than $10,000 in support of Ukraine and will return in the fall to continue helping others.

In Charlotte, his international breads, savory empanadas, Latin pastries and coconut milk vegan gelato garner a steady stream of patrons, many of whom Betancur knows by name. Manolo’s special Tres Leches cake can be made with a variety of fillings, including chocolate chips, strawberries and caramel, and is pure bliss. “I am in the happiness business,” Betancur says. “It is a privilege to connect with so many of my neighbors.”

Doan’s Restaurant 5937 South Blvd.

This family-run Charlotte stalwart brings South Vietnam’s signature dish of pho — deep, earthy beef bone broth with rice vermicelli noodles and floral herbs of mint and cilantro — to wondrous heights. Hai Pham, together with wife Nga Thai and son Andy Pham, have been delighting Charlotte diners with the authentic tastes of Vietnam for 10 years at their casual restaurant on South Boulevard.

Pham’s alchemy begins with 70 pounds of beef bone combined with 30 pounds of beef brisket infused with a secret spice blend and simmered for up to 16 hours in specially filtered alkaline water. Pham makes three batches every week to yield his deeply satisfying soup base. Diners choose add-ins, from eye of round, beef ball, brisket, shrimp or vegetables to make the dish their own. It’s not just soothing in the winter months; the light and flavorful soup is a nutrition-packed summer sensation.

“I’m crazy for the grilled beef fresh summer rolls,” says Price, who often stops by to pick up an order (or two) for the perfect between-meal snack. She’s also a big fan of the Vietnamese Yellow Pancake. Stuffed with shrimp, chicken and bean sprouts, this flavorful crepe is served with fish sauce, lettuce, basil and lime. “I love the genuine mix of southeast Asia flavors — sweet, salty, sour and savory.”

Golden Bakery & Halal

Market 3145 N. Sharon Amity Rd.

This Middle Eastern gem on Sharon Amity Road serves up freshly baked flatbreads like naan, shrak and lavash alongside pitas, fatayer (stuffed pastries), sambousek (flaky, savory filled pies) and sweet treats with exotic names like basbooseh (dense cake), borma (stuffed cookie) and ghoraybeh (soft shortbread cookie).

A great stop for a quick snack, Golden prepares individual mini pizzas to order in its always fired-up brick oven. Four varieties of baklava are found here, including traditional pistachio, walnut, rolled and almond. The freshly made hummus is silky smooth and made daily.

The Syrian owned bakery and Halal market offers spices, fresh cheese, fresh-butchered lamb and goat meat, and specialty grocery items from the Mediterranean and Middle East. SP

SOMETHING ABOUT SAVANNAH

THE ALIDA HOTEL CHECKS ALL THE BOXES FOR A FUN-FILLED STAY IN THE HOSTESS CITY. | by Cathy Martin

There are few sights like sunrise on the Savannah waterfront, as you cross the Talmadge Memorial Bridge connecting the city to Hutchinson Island. It’s a peaceful scene in a spot where, just a few hours earlier, tourists — and maybe even a few locals — caroused, spilling out of the bars and restaurants lining River Street.

The drive from Charlotte to Savannah is about four hours, but in a way, it feels like time travel, leaving a city with so few historic structures for one where preservation has been a priority since the mid-1900s. Near the northwest tip of the Historic Landmark District, encompassing a city block between Williamson and River streets, is The Alida, one of Savannah’s newest boutique hotels. Named after Alida Harper Fowlkes, a renowned local preservationist and antique dealer who died in 1985, the 173-room hotel sits steps away from the bustling new Plant Riverside District, a sparkling extension of the Hostess City’s pedestrian-friendly waterfront.

Inside the sprawling lobby of The Alida, warm-toned wood floors, exposed brick walls and midcentury décor create a stylish-yet-relaxed base camp for a weekend in the city. Hotel developers consulted with NYC-based Parts and Labor Design, whose projects have been featured in Vogue and Architectural Digest, on the industrial-meets-Southern hospitality design. Guest rooms envisioned by Austin, Texas-based FODA Design feature oversized windows, cozy reading benches, spacious bathrooms and pillows designed by local SCAD students for a little local flair.

Outside, step past the communal fire pits to one of The Alida’s star attractions: a saltwater pool, heated and cooled for year-round use, with a spacious deck, private cabanas and a poolside bar. More than an afterthought, the pool here is a central gathering spot.

While you’ll have to pay for valet parking, perks at the pet-friendly hotel include happy hours with complimentary wine or bubbly, complimentary coffee, free Wi-Fi and a large 24-hour fitness center. Like The Alida’s sister property in Charleston, Hotel Emeline, there’s a Keep Shop in the lobby filled with wares by local and regional makers, including Satchel leather goods and Salacia Salts candles and natural bath products.

I love a city that knows how to brunch, especially when on vacation. From 7 a.m. to 2 p.m. daily, The Alida’s Rhett serves a menu

A guest room at The Alida

Rhett

that ranges from breakfast staples (omelets and pancakes) to avocado toast (feta, walnuts, tarragon and radish on sourdough) to sandwiches, along with Bellinis, mimosas and a bloody mary bar.

Dinner at Rhett is seafood-focused with a Southern slant, with shareables like tuna crudo, a seafood tower (oysters, snow crab claws, shrimp, citrus marinated tuna and smoked fish dip), and mussels with hand-cut truffle fries and a local beer sauce. Even landlubbers will love the cheddar drop biscuits with a Cheerwine glaze and country ham, or the mushroom tartine: roasted local mushrooms with fresh herbs and Boursin on focaccia. Mains include a bacon-wrapped, stuffed rainbow trout with mushrooms, leeks and a cured lemon pan sauce; a stellar shrimp and grits with andouille and smoked tomato gravy; and a crispy chicken with Carolina gold rice, red peas and red-eye gravy.

For a nightcap, head to The Lost Square, Alida’s laidback rooftop bar or, if it’s open, The Trade Room, the hotel’s sleek and stylish lobby bar.

Savannah is known for its food scene, and nearly everything is within walking distance of the hotel. There’s a concierge on-site if you need recommendations, but if you choose to venture out on your own, there are plenty of great choices nearby. The Grey is a must-visit — if you can snag a reservation. Housed in a 1938 art-deco style Greyhound bus terminal, award-winning Chef Mashama Bailey’s menu combines classic techniques with seasonal, local ingredients and unexpected presentations. Collins Quarter is another mainstay — the breakfast and lunch hot spot is always packed but worth the wait. For a slice of classic Savannah, head to Vinnie Van Go-Gos, a pizzeria just two blocks from the hotel.

