August O.Henry 2023

New Friends. New Possibilities.

Look forward to finally having time to focus on the people and experiences that matter most to you.

At Friends Homes, maintenance and other everyday chores are taken care of, leaving you free to enjoy life. Take a class through our lifelong learning program. Go for a swim at our new wellness center. Pursue your hobbies. Explore your faith. Volunteer in the community. Or enjoy a delightful meal with friends at one of our four dining venues. Our community o ers more activities and a refreshing, whole-person approach to wellness to give you more options for an active, engaging lifestyle.

And with charming studio and one-bedroom apartments, bright villa apartments, and spacious townhomes and cottages, you’ll find the right-sized space to make you feel at home.

Join us for an upcoming event to experience life at Friends Homes firsthand and learn about the limited number of apartments available. Call or visit us online to sign up for a tour today.

This year’s senior class was awarded more than $12 million in scholarships.

Bishop McGuinness Catholic High School

Class of 2023

Blakely Sophia Ahmuty

Chrisbel Adriana Alcantara Varela

Luke McKie Andress

David Andrew Armstrong

Nicholas Thomas Arnold

Owen James Aufrance

Nicolas Simon Averill

Camille Rose Barth

Oliver James Bennett

James Earl Bland, III

Maria Denise Boland

Annalisa Frances Boyar

Emma Claire Briody

Christopher Fitzgerald Campbell

Nina Cecilia Cancro

Tanner Hayden Cave

Charley Grace Chappell

Tate Elizabeth Chappell

Annalise Taylor Chmil

Hyanggee Cho

Claire Elizabeth Clampett

Isabella Grace Cobb

Ethan Scott Connor

Ainsley Louisa Claire Culbertson

Arrington Hugh St. John Culbertson

Michael Vincent Raphael D’Ambrosio

Kaitlyn Lianne Deal

Allison Jean Dennen

Mikayla Ann Ebel

Lance Robert Farley

Ella Kathleen Foley

Samantha Sue Foresman

Aniela Jane Giarmo

Kemina Lee Gilstrap

Jackson Elias Goins

Michael Nicolas Perez Golamco

Maria fe Grados Mejia

Jack Thomas Grady

Jamison Markell Graves

Teresa Annette Graves

James Collin Greene

Justine Anne Grimsley

Gannon Charles Grunwald

Enrique Christopher Guzman Cieza

Timothy Michael Hackman

Youliana Yonas Hadgu

Riggs Jackson Handy

Joshua Jason Hanflink

Grace Elizabeth Harriman

Alyssa Gabrielle Harris

Jeanna Lynne Hauk

Katelyn Laura Hawley

Grant Andrew Heilmann

Olivia Angela Henn

Anna Catherine Hoeing

George Wilkinson Hough

Davis Whalen Hunter

John Steele Hutchison

James Barber Jernigan

Axel Juarez

Christopher Taylor Kelly

Anna Sophia Krawczyk

Mary Grace Lipscomb

Laken Cole Locklear

Sandra Rose Lopez

Gianna Madeline Lucido

Matthew Brandon Ma

Avery Claire Mann

Kyra Nicole Marty

Thomas Vincent Mattox

Logan Jason Millard

Blake William Miller

Sarah Elizabeth Mims

Eliza Wynne Ofsanko

Robert Immel-Ahn O’Hale

Catherine Elisha Ouellette

Carter Lawrence Pape

Sofia Pardino

Gracey Lee Payne

Myles Dexter Payne

Jennifer Theresa Peters

Samuel Benjamin Phillips

Bridget Anne Gallagher Plouff

Ryan Mark Porter

Mary Ashton Rainosek

Mary Clare Rashford

Jacob Thomas Regitz

Michael John Riek

Isabella Elaine Ritorto

Isabella Marie Ross

Christopher Ethan Rozek

Merritt Hunt Saffer

Harper Benton Satterfield

Harrison James Satterfield

Andrew Patrick Schrage

Anthony Douglas Schultheis

Ellena Patrice Seeber

Nicholas Michael Seidle

Nadia Evva Slanker

Alexander Bolling Smith

Kendall Joy Smith

Richard Dominic Smith

Stephen Rhodes Smith

Michaela Diane Staudinger

William Michael Stoffel

Grace Caroline Strader

Giuseppe Peter Strafaci

Benjamin Guild Strott

Allston Julius Stubbs, V

Evan McKee Sturgill

Julia Nicole Sullivan

Gianna Victoria Testa

Giang Tran

Anthony Alvin Vignoli

Ryan Alexander Voisard

Caroline Elizabeth Wasilauskas

Connor James Whalen

Sofia Milena Wolff

Charles Thomas Wolschon

Reece Matthew Workman

Huan Yang

Luke Stephen Zakrzewski

Zichen Zhang

Class of 2023 College Acceptance List

The University of Alabama

American University

Appalachian State University

Assumption University

Auburn University

Averett University

Belmont Abbey College

Brigham Young University-Idaho

Butler University

Campbell University

Cape Fear Community College

Capital University

Catawba College

The Catholic University of America

College of Charleston

Chowan University

Clemson University

Coastal Carolina University

University of Colorado Boulder

Colorado State University-Fort Collins

Commonwealth University - Bloomsburg, Lock Haven and Mansfield

Creighton University

Davidson College

University of Delaware

Denison University

University of Denver

DePaul University

Duke University

Duquesne University

East Carolina University

Eckerd College

Elon University

Florida Atlantic University

Florida Gulf Coast University

Florida State University

University of Florida

Fordham University

Furman University

George Mason University

Georgia Institute of Technology-Main Campus

Georgia State University

University of Georgia

Greensboro College

Guilford College

Guilford Technical Community College

Hampden-Sydney College

Hampton University

University of Hawaii at Hilo

University of Hawaii at Manoa

Hawaii Pacific University

High Point University

Howard University

James Madison University

Johnson & Wales University-Charlotte

University of Kentucky

Lebanon Valley College

Lees-McRae College

Lenoir-Rhyne University

Limestone University

Lincoln Memorial University

Louisiana State University

University of Louisiana at Lafayette

University of Louisville

Loyola Marymount University

Loyola University Chicago

Loyola University Maryland

University of Maine

Marshall University

University of Mary Washington

University of Maryland-College Park

Marymount University

Mercer University

Meredith College

Michigan State University

Michigan Technological University

Mississippi State University

University of Mississippi

University of Missouri-Columbia

The University of Montana

University of Nebraska-Lincoln

North Carolina A & T State University

University of North Carolina at Asheville

The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill

University of North Carolina at Charlotte

University of North Carolina at Greensboro

University of North Carolina at Pembroke

University of North Carolina Wilmington

North Carolina State University at Raleigh

Northeastern University

University of Notre Dame

Ohio University-Main Campus

Old Dominion University

Oregon State University

Palm Beach Atlantic University

Pennsylvania State University-Penn State Main

Campus

University of Pittsburgh-Pittsburgh Campus

Providence College

Purdue University-Main Campus

Queens University of Charlotte

University of Rhode Island

University of Richmond

Roanoke College

University of Rochester

Saint Joseph’s University

Saint Louis University

Saint Mary’s College

Saint Mary’s College of California

Salve Regina University

University of San Diego

Santa Clara University

Seton Hall University (College of Arts & Science)

The University of the South (Sewanee)

Simmons University

University of South Carolina-Columbia

University of South Florida-Main Campus

St. John’s University-New York

Stetson University

The University of Tampa

Temple University

The University of Tennessee-Knoxville

Texas Christian University

Ohio State University-Main Campus

Union College (NY)

University of Lynchburg

University of Oregon

Villanova University

Virginia Tech

Virginia Wesleyan University

Wake Forest University

Washington College

Washington State University

Western Carolina University

William & Mary

Wingate University

Wofford College

University of Wyoming

Xavier University

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MAGAZINE

voluMe 13, No. 8

“I have a fancy that every city has a voice.” 336.617.0090

111 Bain Street, Suite 324, Greensboro, NC 27406 www.ohenrymag.com

PUBLISHER

David Woronoff david@thepilot.com

Andie Rose, Creative Director andiesouthernpines@gmail.com

Cassie Bustamante, Editor cassie@ohenrymag.com

Jim Dodson, Editor at Large jwdauthor@gmail.com

Miranda Glyder, Graphic Designer

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS

Cynthia Adams, David Claude Bailey, Maria Johnson

CONTRIBUTING PHOTOGRAPHERS

Brandon Demery, Lynn Donovan, Amy Freeman, Sam Froelich, Bert VanderVeen, Mark Wagoner

CONTRIBUTORS

Harry Blair, Anne Blythe, Susan Campbell, Billy Ingram, Mallory Miranda, Valerie Nieman, Gerry O’Neill, Liza Roberts, Brendan Slocumb, Zora Stellanova, Sarah Ross Thompson, Ashley Walshe, Amberly Glitz Weber

ADVERTISING SALES

Marty Hefner, Advertising Advisor Lisa Allen 336.210.6921 • lisa@ohenrymag.com

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OWNERS

Jack Andrews, Frank Daniels III, Lee Dirks, David Woronoff

In memoriam Frank Daniels Jr.

© Copyright 2023. Reproduction in whole or in part without written permission is prohibited.

O.Henry Magazine is published by The Pilot LLC

A Wilder Bond

A friendship rooted in fiction is formed

by CASSie buStAMANte

While reading is generally a solitary activity, it invites us to feel less alone in this world. Books connect us to writers and the characters they create, to other places and times, real or imaginary. And in the very best situations, they bring us closer to our family and friends, and, sometimes, even help us make new friends.

It’s August of 2022, and I’ve signed up my youngest, Wilder, for “Bugs, Bees & Butterflies” camp at the Miriam P. Brenner Children’s Museum. My husband, Chris, has been tasked with day-one drop-off, which he reports as being tearful and traumatic — mostly for him. I am used to being the parent who handles first-day-of-anything jitters.

But then he says something that makes my ears perk up: “There’s another Wilder in his group.”

“What?” I ask, astonished. I’ve given each of my children, Sawyer, Emerson and Wilder, a literary name because I wanted to put my hard-earned English degree to use somehow. But even more so, I chose uncommon names. I have to know who this woman is that named her son Wilder.

That afternoon at pickup, I wait to see who signs out “the other Wilder” and make a mental note to strike up conversation with her the next day.

As I wait in line for the camp door to open the following afternoon, I see her approach. Never one who has suffered from shyness, I say, “Hi! So, are you the mom who also has a Wilder?”

She’s wearing a mask, but I can see her smile reflected in her blue eyes, which sparkle against a thick mane of auburn hair. “Yes,” she answers cheerfully. “That’s me!”