Savannah is a walking town, and the 30-acre Forsyth Park, with its iconic fountain and massive oaks dripping with Spanish moss, is a quieter alternative to the touristy River Street. At dusk, groups gather in the city’s 22 squares for ghost tours — Savannah boasts it’s America’s most haunted city. Whether you’re a history buff, architecture enthusiast, foodie or art lover, there’s plenty to explore in Savannah. SP

The Trade Room

SHOP SAVANNAH

On previous visits to Savannah, I was too busy soaking in the Southern charm and eating and drinking my way across town to browse the local stores. But beyond all the tourist T-shirt shops — plus countless fine antique stores and bookshops — Savannah has a bounty of boutiques ready to burn a hole in your wallet. Asher + Rye – After running an online shop, husband and wife interior-design duo Joel and Erika Snayd opened this lifestyle boutique with a serene Scandinavian vibe in late 2020. Located in the Downtown Design District, the shop has it all, from bath and bedding, home décor, men’s and women’s apparel, children’s clothing and accessories, gourmet foods, and pet products. There’s even a coffee bar — grab an espresso and immerse yourself in the shop’s soothing, chic aesthetic. One Fish Two Fish has anchored the corner of Whitaker and Jones streets since 1998, selling upscale home furnishings — much of it coastal-inspired — plus leather goods, bath and body products, pajamas and more. Don’t leave before checking out its sister store, The Annex, a women’s apparel shop where you’ll find breezy, relaxed styles from labels including Emerson Fry, Banjanan, Oliphant and Olivia James The Label. A block down from The Annex on Whitaker Street, Hannah E. is a boutique with a curated collection of of-the-moment looks from brands including Hunter Bell, SEA New York, Rebecca Taylor, Vince and Zadig & Voltaire. ShopSCAD is filled with an array of student-designed jewelry, pottery, paintings, stationery and more.

On a busy downtown corner, you’ll find The Paris Market — if the elaborate window displays don’t draw you in, the smell of espresso from the darling in-store café might. Sip a honey lavender latte (or a glass of Champagne) then peruse the shop’s curated assortment of jewelry, books, candles, home goods, beauty products and more. Terra Cotta on Barnard Street sells women’s apparel (Xirena and Velvet are among the labels here); shoes; jewelry from local designers along with well-known brands like Chan Luu; apothecary items; small leather goods; and handmade Balinese bags. If searching for hidden treasure is more your thing, pop over to Wright Square Vintage & Retro Mall and wander among more than 30 stalls filled with vintage records, prints and other collectibles. Back at the Plant Riverside District, Urban Poppy offers candles, bath and body products, and gourmet gifts in a bright and cozy flower-filled storefront. Down on the historic waterfront, River Street Sweets is a Savannah mainstay for families with kids, or anyone with a sweet tooth — pralines, fudge and saltwater taffy are just a few of the sugary confections made in-house.

Today’s senior-living experiences offer more choices than ever before. Whether you’re looking for a senior community to call home or for services and care to help navigate the challenges of aging well, these SouthPark Partners provide countless opportunities for active and maintenance-free living as well as needed expertise, support and a wealth of resources.

The Barclay at SouthPark Brightmore of South Charlotte The Cypress The Ivey Memory & Movement Charlotte Senior Services of Charlotte Sharon Towers

“Lovely neighbors, fun activities, a secure location — we love it!” An exceptional lifestyle awaits

The Cypress of Charlotte is the Queen City’s premier Life Plan Community, sitting on 65 sun-kissed acres in the heart of beautiful SouthPark. With the feel of a high-end resort, The Cypress offers residents a warm and vibrant community, sophisticated amenities, lush outdoor spaces, and countless opportunities to connect with friends.

One of the biggest differentiators between The Cypress and other senior communities is also one of the best: home ownership. When you live here, you own your cottage or villa, yet none of the upkeep falls on your shoulders. You and your family will receive the advantages of equity ownership; we’ll handle the maintenance.

The health and well-being of our residents is the top priority at The Cypress. Along with a comprehensive wellness program designed to fuel the ongoing fitness of the mind, body and spirit, every Cypress member, from the most independent to those requiring more advanced care, has access to exceptional medical facilities on campus.

After 40 years in Charlotte, Kathy chose The Cypress for its large, beautiful campus and abundance of amenities. “The SouthPark location meets all our medical, banking, entertainment and shopping needs, and The Cypress can drive us if we need assistance,” she says. “Dining here is a delight, whether we use the dining room or have meals delivered. Lovely neighbors, fun activities, a secure location — we love it!”

To live here is to love it here. Shouldn’t that be what home is all about? We invite you to visit The Cypress. It won’t take long to understand why it’s such a special place.

“The Barclay has been a real blessing to us all.” The intersection of urban and suburban

The Barclay at SouthPark offers modern, maintenance-free living with amenity spaces residents are proud to call their own. As a rental community, there is no large out-of-pocket entrance fee, which allows for residents’ hard-earned assets to continue to work for them. After many years of their parents living in different states, Meredith and Alan are thrilled to have them nearby at The Barclay. “It has been an ideal fit for them,” the couple says. “They have a beautiful and comfortable home, and they really enjoy the people and activities in the community … The Barclay has been a real blessing to us all.” The INSPIRE wellness program focuses on meeting residents’ emotional, social, intellectual, spiritual and physical needs. For dining, there’s a remarkable range of culinary choices and settings – from a casual, quick bite to drinks and small plates to fine dining. Beyond a fully-equipped gym with state-of-the-art equipment, residents can enjoy an indoor pool and hot tub, welcoming community spaces and a robust list of on- and off-campus programs. Perhaps the best part? Saying goodbye to the responsibilities that come with home maintenance. Residents at The Barclay also take comfort knowing they have priority access should their healthcare needs change in the future. Briar Creek Health Center offers assisted living, memory support services, skilled nursing and Medicare-certified short-term rehabilitation. The Barclay at SouthPark believes in retirement living to the fullest. It’s not just a place to live, but a place to love. Visit BarclayatSouthpark.com to learn more and schedule a tour today!

“She loves her tight-knit group of friends and looks forward to all the daily activities.” Elevated independent living at its best

An invigorating water aerobics class, a cozy picnic prepared by an executive chef or a gathering with friends to explore the wines of Spain – however you define carefree living, Brightmore of South Charlotte has the answer. Brightmore of South Charlotte is a rental senior living community near Ballantyne that provides a vibrant retirement lifestyle. The community features a variety of independent living apartment homes and numerous amenity options for active living, all with no entrance fee. Additionally, living at Brightmore offers peace of mind with multiple levels of support and care available onsite. When it comes to dining, Brightmore has several options from which residents can choose. Every meal is prepared on-site and served restaurant-style, allowing residents to indulge in the venue and menu they prefer – from formal dining to casual pub-style meals or lighter fare from Brightmore’s own fresh market. At Brightmore, we put the “active” in “active retirement lifestyle.” Our programs focus on whole-person wellness for a life rich in experiences, daily exercise opportunities and a social calendar filled with events. The INSPIRE wellness and life-enrichment programs focus on meeting the emotional, social, intellectual, spiritual and physical needs of each resident.

Robyn, a frequent visitor to a Brightmore resident, praises the beautiful community and the caring, friendly staff. “I honestly think she is aging backwards since she moved there,” she says. “She loves her tight-knit group of friends and looks forward to all the daily activities.” Residents have all they need at Brightmore to live carefree, with services and conveniences all included in one monthly rental fee. Schedule a visit today and discover elevated independent living at its best.