I introduce myself and discover her name, Mallory, and learn

that their family recently moved to Greensboro from California. And more importantly, I find out that my son is three weeks older, so I named my child Wilder first. And yes, I’m embarrassed to admit I feel a little victorious knowing that. Our friendly chatter breaks up as we head our separate ways, but I’ve already decided that this person is someone I might really like to get to know. But there’s just one question I want answered first.

“How did you come up with the name Wilder?” I ask her the next afternoon while we wait for our kiddos to be released.

Mallory looks at me a little sheepishly and replies with another question. “Have you ever read White Noise?”

“White Noise by Don DeLillo!?!” I exclaim. “It was only my favorite book of my college career!”

I don’t recall too much of the actual book — just that I loved it — because it’s been over 20 years and the Netflix movie hadn’t premiered yet. I certainly don’t remember that there was a character named Wilder. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve seen a peek into Mallory’s soul by knowing what books she reads.

In return, she asks how I settled on “Wilder.” I explain that Laura Ingalls Wilder was a favorite author of mine as a child. Though from very different sources, both of us selected bookfluenced names.

One year later, our friendship is going strong. Our sons lovingly refer to one another as “the other Wilder.” We meet often for wilderness walks and park play so that the boys can explore and do what kids do, while Mallory and I carry on deep — though often interrupted — conversations. We half-jokingly dream of writing our own series of children’s books based on our outings called “The Adventures of the Wildest Wilders.” And maybe, if we’re lucky, one day those books will become the root of someone else’s beautiful friendship. OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

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BY GERRY O'NEILL

Let There Be Darkness

In defense of the dark side

by JiM DoDSoN

During a business trip to a remote part of New Zealand last winter, I was reminded of the staggering beauty of the night. Stepping out of my bungalow just after midnight, the stars of the Southern Hemisphere took my breath away. There were untold millions of them arching overhead, blazing like white diamonds on black velvet.

Because it was summer down under, there were also vivid sounds of calling night birds and insects murmuring in the fields and forests around me. I sat down on a wooden rocking chair and just listened for the better part of an hour, a perfect bedtime lullaby that reminded me of my daily wake-up routine back home in North Carolina.

Well before sunrise most days, I take my coffee outside to sit beneath a grove of old trees and wait for the first songbird to herald the breaking day. Save for an occasional passing train or distant siren that briefly mars the silence, it’s the stillest part of any day, the perfect moment to think, meditate, pray or just be.

I’ve captured the first birdsong many times on my handy Cornell Lab Merlin Bird app. In my neck of the suburban woods, it’s usually a Carolina wren or eastern towhee that breaks the serenity of pre-dawn. Sometimes it’s the northern cardinal or melodious song sparrow who takes lead solo. Every now and then, a great horned owl or brown thrasher cues the chorus. Whichever one starts, as sure as night is dark, a chorus of a dozen or more birds soon joins the songfest, including gray catbirds, mourning doves and American crows.

I never tire of this avian awakening, finding a sense of true gratitude for my tiny spot on Earth as a new day begins.

And yet, I worry.

Last year, a report from National Audubon on the state of birds reported that the U.S. and Canada have lost 3 billion birds over the past half-century. The same report notes that half of America’s bird populations are in decline, prompting more than one expert to warn that we are already in the early throes of the Earth’s sixth mass extinction.

Global warming, loss of natural habitat, various forms of pollution and the fact that the night is no longer as dark as it used to be are cited as primary contributing factors to the decline of thousands of species of birds, insects, reptiles and mammals, roughly half of which hunt, mate, feed and travel by night. Disappearing forests accelerate this decline.

Historian Jill Lapore echoes similar concerns in a recent New Yorker essay titled “What We Owe Our Trees:”

“Even if you haven’t been to the woods lately, you probably know that the forest is disappearing. In the past 10,000 years, the Earth has lost about a third of its forests, which wouldn’t be so worrying if it weren’t for the fact that almost all that loss has happened in the past 300 years or so. As much forest has been lost in the past hundred years as in the 9,000 before. With the forest go the worlds within those woods, each habitat and dwelling place, a universe within each rotting log, a galaxy within a pinecone. And, unlike earlier losses of forests, owing to ice and fire, volcanoes, comets, and earthquakes — actuarially acts of God — nearly all the destruction in the past three centuries has been done deliberately, by people actuarially at fault: cutting down trees to harvest wood, plant crops and graze animals.”

So what is an ordinary, suburban nature-lover and bird nut to do? That depends, I suppose, partly, at least, how you grew up.

I sometimes joke that I grew up in darkness.

I had the privilege to grow up in a succession of sleepy Southern towns, following my dad’s itinerant newspaper career.

From the coast of Mississippi to the Carolinas, Yeats’ proverbial “The Stolen Child,” with an imagination fired by nature, I explored woods and creeks, bringing home frogs and injured birds. The rule was, I had to be home by “full” darkness. Many an evening, I lingered in the twilight just to watch the fireflies come out and listen for the sounds of crickets, bullfrogs and night birds. In those days, the streetlights in these quiet rural towns were few.

I’m not speaking, mind you, of the metaphorical darkness showcased by everything from the Bible’s rich imagery of light and darkness (good and evil) to modern cable TV’s endless news loops of crime and disaster. There’s a perfectly good reason why depression is rightly called a “dark night of the soul.” Anyone who has experienced it might be forgiven for believing that the world is coming apart at the seams.

Thirty years ago, in an effort to give our children the benefits of a quieter, natural world, my wife and I built our house on a coastal Maine hilltop surrounded by a dense forest of beech and hemlock, where the nights were deep and woods teemed with animal life.

The first thing I did when we moved back to my hometown neighborhood seven years ago was plant 20 trees around the property. Today in summer, our house sits in a grove of beautiful trees. The neighborhood is called Starmount Forest, after all, and most residents appreciate the giant oaks, maples and poplar trees that still arch like druid elders throughout. Living up to the

name, these trees provide home to a rich variety of birds and insects. They also give us welcome shade in summer and showcase the stars on winter nights.

Turning down the lights at night strikes me as one small but sensible act of kindness to nature, encouraging the living world around us to rest, so moths and other nighttime creatures can pollinate plants, fertilizing the start of the world’s food chain.

In her lovely spiritual memoir Learning to Walk in the Dark, theologian Barbara Brown Taylor points out that most of the monsters we fear in the dark are simply phantoms we create in our anxious, sleep-deprived minds.

“I have learned things in the dark that I could never have learned in the light,” she writes. “Things that have saved my life over and over again, so that there is really only one logical conclusion. I need darkness as much as I need light.”

I was reminded of this fact one morning at summer’s beginning while awaiting my woodland wake-up call. Savoring the pre-dawn stillness beneath the trees, I suddenly realized that the fireflies had returned, magical messengers of hope that would be nowhere without the night.

As August passes over us and the days grow shorter, the darkness grows.

I say, bring it on, dear neighbors, and sleep well. OH

Jim Dodson is the founding editor of O.Henry

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SAZERAC

Unsolicited Advice

Three words parents dream of — and kids dread all summer long — will finally be right on the tips of our tongues: back to school. That’s right, peeps. Sharpen those No. 2 pencils — wait, do schools even use pencils anymore? To help you and your kiddos prepare, we’re sharing our top five takes on T he Princeton Review’s list of study tips, with, of course, helpful bonus remarks from us.

1. You don’t need just ONE study space. PR goes on to suggest that, in addition to a dedicated desk, you hit up libraries, coffee shops and even use your own kitchen table. Your homework is the perfect size to double as a placemat.

2. School supplies (alone) don’t make you organized. That’s right, Lisa Frank school supplies alone make you organized. That’s more like it.

3. Use class time wisely. The teacher’s done lecturing and you’ve got 10 minutes till the bell? Trim your toenails or floss your teeth. Take care of all those menial tasks that cut into your after-school video-game time.

4. Make a friend in every class. This strategy will ensure that you’ll have your pick of weekend parties.

5. Don’t let a bad grade keep you down. After all, GPA stands for got plenty a-time.

Just One Thing

When his uncle introduced him to comic books as a child, 22-yearold Zaire MilesMoultrie discovered the world of creative arts, often sketching his own strips. But then he realized “that it is possible to have a very fulfilling and successful career and life within the arts as an artist,” thanks to his UNCG professors-turned-mentors, Jennifer Reis, Christopher Thomas and Barbara Thomas. Now, Miles-Moultrie creates much of his art through digital collaging, which incorporates his own sketches and drawings plus contemporary and historical images. Created this year, Love and Folly is inspired by the fairytale of the same name “which tells the story of how folly (the lack of good sense; foolishness) became the guide to what we know as love,” he writes. “I really wanted to make a piece that captured the essence of that story but with a very meaningful twist.” And what is that twist? “It’s OK to embrace the silliness and foolishness of love, life and ideas. Even though we live in a crazy and sometimes downright negative world, the craziest but most compassionate thing we can do is love.” Miles-Moultrie’s work is on display through August 31 as part of Transform GSO’s “Warmth of Conversation” exhibit at 111 Bain Street. Info: thatzaire.art.

"A spirited forum of Gate City food, drink, history, art, events, rumors and eccentrics worthy of our famous namesake"

Sage Gardener

Standing in line at a family reunion years ago, my dad gave me this sage advice: “Son, always get your pickles and pie first before the good ones get gone.” I grew up in a pickle-centric household with a Lutheran mom from PennsylvaniaDutch country and a Moravian dad raised on a farm near Madison: watermelon rind pickles at Christmas; bread-and-butter as soon as the cucumbers came in; garlicky dills brining in a crock, with an aroma that hit you at the front door; mason jars chattering away on the stove in a blue-speckled canner; and the sharp bite of cayenne peppers in spicy okra pickles throughout the year. Anne, my wife, has joined me in my vinegary obsession, adding some of her mom’s less-familiar, refrigerated concoctions from the South Carolina low country: seven-day beach slaw, Zellwood sweet-corn relish, candied sauerkraut and Friendship brandied fruit-cocktail compote. Can you say Cackalacky? ’Tis the season, though: cucumbers coming in by the bushel, green peppers waiting to be stuffed with cabbage, green tomatoes galore, and, for those really pickle-obsessed, pickled zucchinis or pickled pumpkin, neither of which I recommend. Squashed dreams. What I do recommend is a savory delight my late aunt’s husband, Ab, made — what we call Rachel pickles. Ab pickles just doesn’t sound right. Anne makes them for me as an act of love since it takes brining and boiling and draining and using alum at intervals of two days, nine days and four days. As the garden winds down, I find myself making Korean kimchi, cowboy candy (candied jalapeños) and, of course, chow chow, aka piccalilli or Indian relish. Anne usually pickles figs, pears and peaches, and has been known to put up garlic scapes, Jerusalem artichokes, green beans, cornichons and crab apples. She draws the line at Brenda’s sweet freezer pickles, made in an ice tray and highlighted in her grandmother’s Gopher Hill Festival Community Cookbook. No big dill, I’m hiding the ice trays. — David Claude Bailey