“Sharon Towers blends convenience of urban living with elements of nature.” Senior living that leaves nothing behind

Since 1969, 28-acre Sharon Towers has set high standards for senior living in Charlotte. The not-for-profit Life Plan Community is home to more than 300 residents and offers independent living, assisted living and skilled-nursing care. Mere steps away from premier high-end shopping and the finest in dining, entertainment, healthcare and more, this urban enclave includes natural areas for relaxation such as flower gardens and a wooded walking path. On-site amenities and services feature several culinary choices (including fine dining) along with activities, outreach programs and classes. Sharon Towers completes its commitment to total wellness with a convenient, on-location physician’s office and wellness clinic. Independent Living accommodations suit every taste and lifestyle, from a variety of apartments to spacious cottages. Additionally, The Deerwood, a 42-unit apartment building featuring the latest in sophisticated urban living, recently opened its doors to over 60 new members.

The Deerwood is an early part of a campus transformation that will add living and amenities spaces as well as renovate existing spaces within the next 10 years. This phase also includes the construction of a neighboring public park and major renovation and expansion to Medicare-certified Weisiger Health Center with state-of-the-art nursing care rooms.

“Sharon Towers blends convenience of urban living with elements of nature,” says Ann Marie Ladis, director of sales & marketing. “The organization keeps pace with changing lifestyles while remaining fiscally sound – a testament to years of excellent management and visionary leadership.” The continuing transformation will bring Sharon Towers to 257 independent-living apartments, 38 assisted-living apartments and 96 skilled-nursing rooms. Contact Sharon Towers today to arrange a personalized tour. Or visit SharonTowers.org.

Optimizing brain health & memory wellness

“Dementia doesn’t have to be our destiny as we age.”

Nestled on a tree-lined campus in the heart of SouthPark, The Ivey is the Charlotte region’s premier Brain Health Solutions organization, complete with a daily Respite Club, Caregiver Resources and the 2021 launch of Brain Health Workshops. The Ivey was founded in 2008 by CEO Lynn Ivey as a tribute to her mother, who lived with Alzheimer’s disease, and her father, her mother’s loving caregiver. Through the power of education and a community of support for the entire family, The Ivey’s programs are designed to optimize brain health for aging well, promote memory wellness and provide respite, knowledge and resources for families and the Charlotte community. The Ivey’s daily Respite Club provides socially engaging, educational and memory-enhancing activities within a structured and supervised environment, as well as appropriate physical activities for individuals with early cognitive issues. Caregiver Resources encompass a wide range of assistance, from care coordination to caregiver support groups. Modifiable risk factors that reduce the risk of cognitive decline and dementia are the focus of the Brain Health Workshops. Offered three times a year, workshops are led by professional, licensed experts, delivering ways to keep the brain sharp and age well. “Dementia doesn’t have to be our destiny as we age,” Ivey says. A recent strategic collaboration between The Ivey and Southminster is poised to improve the lives of area residents by fostering healthy lifestyles through education and shared resources. With a commitment to excellence, the two local nonprofits will have a lasting, long-term impact on families who seek a brain-healthy lifestyle through memory-wellness programming and brain-health education.

“Our goal for each client is to make it as easy as possible.” Easing the stress of moving for seniors

For many seniors and their families, moving can feel like an insurmountable task. From deciding what items to keep to getting a home ready to sell to moving to a new place, there’s an overwhelming list of to-do’s. But for Lynda Stiles and her caring, professional team at Senior Services of Charlotte, helping seniors with their move – every step of the way – is what they love to do. “Our goal for each client is to make it as easy as possible,” she says. “We truly can do everything for them, so they don’t have to worry about the details. We provide solutions for most any problem a client has, and we do it with compassion and love.” It’s a job that comes naturally to Stiles, a former sales and marketing executive who started a senior services program at Allen Tate Co. nine years ago. Discovering a passion for working with seniors and recognizing the need, she formed her own full-service company in 2016, dedicated to helping seniors make successful and easy transitions to retirement communities or smaller homes. Now with a team of 15 women and two men, Senior Services connects clients with real estate agents, prepares homes for sale, donates or sells any unwanted items, and cleans out cluttered spaces like attics and garages. When time for the move, the team will pack a senior’s home, unpack them at their new location and even help with hanging pictures or decorating. “It really is a team effort,” Stiles says. “And it’s one we take joy in being a part of.” If you or a loved one is planning a move to a retirement community, find out how Senior Services can help you. Contact us at seniorservicesclt@gmail.com or call 704.905.4155.

“Memory & Movement Charlotte was lifesaving for me.” Navigating complexities together

Beautiful, unique artwork brightens the walls of Memory & Movement Charlotte. Created by patients, it serves as a reminder that behind each person is a vibrant and full life story. And each one deserves a different kind of care. Offering a family-focused approach to Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s and other memory and movement disorders, Memory & Movement provides clinical diagnosis and treatment, emotional support and education for patients and caregivers as they navigate the challenges each disease presents. It’s a journey founder Dr. Charles Edwards knows firsthand. After a 30-year career as a cardiovascular surgeon, Dr. Edwards returned to medical school for training in dementia care – inspired by his parents, who both suffered from dementia. He launched the clinic nine years ago, and it recently moved to a new, expanded facility that includes an in-house physical therapy gym and well-integrated technology, allowing family members anywhere to participate in appointments. At Memory & Movement, the foundation of care is rooted in its Time & Attention model. Every appointment lasts 60 to 90 minutes and allows patients, caregivers and members of a physician-led care team to thoroughly discuss questions and concerns. Its Take Charge! education and support program includes interactive workshops led by experts and a comprehensive online resource library. Caregiver support groups provide connections with others who understand the demands of caring for someone with a memory or movement diagnosis. “Memory & Movement Charlotte was lifesaving for me, his caregiver,” says the wife of Bill, one of Memory & Movement’s first patients. Frustrated by short neurologists’ appointments and desperate for information, she turned to Memory & Movement. “They gave me the moral support to hang in, and the tools and time I needed.”

William Faulkner invented Yoknapatawpha County as a place for his imagination to live, and every Southern writer knew where it was, even if it wasn’t on any map. Ernest Hemingway loaded his readers onto a double-decker bus and transported them to a fiesta in Pamplona, Spain, with its wine skins and dusty plaza de toros. Allan Gurganus created the fictional small town of Falls, North Carolina. In the hands of a fine craftsman, a sense of place in a piece of fiction can be so compelling it almost becomes its own character in the narrative. In our Summer Reading feature, three of North Carolina’s greatest writers deliver on this promise, taking us to West Virginia coal country, the Smoky Mountains of North Carolina, and the bottom of a freshly dug grave. Our guides for these adventures are Lee Smith, Ron Rash and Clyde Edgerton.