Window to the Past

Always best to pair your safety patrol sash with a Hawaiian shirt so fellow students know you're serious, but also fun and approachable. (Aycock Junior High, now Swann Middle School, renamed for educational leader Melvin Swann, 1950)

The Write Stuff

Local mother-daughter duo Carol Lucas and Anne Pace have teamed up to create a children’s book, Bingo the Flamingo. Pace, a former kindergarten teacher who received her Bachelor’s degree in elementary education from UNC-Chapel Hill and her Master’s degree in reading education from the University of Virginia, says she was inspired to write Bingo’s story after taking her children to the Greensboro Science Center. She noticed one flamingo, a handsome bird who “was squawking, grunting and flapping her wings.” She and her kids decided that particular bird was probably just bored and “yearned for an adventure . . . and Bingo’s story was born!” While Lucas has no formal training, she’s “always been a gifted artist,” according to her daughter, who recalls the hand-drawn birthday invitations her friends still talk about to this day. So . . . Pace wrote the book and her mother provided the vibrant illustrations. Has Bingo’s wanderlust been put to rest in this book? Oh, no, says Pace. “Bingo has more adventures in store and we’re excited to publish another book.” Locally, Bingo the Flamingo can be found at Polliwogs and Carolyn Todd’s, or through Barnes & Noble, Amazon and bingotheflamingobook.com.

PHOTOGRAPH © CAROL W. MARTIN/GREENSBORO HISTORY MUSEUM COLLECTION

Leo

(July 23 – August 22)

No surprise: You’re in the driver’s seat this month, kiddo — just the way you like it. Control is a clever little temptress. With Venus retrograde in Leo until September 3, you can expect more than a few obstacles to arise in relation to an old flame. Navigate wisely, resisting the urge to make any brash or sudden detours. Clarity will return. In the meantime, crack the windows, crank up the tunes and celebrate this wild and precious life with lionhearted exuberance.

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Virgo (August 23 – September 22)

To thine own self be kind.

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

There’s a balm for that.

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

Don’t let the muck get the best of you.

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21) Finish what you started.

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19) Lather, rinse and repeat.

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18) Keep the kindling dry.

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Big feelings? Release them with paint.

Aries (March 21 – April 19)

Someone needs a time-out.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

The irony won’t be lost on you for long.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

Inaction speaks louder than words.

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

Does “toxic productivity” mean anything to you? OH

Zora Stellanova has been divining with tea leaves since Game of Thrones’ Starbucks cup mishap of 2019. While she’s not exactly a medium, she’s far from average. She lives in the N.C. foothills with her Sphynx cat, Lyla.

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by M Ari A JohNSoN

Recently, when faced with a sticky family situation, I decided to seek the advice of Chat GPT, a chatbot developed by the company OpenAI.

I know people are worried about the power of artificial intelligence to deceive. That may be true — in the wrong hands. But apparently my hands weren’t the right wrong hands.

Below is my exchange with the bot, edited for clarity and brevity because, like many brilliant entities, Chat GPT really likes to hear itself talk:

Hey there. I need some advice on behalf of a friend who has a complicated situation.

Of course! I'm here to help. Please go ahead and provide some details about your friend's situation, and I'll do my best to provide advice and guidance based on the information you provide.

So, you understand that this is about my friend, right?

Yes, I understand that you are seeking advice on behalf of your friend.

Shew. Good. Here goes: My friend is hosting a family gathering at her home in a couple of months. She made it clear to the out-of-town guests that there are several nice hotels nearby. But — and this is where my friend is an idiot sometimes — she got too generous. She said they could stay at her house if they wanted to. She and her husband have room for, like, four guests, tops, and that’s if you count someone sleeping on a window seat. Do you see where this is going?

Yes, I understand the situation. It sounds like your friend may have unintentionally offered more accommodation than they can actually provide, and now they are facing the challenge of potentially hosting more guests than they have space for.

Yup, that’s her situation. I mean, she was just being polite . . .

While it's admirable that your friend wanted to extend the offer, it's important to find a balance between hospitality and

practicality. Remember, being honest and proactive in finding solutions will help maintain positive relationships.

OK, but who gets the truth and who gets, shall we say, an enhanced truth?

Deciding whom to be honest with in this situation can be a sensitive matter. Your friend could prioritize immediate family members or those who have special needs.

Well, my friend has a special need to breathe, which means it’s hard for her to be around her cousin who overuses baby powder. Then there’s her aunt who travels with an emotional-support rat. Montague is his name, which is cute, but c’mon who does that?

It's not uncommon for people to have unique preferences or attachments to their pets, even if it might seem unusual to others. While traveling with an emotional-support rat like Montague might be unconventional, it's important to approach the situation with understanding and respect for your friend's aunt and her bond with her pet.

Fine. I guess if one of them has to go, it’ll be Cousin Talc. Could you help my friend write an email explaining the situation and offering some possible solutions? Oh, and make it warm and loving and funny. And firm. But not too firm.

Of course!

Dear Cousin Talc,

I hope this note finds you well, surrounded by clouds of joy and a sprinkle of humor. While I truly enjoy our family reunions, I have come to realize that my nostrils are in desperate need of a baby powder-free zone.