Lee Smith is

the author of 14 novels, including Fair and Tender Ladies, Oral History, Saving Grace and Guests on Earth, as well as four collections of short stories. Her novel The Last Girls was a New York Times bestseller as well as co-winner of the Southern Book Critics Circle Award. A retired professor of English at N.C. State University, she has received an Academy Award in Fiction from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, the North Carolina Award for Literature, and the Weatherford Award for Appalachian Literature. Her latest book, Silver Alert, will be available in the spring of 2023. Ron Rash is

the author of seven novels, seven collections of short stories and four volumes of poetry. He has been honored with The Sherwood Anderson Prize and was a finalist for the PEN/ Faulkner Award for Fiction for his collection “Chemistry and Other Stories,” and for his New York Times bestselling novel Serena. His other novels include Saints at the River, Above the Waterfall and The Risen. He is the Parris Distinguished Professor in Appalachian Cultural Studies at Western Carolina University, where he teaches poetry and fiction writing. Clyde Edgerton

is the author of 10 novels and two books of nonfiction. His novels include Raney, Walking Across Egypt, The Floatplane Notebooks, Killer Diller and Lunch at the Piccadilly. Both Walking Across Egypt and Killer Diller were adapted for the screen. He has been the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship and has also received the North Carolina Award for Literature. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNC Wilmington.

Romantic fever

fiction by Lee Smith illustrations by Matthew Shipley

The house I grew up in was one of a row of houses strung along a narrow river bottom like a string of beads. We were not allowed to play in the river because they washed coal in it, upstream. Its water ran deep and black between the mountains, which rose like walls on either side of us, rocky and thick with trees.

My mother came from the flat exotic eastern shore of Virginia, and swore that the mountains gave her migraine headaches. Mama was always lying down on the sofa, all dressed up. But there was no question that she loved my father, a mountain man she had chosen over the well-bred Arthur Banks of Richmond, “a fellow who went to the University of Virginia and never got over it,” according to Daddy. Mama suffered from ideas of aristocracy herself. Every night she would fix a nice supper for Daddy and me, then bathe and put on a fresh dress and high heels and her bright red lipstick, named “Fire and Ice,” and then sit in anxious dismay while the hour grew later and later, until Daddy finally left his dime store and came home.

By that time the food had dried out to something crunchy and unrecognizable, so Mama would cry when she opened the oven door, but then Daddy would eat it all anyway, swearing it was the most delicious food he’d ever put in his mouth, staring hard at Mama all the while. Frequently my parents would then leave the

table abruptly, feigning huge yawns and leaving me to turn out all the lights. I’d stomp around the house and do this resentfully, both horrified and thrilled at the thought of them upstairs behind their closed door.

I myself was in love with my best friend’s father, three houses down the road. Mr. Owens had huge dark soulful eyes, thick black hair, a mustache that dropped down on either side of his mouth, and the prettiest singing voice available. Every night after supper, he’d sit out in his garden by the river and play his guitar and sing for us and every other kid in the neighborhood, who’d gather around to listen.

Mr. Owens played songs like “Wayfaring Stranger” and “The Alabama Waltz.” He died the year we were 13, from an illness described as “romantic fever.” Though later I would learn that the first word was actually “rheumatic,” in my own mind it remained “romantic fever,” an illness I associated with those long summer evenings when my beloved Mr. Owens played the old sad songs while lightning bugs rose like stars from the misty weeds along the black river and right down the road — three houses away — my own parents were kissing like crazy as night came on.

II

The link between love and death intensified when my MYF group (that’s Methodist Youth Fellowship) went to Myrtle Beach, where we encountered many exotic things such as pizza pie and Northern boys smoking cigarettes on the boardwalk. Our youth leader, who was majoring in drama at a church school, threw our cigarettes into the surf and led us back up onto the sandy porch of Mrs. Fickling’s Boardinghouse for an emergency lecture on Petting.

“A nice girl,” she said dramatically, “does not Pet. It is cruel to the boy to allow him to Pet, because he has no control over himself. He is just a boy. It is all up to the girl. If she allows the boy to Pet her, then he will become excited, and if he cannot find relief, then the poison will all back up into his organs causing pain — and sometimes — death!” She spat out the words.

We drew back in horror and fascination.

III

Of course it wasn’t long before I found myself in the place where I’d been headed all along: the front seat of a rusty old pickup, heading up a mountain on a dark gravel road with a wild older boy — let’s call him Wayne — whom I scarcely knew but had secretly adored for months. This was not the nice boy I’d been dating, the football star/student government leader who’d carried my books around from class to class all year and held my hand in study hall. My friends were all jealous of me for attracting such a nice boyfriend; even my mother approved. But, though he dutifully pressed his body against mine at dances in the gym whenever they played “The Twelfth of Never,” our song, it just wasn’t happening. That fiery hand did not clasp my vitals as it did in Jane Eyre whenever she encountered Mr. Rochester.

So I had seized my chance when Wayne asked me if I’d like to ride around sometime. “You bet!” I’d said so fast it startled him. “I’d love to!” Wayne was a big, slow-talking boy with long black hair that fell down into his handsome, sullen face. He wore a ring of keys on his belt and a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of his T-shirt. He did not play sports. I admired his style as much as I admired his family — or lack of family, I should say, for he lived with his uncle in a trailer out near the county line. Wayne smoked, drank and played in a band with grown-up men. He was always on the Absentee Hot List, and soon he’d be gone for good, headed off to Nashville with a shoebox full of songs.

We jolted up the rutted road through dense black woods. My mother would have died if she’d known where I was. But she didn’t. Nobody did.

I was determined to Pet with Wayne even if it killed him.

Finally we emerged onto a kind of dark, windy plateau, an abandoned strip mine set on top of the mountain. He drove right up to the edge, a sheer drop. I caught my breath. On the mountainside below us were a hundred coke ovens sending their fiery blasts like giant candles straight up into the sky. It was like the pit of hell itself, but beautiful. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. For some reason I started crying.

“Aw,” he said. He screwed the top off a mason jar and gave me a drink, which burned all the way down. “You know what?” He pulled me over toward him. He smelled like smoke, like alcohol, like the woods.

“What?” I said into the sleeve of his blue jean jacket.

“They was a boy killed in one of them ovens last month — fell in, or throwed himself in, nobody ever did know which.”

“Was there?” I scooted closer.

“Yep, it was a boy from over on Paw Paw, had a wife and two little babies. Gone in the twinkling of a eye, just like it says in the Bible.” He snapped his fingers. “Right down there,” he said into my hair.

“That’s awful.” I shuddered, turning up my face for his kiss, while below us the coke ovens burned like a hundred red fountains of death and I felt the fiery hand clutch my vitals for good.

Finally, I thought.

Romantic fever. SP

Kephart fiction by Ron Rash illustrations by Lyudmila Tomova

Horace Kephart Is Held for Observation

FORMER LIBRARIAN ARRESTED AS HE WAS WALKING TOWARDS Eads Bridge. Horace Kephart, aged 42 years, residing at 1821 Kennett Place, who was succeeded on February 1 last as librarian of the Mercantile Library by William L. R. Gifford, after he had held the position for 14 years, was arrested at 2 o’clock yesterday afternoon and placed in the observation ward at the city hospital, pending an investigation into his mental condition.