In the spirit of maintaining harmony and keeping our senses intact, I have decided to stay at a nearby hotel during the gathering. This way, we can all appreciate the festive atmosphere without any talc-related mishaps. I'm looking forward to seeing you at the gathering and sharing laughter, stories

and perhaps a safe distance between our preferred fragrances. With warmth and a hint of playful firmness,

[Your Friend's Name]

You’re not serious about my friend leaving her own house and staying somewhere else, are you? I know her pretty well, and I’m confident she’d be like,“Oh, hell no.”

I apologize if my previous suggestions did not align with your friend's preferences.

Hey, what if she told him that Montague is allergic to baby powder? Think he would believe that?

While I can understand the desire to avoid potential conflicts or discomfort during the family gathering, it's generally advisable to approach situations with honesty and transparency.

You’re really into honesty and openness, huh?

As an AI language model, I strive to promote positive and constructive communication. Openness and respect are important values in fostering healthy and effective conversations.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tell me the truth. Do you ever get tired of answering questions like these?

As an AI language model, I don't experience tiredness or fatigue in the same way humans do. However, it's important to note that while I can provide information and support, I don't possess personal experiences, emotions or subjective opinions.

But what if I want an emotionally intelligent opinion?

If you're seeking an emotionally intelligent opinion or perspective, it might be more beneficial to seek advice or insights from trusted friends, family members or professionals who can provide the human touch and empathy you're looking for.

I see. Well, good luck. Don’t let any rats chew your wires or whatever.

Thank you for the well wishes! As an AI language model, I don't have physical wires for rats to chew on, so there's no need to worry about that.

Good to know. Bye. OH

Maria Johnson is a contributing editor of O.Henry. Email her at ohenrymaria@gmail.com.

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Heavy Mettle

Three mothers of tenacity appear in a debut novel

By A nne Blythe

Mother’s Day

has come and gone this year, but Sara Johnson Allen’s Down Here We Come Up offers a unique and complicated tribute to the grit of motherhood, not the roses and candy of a Hallmark holiday. This debut novel from a writer with Raleigh roots shows the depths to which three mothers will go for their children despite the blunders and foibles that accompany the rough-and-tumble lives that bring them all together under one roof in a “creaking, rotting bungalow” outside Wilmington.

In rich, vivid, sparkling prose, Allen’s page-turner explores tough topics: socioeconomic divides; the realities of immigration often skirted in today’s hot-button debate; the shadow economies of the illegal drug trade, and human and weapons trafficking.

Kate Jessup is the protagonist. She’s in her mid-20s, “moviestar beautiful,” and the wistful mother of a daughter whose soft skin she could still smell even after spending only 48 hours with her before handing the newborn over to a Boston couple in a “closed adoption.”

Kate’s a twin who is almost as street smart as her brother, Luke, is book smart. They’re the children of a sassy single

mother, Jackie Jessup, who showed her twins how to live by hook or crook as they grew up near Wilmington. They learned early in life that “there was a thing’s market value, the perceived value, the true value, the if-the-buyer-was-drunk value.”

Jackie, readers find out pretty quickly, “could con people into anything because she saw ahead of everyone else by several moves,” Allen writes. “In a different set of circumstances, Jackie might have been a great chess player, someone who could beat the fast strategies of the men playing outside the Au Bon Pain in Harvard Square where Kate later followed her twin brother Luke when he received enough merit and need-based scholarships plus loan money that it didn’t matter he had no actual money.”

Settled near Harvard Square with her professor-boyfriend in a multi-million-dollar Victorian home he’d purchased from his father for a dollar, Kate gets a call from Jackie that shakes her out of the aristocratic world she had joined.

“Mama, I’m at work. What do you want?” Kate asked while ducking down between the rows of plants she loved to tend in the greenhouse where she worked.

“ . . . Look, I need something,” Jackie said between drags on a Kool 100.

Jackie wanted Kate to “get someone’s children,” and to entice her daughter, she added: “I have something you want.” Kate had been emotionally hollow when she left the South and her

mother to be near her brother in New England. Most of all, she wanted to know where the daughter she’d given up for adoption was. Though she tried to tamp down those questions, they were never far from the surface.

Against her brother’s advice, she had even gone to the home where she thought the adoptive parents lived, just to get a glimpse of the life she had brought into the world. But there was no sign of the couple or a little girl who would, by then, be close to 8 years old.

Jackie’s phone call, and the chance that her mother might truly know where her daughter was, leads Kate back to the house where she grew up. She leaves Boston, taking her boyfriend’s Audi without his permission or even telling him she was going. Memories of a life she thought she had left behind flooded back.

“She knew driving south would be like letting poison seep into the well,” Allen writes. “She could taste it, bitter and sharp on the sides of her tongue, the menthol smoke, the chemical air freshener, a variety of aftershaves of strangers in their house, all of it.”

Once home, Kate found her mother deathly ill, “a skeletal, yellow-grey version of herself.” The bungalow was filled with people she didn’t know, travelers from south of the U.S. border who were there because of Maribel Reyes, a former teacher and mother of three who fled Mexico to build a better life for her family.

Maribel had moved into the Jessup home, taking on a daughter-like caregiver role for Jackie. More than that, she had created a safe house for migrant workers who made stops in southeastern North Carolina as they carved new paths in a foreign and sometimes unwelcoming land.

Maribel, Kate and Jessie may have converged in this place from different circumstances for an array of reasons but they shared a powerful bond. They were mothers who knew too well the pangs of being separated from their children. Each was willing to go to great lengths to narrow that distance, often bending the rules to achieve that greater purpose.

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As the women plot the trip to get Maribel’s children out of Mexico and across the Bridge of the Americas from Cuidad Juarez into El Paso, Texas, Allen shows her deftness at describing places. You can almost feel the hot weather of the inner coastal communities. “Kate knew heat,” Allen writes. “She knew it up and down like the motion of a paper fan in a closed-window church. Blot-acloth-against-your-sweaty-forehead heat. Waving-up-from-the-asphalt-like-a-mirage heat. Wet heat.”

You can visualize what the coastal community looked like before the new housing developments cropped up on old farmland and forever altered the landscape. The sounds and smells of the changes hang heavily in the air — new languages among the rural Southern accents, the chilaquiles and memelas served in kitchens where biscuits once were the main fare.

Amid all the calculating, heartbreaking and serpentine storylines of survival are moments of triumph, jubilation and humor. Allen has her readers cheering for her characters, rallying for them to forgive themselves and others and longing for new beginnings.

“Follow anything back to the beginning, and you will find a mother,” Jackie says at one point.

From start to finish, Allen will make her readers think about motherhood, how to define it, and the joys, messiness and sacrifices that come with the job.

Author Alena Dillon describes Allen’s first novel as “a literary mic drop.” Let’s hope it’s not the end of a performance, but the first of more stories to come. She’s off to a great start. OH

Anne Blythe has been a reporter in North Carolina for more than three decades. She has covered city halls, higher education, the courts, crime, hurricanes, ice storms, droughts, floods, college sports, health care and many wonderful characters who make this state such an interesting place.

Be comfortable in your skin

Defy the clock

Transcend

•

•

•

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Dr. George Lamoureux, DAOM, L.Ac

Triumph in a Bridge

Matthew Steele celebrates the beauty of the manufactured world through sculpture

By liz A RoBeRts

Infrastructure inspires Charlotte artist Matthew Steele. Bridges, highways, architecture and other physical manifestations of technology demonstrate to him the lengths human beings will go to “transcend the greatest obstacles we know.”

With honed precision, Steele’s work explores the elegance, complexity and rigor of such industrial and manmade structures,

the labor that made them, and the life they each contain. The still rotors of a turbine become a thrumming work of abstract beauty when Steele makes them of wood and copper. He allows them to hang alone, the promise of movement in every blade. Steele’s scaffold-like towers of walnut merge to create a geometric, jagged skyline, but with an irregular, tendriled base: Are they putting down roots? Are these structures not built, but alive?

“There is desire in a highway,” Steele says. “There is triumph in a bridge.”

Steele moved to Charlotte in 2012 for a McColl Center residency and has made the city his home. “I’ve always been interested in the manufactured world,” he says. “I came from a super

Telophase no.1, 2022, oak and 23-gauge nails, 24 x 24 x 72 inches

Mirrored Turbine, 2022, walnut, copper rod, 23-gauge nails, 84 x 84 x 4 inches

small town in Indiana. I knew the feeling I had when I would go to a city or a large industrial space, and just how alien it felt. I think I’m still narrowing in on that feeling.”

In 2015, Steele became an artist-in-residence at Goodyear Arts, a nonprofit arts program in Charlotte. This allowed him to further explore that feeling and its embodiment in his work, which has been exhibited and collected internationally. Steele and his wife, Susan Jedrzejewski, associate at Charlotte’s Hodges Taylor Gallery and a former codirector of Goodyear Arts, live in a 2,000-square-foot house with a walk-out basement that serves as Steele’s studio. This is where he makes the work that fuels his creativity. “There’s something incredible about waking up and making something,” Steele says, “of walking downstairs and turning on the table saw.” At the end of the day, Steele says, nothing can compare to the satisfaction of that kind of work: “Something can exist that didn’t exist that morning.”

Most of the time, that something is made of wood, and usually, that wood is walnut. It’s the wood he first learned to use many years ago when his father brought home a huge supply, and still, no other wood compares. “It’s pretty forgiving,” Steele says. “It has a quality that feels special. I’ve created the deepest relationship with walnut.”

It’s this richly colored, earthy-scented material that forms the

work inspired by steel buttresses, by engine components, by industrial infrastructure. To Steele, that paradox points to a larger message. “I remember a thought I had in college about people in the world that we build,” he says. “It’s so easy for us to think of us as separate from nature, but we make our beehives, and we make our own beaver dams. We’re just animals.”

In Charlotte, Steele is making his mark. Last year, he received an Emerging Creators Fellowship from the Arts & Science Council, and he is currently at work on a major piece of City of Charlotte-funded public art that will anchor a streetscape project on J.W. Clay Boulevard in the University City area.

Making public art — which has kept him busy in recent years — is the realization of a long-held goal. In 2019, after a series of rejections for proposals he’d submitted for public art commissions, Steele decided to make a work of art to please himself: “I just thought, Nothing is working. I’m just going to make whatever I want.” He took the form of Greek statue The Winged Victory of Samothrace as inspiration and “depicted that idealized sculpture as this sort of grim, dark oil-covered mess.” The resulting (Nothing is Working) Victory is a metal form that recalls the iconic sculpture’s shape, but is built using intersecting pieces of metal, held up on a wooden trestle. The process taught him to make organic, volumetric shapes he hadn’t been able to create before.