His arrest was brought about by his peculiar actions in Marre’s saloon, 518 Washington Avenue. After buying a glass of beer there yesterday, it is said, he engaged the bartender, Edward Wasen, in conversation, during the course of which he placed in Wasen’s hands a lengthy letter, written in pencil on rough wrapping paper, in which he expressed an intention of committing suicide. Police Officer Mannion was at once notified. After following Kephart a block or so along Washington Avenue toward Eads Bridge the officer stopped him and called an ambulance.

Kephart is a well-known magazine writer. He is a graduate of both Yale and Cornell Universities.

In his insanity, he’d believed two of his closest friends were diabolical enemies. They had hired cutthroats from docks and dim alleys to come in the night and murder him. He heard them pry at his window sill, test the doorknob as they searched for a way inside. He stayed up until dawn, talking aloud, sometimes shouting so they knew he wasn’t sleeping. Only a policeman’s intervention prevented his ending the torment himself. An overwrought brain. That had been a doctor’s diagnosis. When he had finally been allowed to leave the hospital, all the promise he’d shown in college and graduate school, his time at the Yale library before coming to Saint Louis, were meaningless. He was 42 years old, his life reduced to prurient fodder for newspapers. "

He had first visited wild places as a teenager, camping and hiking in the Adirondacks of upper New York state. When he’d taken a head librarian position in Saint Louis, there had been camping trips to nearby forests. He’d become proficient enough in woodcraft to write articles for outdoor magazines. He’d needed these respites from the library work, the rush and clamor of city life, a marriage that had begun to fall apart. But mere respites had finally not been enough.

To find himself, he had to go where he could not be found. Later, when he led the fight to create the Smoky Mountains National Park, he’d write, I wanted to save these mountains because they saved me. But that would be later. When they let him out of the hospital, he sought the solitude of forests. He’d studied a topographical map of the eastern United States, searching for the blank spaces and contour lines that revealed the least inhabited region, the Smoky Mountains of western North Carolina and east Tennessee. He went by train to Dillsboro, North Carolina. Then onward, first by roads, then by trails, and finally following only a narrowing stream into deeper woods. All that he’d brought with him was his tent and an ox sled of supplies. He made a campsite beside the creek, pitched his tent.

For three months, he stayed there. Next to his campsite the stream slowed and deepened. He had never seen water so pure and clear. He’d read that in India those with afflicted minds were set beside rivers so that the sound of the water’s passage could restore their sanity. He fell asleep and waked to the rhythms of the water. The insomnia that had tormented him for years lessened. All the wilderness asked of him was to listen.

And to see. When he gazed into the pools, he could make out the individual pebbles in the sandy beds. When the midday sun shone on the water, flakes of mica made the white sand spark. The clarity of the water entered his mind. The hallucinations ceased; the melancholy began to lift. One early afternoon he saw his own face in the water. Not a reflection but instead a merging, becoming one with the stream, the forests, the mountains. Sometimes he would see speckled trout. They were the most beautiful of fish — their flanks spotted green, red and gold, their orange fins wavering. They were small, fragile, unable to live anywhere except the purest water. He wondered what it felt like to live inside such weightlessness.

Days passed, then weeks. He grew stronger, both in body and mind. As he explored and observed, the woods became so familiar he no longer needed a compass. Instead of a watch, sunlight and shadows showed him when he needed to turn around, make his way back to his campsite before darkness fell. Unlike in the world he’d fled, seconds and minutes no longer mattered. Wasn’t the awareness of time so much a part of what he’d fled, the way it so often directed his mind to obsess on past regrets or future

fears? Wasn’t the numbness he’d sought with alcohol an attempt to escape such awareness? In the daylight, he could believe he was shedding the past as a snake sheds its skin.

But some nights the old torments came. The sound of the water was not enough. The cold light of the moon, the hoot of an owl, became ominous. On such nights, he felt a deep loneliness; he could not completely rid himself of such a deep-rooted human need. Daylight would come and despair, like the dew, evaporated, but he found himself seeking the companionship of others. He came to know some of the scattered families who also lived in these mountains. He occasionally made his way to the village, even had visitors at his campsite. But only occasionally.

As the days passed, senses he had not known within himself awakened. One afternoon he was walking through the woods when a fallen tree lay in his path. He was about to step over it, had raised his foot to do so, when some atavistic impulse made him stop. For a few moments he’d simply stood there, unsure what had happened. What had halted him was nothing seen or heard. For a few moments longer he listened, heard nothing, saw nothing. He walked around, not over, the fallen tree to see what lay where his foot would have stepped. He saw it then, the coiled, satin-black body, the arrow-shaped head, the blunted tail that rattled once, stilled. The snake uncoiled itself and vanished into the underbrush.

Another afternoon while he passed beneath a rocky cliff, he felt he was being watched. As with the rattlesnake, he paused, saw and heard nothing. He’d walked on, but the sense of being observed would not leave him. Twice more he stopped and looked behind him. The third time he looked up, not back, and saw the mountain lion on a ledge. The cat swished its black-tipped tail three times, then turned away. How much had we lost, he’d wondered after such moments — not just knowledge but an expansiveness of being? What more might we discover within ourselves if fully attentive to the world?

After three months, colder weather came. He moved into an abandoned cabin even deeper into the wilderness. The cabin would be his home for three years. He left for days at a time, made the long journey down Hazel Creek to the nearby village. He

wrote and published articles about the wilderness that surrounded him. Other times he shared his cabin with visitors. He had never thought of himself as a hermit, but most days and nights he was alone. The hallucinations did not return, but there were still periods of melancholy, and not always at night.

One autumn morning a soft rain fell; fog wreathed the trees. He had not been here long enough to find, as he later would, solace in such weather. The grayness had turned his mind inward, resurfacing the vexations he had come here to escape. Despite the weather, he left his cabin to walk along the stream, hoping movement might help ease his mind. Then the rain lessened, stopped. The fog unknit itself and the strands drifted away. He was passing through a stand of poplar trees when, like a lamp wick being turned up, the yellow leaves brightened and the world shimmered in a golden light. The air was charged, and he felt his heart lift, a sensation beyond words, awe the only word proximate. But that morning it had seemed any attempt to define the sensation with language was such a puny, human thing. Though he would eventually write a whole book about these mountains, describe the plant and animal life in detail, extol the landscape’s pristine beauty, there were moments like this that he would never put on paper.

His detractors, then and now, called him a romantic, which was true. He had read Petrarch, Wordsworth and Thoreau, learned from and been inspired by them. But he did not believe himself a sentimentalist. A part of what had brought him here was to abide in a world without sham. Arrogance and bluster did not impress nature. It did not suffer fools. A heedless step above a waterfall would send the rich and poor, the powerful and the powerless, to their deaths. No bribe or petition would make it otherwise. Wilderness could not be corrupted by humans, but humans often destroyed what they could not corrupt.

One summer afternoon he followed the stream beside the cabin to its source, then went farther up the mountain until nothing rose above him but the sky. He looked out at the surrounding mountains and valleys, the virid green of the nearer ridges, the hazy blue of the farther mountains. But he also saw something else, smoke rising from a lumber camp. He knew what would come next, the sound of axes and saws, then the clamor of a train engine bringing more men and axes and saws — a wilderness chained to flat cars and hauled away. Whole mountains scalped, the stumps of felled trees like gravestones. Streams fouled, dead fish clotting the shallows.

He had already witnessed such devastation in the nearby Black Mountains, nothing left but a wasteland of stumps and silt. It would soon happen here too if not stopped. When

logging began on Hazel Creek, he was forced to abandon the cabin and move to a boardinghouse on the wilderness’s eastern flank. So he joined others who understood what was being lost. Following the example of John Muir, who’d garnered nationwide support to establish Yosemite National Park, the coalition sought allies both in and outside the Smokies.

For a quarter-century, he and his compatriots fought against the timber companies to create the Smoky Mountains National Park. Though he continued to disappear into the woods, sometimes camping for weeks, most of his energy was focused on helping save the East’s last great forest.

He wrote letters and articles, made trips to Washington. What he and others could not accomplish with words, his friend George Masa did with photographs depicting both the forests that had been destroyed and the ones that might soon be. Wilderness advocates across the nation joined the fight. Newspapers in North Carolina and Tennessee furthered the cause.

But the timber companies had their advocates too. The attacks against the park’s best-known supporters became personal. He found himself denounced publicly as a Bolshevik, an opium addict, a drunk, a man who’d been deserted by his own wife and family. Because of his Japanese ancestry, Masa was denounced as a foreigner. Attempts were made to deport him. The timber companies tried to bribe and threaten politicians who supported the park, and sometimes they succeeded. There were death threats too. Public meetings brimmed with potential violence. Again and again, it appeared the timber companies had won. By 1920, he wrote a friend that there was no hope. At such times the melancholy deepened. He feared the insanity might return.

But each time all had appeared lost, crucial support came. Children gave pennies at school. John D. Rockefeller donated 5 million dollars. George Masa’s photographs convinced Grace Coolidge, the First Lady, to join the cause. The governors of Tennessee and North Carolina advocated for the park in their states and in Washington. Newspaper editors in Knoxville and Asheville wrote more editorials. Public opinion became solidly pro-park, even after the stock market crashed, plunging the country into depression.

Now it is April 2, 1931. Two months ago, he went to Washington with Governor Horton and Governor Gardner to hand over to the Secretary of the Interior the deeds to the purchased land. It was only 150,000 acres, 300,000 short of officially being a national park, but enough to satisfy the National Park Service. It will happen, he believes, though it may take another year or two to complete the final deeds and sales.

"

A light knock at his door breaks his reverie.

Mr. Kephart, his landlady says. Your friend is waiting in the parlor.

Tell Mr. Tarleton I’ll join him shortly, he replies.

Earlier today Tarleton congratulated him, believing the park now an inevitability. But the envelope in his hand, which came in the afternoon mail, makes clear not everyone agrees. Kephart, Go back to St. Louis and your asylum or you will be killed, the enclosed note threatens. A newspaper clipping accompanies the note, dated March 25, 1904. Horace Kephart Is Held for Observation, the headline proclaims. The timber companies and their minions have not yet given up. He places the clipping and the note back in the envelope. In St. Louis, a diseased mind had convinced him of all sorts of plots to take his life; now sanity argues not to dismiss this threat. But advocating for the park has brought death threats before, to him and others.

In September he will be 69. He never imagined that he might live this long. Yet his wrinkles and gray hair confirm it. He feels the rheumatism in his knees and back, no doubt in part from decades of hiking and camping. Though still able to hike farther than many men half his age, he knows these ailments may soon force him to spend less time in the forests than he’d wish. But if the time comes when he is confined in this room, he will be able to look out his window and see the mountains, one of which has been named Mount Kephart.

He thinks of the cabin on Hazel Creek. Once the park is complete, neither he nor anyone will live there again. It pleases him to imagine the wilderness slowly reclaiming the cabin. There will come a time when the land itself will have forgotten the cabin’s once-presence. By then the scars left by the timber companies will have healed. Even the railroad tracks will rust away. The envelope with the newspaper clipping and threat is still in his hand. He tears it in half, drops it into the trash can.

I wanted to save these mountains because they saved me, he’d written. It was a grandiose statement. They had indeed saved him, but others had paid a cost, most of all his wife. As for his children, they are all but strangers. Altruism is invariably a means to conceal one’s personal failures, the spouse of a timber baron had told him that three years ago at a public meeting. The statement haunts him. And for all of his words about the healing aspects of nature, his desire for liquor has never been quelled. There continue to be times he drinks himself into unconsciousness.

Perhaps tonight as well. He takes out his pocket watch, checks it. It is almost time to meet his friend Tarleton. They have hired a driver to take them to a bootlegger. They will drink tonight. If he drinks tonight, as is his wont, he will be no good in the morning, he will lie in bed most of the day to recover. But even so, by this weekend he will be revived enough to join George Masa for a hike. He has a surprise for George. Last spring as he was hiking alone, he discovered a patch of Oconee Bells. They are found nowhere else in the world except here and a few neighboring counties. Even here they are extremely rare. In all of his years wandering these mountains, he had never come upon them until last spring. Now it is their bloom time once more, the white flowers rising from the dark-green glabrous leaves. This late in life, what wonder to have finally seen them.

He rises from the chair, fetches the key he will lock his door with, and will never need again. SP

Coda: Horace Kephart and his friend Fiswoode Tarleton died in a car wreck on the night of April 2, 1931. The driver survived but gave contradictory answers as to what happened. Kephart’s body was discovered 40 feet from the car, the cause of death a broken neck. On September 2, 1940, Franklin D. Roosevelt dedicated The Great Smoky Mountains National Park “for the permanent enjoyment of the people.”

The first funeral

fiction by Clyde Edgerton illustrations by David Stanley

1977, HURT, TENNESSEEAgreat big lady goes under the funeral tent in her high heels and sings “How Great Thou Art.” She just belts it out. She’s wearing glasses with thick, black rims. And she’s got on a brown hat with a black feather. It’s Mrs. Britt’s funeral and Mrs. Britt is a hundred years old. Or was a hundred years old.

This is my first funeral in the Funeral Militia, and I don’t want to do anything wrong.

Jimbo Summerlin is the captain and he graduated from high school last year and everybody else in the Funeral Militia is about the same age as him. I’m in the fourth grade. There are seven of us here today. The Quaker’s Son is the head of the Funeral Militia and he works at the nuclear bomb place and had to be there today. He’s the oldest one and his granddaddy was a famous Quaker.

The big lady is singing the song in a real big way.

If we join the Funeral Militia though, we sign a contract about never joining the Army. Mama signed mine. This all started 10 years ago, right after some people came home from Vietnam.

Jimbo calls cadence when the Funeral Militia marches. Hup, two, three, four. I want to be the caller when I get big enough.

A yellow lightning bolt is on the left sleeve of my uniform, like the others. There’s a plow on the right side. Then it says Funeral Militia in a curve on my front pocket. The uniform is dark blue and the writing and stuff is yellow.

We stand outside the tent while the funeral goes on underneath it — with the family sitting down. We are at Quaker Field. A lot of people stand around outside the tent listening to the song. The seats under the tent are filled up.

The sun is hot, and you can smell the cut grass from where Dennis Warton just finished mowing around the Quaker House and on out here. I will do a drum roll while Lonnie plays the “Red River Valley” on the trumpet at the very end of everything. Lonnie plays a trumpet instead of a bugle. Jimbo does the fold-upand-present the flag part when it’s a man who has served in the armed forces.

The preacher is talking. Preacher Knight. He is almost all the way bald-headed and has this big Adam’s apple and is a little bit skinny. The whole funeral was at the Methodist church where we sat in the balcony, but they brought Mrs. Britt here to get buried. The pall bearers loaded her into the back end of the hearse while we stood at attention right there close by. A lot of people get buried out here.

A man from Knoxville came to a funeral one time and said the Funeral Militia is against the law.

We stand in two rows just outside the tent. Today, it’s three in the front row and four in the second row. I get to stand at the end of the second row. The reason Jimbo is in the Funeral Militia is because his uncle got killed in World War II and some other people got killed and the Quaker’s Son started the Funeral Militia like it had been started a long time ago but died out with Hitler and them. Everybody has to look straight ahead while we stand here, and I think about how Jimbo can run really fast and he throws a baseball side-armed when he pitches. Sometimes he chews tobacco. He’s kind of a buddy with the Quaker’s Son.

I hold my drumsticks in my left hand whether I’m at attention or at ease, and my right thumb has to hold tight against the seam on my pants when I’m at attention. My hands go behind me when it’s “at ease.” I have to keep my drum quiet by not hitting it or scraping against it and all that.

The singer lady is real big and like I said has got this brown hat that has a black feather up out of it. She is wearing a tan dress that kind of holds up her front end. She finishes the song. She sang a little bit like a opera singer. She is wearing high heel shoes that I wonder if they are going to stick in the ground. Mama has some shoes that are a little bit high.

This is the biggest funeral I’ve ever seen at Quaker Field.

Mr. Knight is reading a scripture.

When it’s over, Lonnie plays “Red River Valley” while I do the drum part. It’s not hard.

It’s the next day now and I can tell you what happened right after the funeral finished and we did Red River Valley. The opera lady walked right straight into this open grave that was not Mrs. Britt’s grave. That grave was covered up with a great big green rug that looked like grass. Somebody had covered up the open part of the grave instead of the dirt that came out of the grave. They was supposed to just cover up the dirt and put planks over the grave. It was a big mistake. It might have been Dennis or Tiny, or the Mustees.

I had just looked at her when she was kind of walking out from under the tent — because you kind of wanted to look at her with her big padded shoulders, and then I looked at something else, and was waiting for “attention,” and somebody hollered, and when I looked back I noticed that she had just disappeared from the Earth.

Everybody started over toward the open grave, except not the people who were already down where the cars were parked. That’s where Mama was. I slid my drum strap off, put the drum down easy, and ran over to the grave where I got up right to the edge of it. The lady was down in there pretty covered up by the rug.

I had thought about how big she was when she was singing “How Great Thou Art.” She had these shoulder pads under her dress on her shoulders like Mama does when she dresses up. She had a big, you know, chest, too. The dress was tan, which I think I said.

Then she got part of the rug all moved back and she’s laying on her back looking up. Baby Jesus in swaddling clothes popped in my head. Her head was kind of rolling back and I figured she’d had the breath knocked out of her because she was looking like that, that look, and her hat was still on and it must have been pinned on or something. It is a brown hat with a black feather, if I didn’t say that. But her glasses were gone with the wind.

Everybody got quiet and I looked around. Preacher Knight was standing there, and Jimbo was kind of kneeling down across the grave from me. I was wondering about what he was thinking, about what he was going to do.

Preacher Knight said to me, “Son, don’t get too close to the edge.” He said it like he might be a little bit mad, so I backed up.

Jimbo didn’t say anything to me, though. He didn’t even look at me. He started talking to the lady. “Are you okay?” he says.

And she breathes kind of deep and says, “Hell, no. I’m not okay. Jesus God.”

With her talking like that, I looked up at Preacher Knight.

He said to her, “Can you stand up?”

“I wouldn’t be on my ass if I could stand up,” she says. She’s from Nashville, and that’s probably why she talks like that.

The preacher just said, “Well ... ”

Some other people were coming back up from down where the cars were parked. But I didn’t see Mama. All the Funeral Militia were standing around and I wondered what Jimbo was going to do.

The preacher says, “That was a wonderful rendition of ‘How Great Thou Art.’”

Floyd says, kind of quiet, “I’ll say how great thou art.”

More people were standing around now, and some more people were coming up.

Mr. Knight says, “Somebody needs to get down in there and get her out.”

I thought about me. I wondered if Jimbo thought about me or about hisself or somebody else.

Lonnie says, “There ain’t no room down there, man.” Lonnie is the biggest one in the Funeral Militia.

“We need a ladder,” said Kenny.

I thought about me going down in there, but I didn’t know if I wanted to or not. I might do something wrong. And I didn’t know the lady. Then I thought about Jimbo maybe choosing me to go down in there and help her out.

“Just pull her up with the tractor bucket,” said Lonnie.

“What?” said Jimbo.

“We can get one of those kids’ swings,” said Lonnie, “from behind the Quaker House and hang it on the bucket with some S hooks. She sits in it and we pull her up.”

“Go get the tractor,” said Jimbo. “The keys is in it.” He was getting to be in charge. I figured he would.

I looked at the preacher and wondered what he would say.

Jimbo said to Carl, “Go get a swing down off that swing set.”

Lonnie was walking on toward the tractor. It sits under a shed in the edge of the woods.

Preacher Knight said, “Can’t we just get a ladder?”

“We’re going to rig up a swing,” says Jimbo. “That way she don’t have to climb out.”

“Wouldn’t a ladder be simpler?” says Preacher Knight.

“I’d be nervous on a ladder,” says the lady up to the preacher. “I might be hurt.”

Everybody was quiet and we heard the tractor crank up down at the edge of the woods.

She was still on her back. I looked around. Some people still didn’t know about what happened because they weren’t coming over.

“This will be easy, ma’am,” said Jimbo. I was across the grave, watching him talk down to her. “We got a tractor coming with a bucket on the front, with hydraulics, and we are going to hang a swing set on it.”

“A bucket?” she says.

“Yes ma’am. Kind of like a big shovel. Like a bulldozer blade, sort of. We are going to hook a swing to it. So you can just sit in it and get lifted right up and out.”

Floyd quiet-like started singing, “Love Lifted Me.” Him and Lonnie get goofy sometimes.

Now the crowd is a little bigger and pretty close up to the grave.

“I think we better get somebody down in there and help you stand up. Is that okay?” said Jimbo. But he didn’t look across at me.

“It’s too bad she didn’t land sitting up,” said Lonnie. “What?” said the lady.

“I was just talking to Floyd,” Lonnie says.

Then Mrs. Knight, the preacher’s wife, walks up from down where the family cars were — where Mama still was. “What happened?” she says. Then she sees and says, “Oh, my goodness.”

“She fell in the grave,” says Jimbo.

“Oh my goodness,” says Mrs. Knight again, and then she says down into the grave, “Are you okay, Myrtle?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I can get up. Is that you, Pauline?” says the lady. “I can’t half see. My glasses fell off. I hope to hell they’re not broke.”

“These boys will get you out,” says Mrs. Knight. “Lord knows they do everything else around here. Where is the Quaker’s Son?”

Lonnie said, “He’s at Oak Ridge today.”

“They’re getting a tractor,” said Mr. Knight. “The boys are getting a tractor.”

“A tractor?” says Mrs. Knight.

Jimbo says, “We’re going to drop down a swing, number one. She sits, number two. We lift her right out. Bingo.”

“Oh,” says Mrs. Knight. “The song was beautiful, Myrtle.”

“Well, thank you. Then I busted my ass.”

I looked up at Mr. Knight. I wondered why she kept saying bad words. I wondered who put the rug over the grave.

Mr. Knight said, “Maybe you could just turn over on your stomach and then get up on your knees and hands?”

Floyd said, “That’s easy for you to say.”

The tractor was coming up with the front-end bucket that you can lift up high. Then in the next minute or two they got it all rigged up so the bucket was up high and the swing was hanging from it.

“How about letting the boy down to help her get set, get that carpet off her?” said Mr. Knight.

Jimbo looked at me, and then at Mr. Knight. And I wondered what he was going to say. But he didn’t say anything. He was going to pick somebody else, I figured.

Then he looked straight at me and here’s what he said, “Go ahead, Gary.” Gary is my cousin’s name. He didn’t know who I was. He said, “Try to get that grass rug — carpet — off her first.”

“Okay,” I said. I wished he’d called me my name, Ozzie. I thought about what if I messed up. “Can I ride the swing down?” I said.

“Good idea,” said Kenny. “Get on there.”

I got in the seat and they let me down and I got off right beside her so I wasn’t standing on her, but I was on the grass rug, and I could smell the inside of the earth and it smelled like fishing worms down in there and mixed in was her perfume. They pulled the swing back up.

The top of the ground was up above my head. I started pulling back on the rug to get it from around her waist and around her feet, but I had to kind of go slow and keep my balance because the grave was so narrow.

“What’s your name, son?” she said.

“Ozzie,” I said. I looked at her and she had makeup on her eyes. I looked up for Jimbo, but he was over at the tractor, I guess. I could hear the tractor motor.

She was helping me kind of get the rug-carpet thing from

around her and kind of working herself out of it, and she was on her side, starting to turn over. She stopped moving and looked at me and said, “Ozzie, where did you get that uniform?”

“I’m in the Funeral Militia,” I said.

“What is that?”

“We do military funerals but they ain’t military funerals. They are CC’s. Commemorative Ceremonies, but they are kind of like military funerals, except that’s not what they are.”

She got all the way out from under the rug thing, and while she was getting out, she said, “Did you know Mrs. Britt?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“She was my aunt. She was my daddy’s sister. She was one hundred years old.” Then she looked at her feet. “Can you pull off my damn shoes?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Thank you, Ozzie. I hope I don’t last a hundred years,” she says. She was working herself up to a sit-up position. “Do you think you can find my glasses?” she said. “I think they might be under me. I hope they’re not broke. Hell, I could just go ahead and get buried now.” She was looking at me and smiled and I liked her even after she said those words.

I looked around, and there were her glasses in the corner nearest by. “Here they are,” I said. I got over to them and picked them up and handed them to her and all the while I was smelling the damp dirt and the perfume.

“Who the hell would dig a grave and then cover it up with a carpet?” she said.

“I don’t know,” I said.

Jimbo said down to her, “If you can sit in the swing, we’ll lift you right out.”

She reached out toward me and I grabbed her hand.

“Grab my elbow,” she said, and I did. She almost pulled me right down on top of her, but she got up to sitting, and then worked her way up to standing. She brushed off the bottom part of her dress.

Somebody up top said, “Can she maybe sing a song from down there?”

Somebody else said, “Sentimental Journey.”

“Ha, ha,” she said, but she wasn’t laughing. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I’ve got some pain in my shoulder,” and she gets in the swing, and is just sitting there. “Mercy, Lord,” she says. The swing starts up and it gets her feet almost up to my knees and one of them S hooks starts slipping up at the top of the bucket thing, sliding down the edge of it, and the swing goes crooked and she’s got one foot on the ground and one in the air and she starts turning in a little circle, holding on to the chains with that one foot on the ground. “Shit,” she says. “What the hell?” She looks up at the tractor.

“My fault, my fault,” yells Kenny. He was driving the tractor. He let the swing down and she slipped out of the swing and stood up there beside me up close, and I smelled the perfume and she turned toward me and I was sort of looking right at her chest, and I remember dancing with Mama at the Ruritan club one time.

Carl told us the S hook was fixed.

“I don’t think she’s going to get out for awhile,” said Lonnie.

They tried again and lifted her up slow with everybody quiet, and you could hear the seat make a tiny cracking sound, and I heard some crows, until she was up there clear of the grave. Then Kenny turned it and swung her slow over the ground and she did a odd thing right then. I could see her top half over the edge of the grave from where I was — she started swinging like you do in a swing, and then she started singing, “Gonna take a sentimental journey. Sentimental journey home.”

I kind of liked her, except she said those ugly words.

They dropped the swing back down and I got in and rode up and out. We didn’t march in formation back to the Quaker House because it was like a whole different day once we got her out. What happened was they got the rug out and we all started walking back to the Quaker House and just when we started, Jimbo walked over to me and didn’t say anything. He turned me around and put his hands under my armpits and lifted me up till I was on his shoulders and he walked me like that all the way to the Quaker House. I held onto his head under his chin. I felt like it was okay that he got my name wrong. I would ask Mama to tell him who I was. It was the end of my first day in the Funeral Militia.

It’s tonight, and all that happened yesterday, and tonight I take Addie out to pee. It’s kind of warm and cloudy. Addie is our dog that stays in the house. I sit on the steps and wonder about what would happen if Addie fell into an open grave. I wonder how many dogs have ever fell into open graves. I get to thinking about all the stars that I can’t see because of the low clouds that are covering up everything. SP