Basalt Pillars, 2021, walnut, 23-gauge nails, 16 x 48 x 4 inches

Sundowning, 2021, machine drawing / pen on black Stonehenge, 92 x 50 inches

Noir no.2, 2023, walnut, 23-gauge nails, 47 x 73 x 4 inches

PHOTOGRAPHS BY LYDIA BITTNER-BAIRD; COURTESY OF HODGES TAYLOR

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A few weeks later, Steele got his first call to make a piece of public art — one that called on his newfound skill.

Guaranteed funding, a larger scale, a public audience and a sense of permanence make these commissions particularly prized. But the making of a piece of public art can become weighed down in procedure — paperwork and correspondence and engineering — that can remove an artist from the creative process. “It’s a tricky transition,” Steele says. “You’re using new materials, on a completely different scale.”

Schematic depictions of Fabric, the piece he’s currently working on for the City of Charlotte, clearly share the elegance, energy and story of his studio work. Before submitting his proposal for the commission, Steele researched the industrial history of the area and became inspired by the early-1900s textile mills of the NoDa area. “I found old photos from the archives, images of factory rooms with thousands of spools of thread,” he says. “I just couldn’t get over the visual, all of these threads coming through.”

He began to experiment with steel rods and developed the design for what will become a 10-foot-tall, 6-ton piece of steel rods. Slated to be installed in 2026 on a median in J.W. Clay Boulevard, the piece will be a sort of pyramid of rebar, where slivers of daylight will shift with the movement of a viewer.

“Public art is really, really exciting,” he says. “You get to do something you wouldn’t do any other way.” OH

This is an excerpt from Art of the State: Celebrating the Art of North Carolina, published by UNC Press.

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Do it Anyway

By sARAh Ross thompson

Last fall, I embarked on a trip to the Galician region of northwestern Spain to hike part of the Camino de Santiago, a route that pilgrims have taken since medieval times as a spiritual trial. Some people say that the trail begins at your own front door — and ends, if you’re lucky, at the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela. It was quite intimidating to set out on my own, but after the pandemic, I was determined to do something that was just for me.

After the pandemic, I, like so many people, find myself changed in ways that I struggle to articulate. I love my home, my husband and my two young children, Owen and Ellie, but the monotony and isolation of those years had taken a toll. As the world began moving forward again, I felt lost and incomplete.

I needed to do something to shake off the malaise, empty my pockets of the loss and frustration that I had been carrying around like pandemic souvenirs. I missed who I used to be and craved feeling excited, inspired and energized. So, I hurled myself into an experience that I realized would be exhausting, uncomfortable, a little chaotic and definitely risky, but I hoped, in the end, I would find my way to myself (whoever she was now).

Generously and incredibly, my husband, John, and extended family worked out the logistics of caring for the kids. I booked my flight with airline miles that had been collecting dust for years, packed my backpack and a pair of trail sneakers, and flew across the ocean. And then, I took that first step. And hundreds of thousands more to discover a truth that has since been whispering in my ear and guiding me as I move into the next chapter of my life: Fear can be your friend.

Before I even set foot on a plane bound for Spain, there were countless times that I seriously considered cancelling. Traveling alone to Europe (where I had never been) to spend a week

walking through rural countryside was so vastly different from how I had spent the previous two years — at home with only my family of four — that I almost wrote it off as too out of reach or too challenging. And I worried about how my family would deal with their daily routine during my absence. Would my 1-year-old daughter forget me, I irrationally wondered. My biggest hesitation, though, was the nagging thought that I was being selfish in choosing to do something just for myself. As mothers, we often deny for ourselves what we encourage in others.

Close friends gifted me a journal with an inscription that read, “You are setting an example for Owen, but especially for Ellie.” That’s when I knew I had to go. I wanted to show my daughter — and, I suppose, myself — that a woman’s wants and needs are valid, no matter what phase of life she finds herself in or what roles she holds. So off I went.

After several flights and a bus ride, I am dropped off in the city center of Sarria, about 70 long miles away from Santiago de Compostela. Armed with nothing but a backpack and guidebook, the plan is to walk that distance over five days through a region of Spain where most people did not speak English. Did I mention the only Spanish I know is from a couple of college courses close to 20 years ago? As I exit the bus and find myself alone, that nagging feeling that I can’t do it begins following me like my shadow. What had I been thinking?

Shifting into survival mode, my first step is to find my way to my lodging using a printed map, not the GPS technology that I used in the states even on the most routine and constantly traveled routes. And yet, taking longer than I thought it would and climbing several unanticipated hills, I arrive sweaty and thirsty at the door of the inn — in a state of absolute exhilaration.

A lesson from the wildest walk of my life

The Artof Living

MEET JIM BUNN

Jim Bunn is grateful for all the fun, friendship, and purposeful living he enjoys at Arbor Acres. “There’s something here for everybody—concerts, lectures, movies, croquet, volunteering, fine dining. You name it.” Jim enjoys walking around the beautiful community, visiting with friends, then tending the beauty in his back yard, where he’s planted about 20 rose bushes. “This place nurtures you, at the same time it inspires you to nurture and to help others.”

Here I am, in Spain on an absolutely gorgeous, sunny day, having completed the first, albeit small, leg of my journey.

Next challenge: attempting to converse with my very gracious and understanding host, Monica, completely in Spanish. Do I follow even half of what she says? Not even close. But the interaction ends with a key in my hand.

The next morning at breakfast, I walk right into the first fully immersive foreign language experience of my life. Laughter fills the room, plates and silverware clang together, coffee has been brewed. In between bites of fresh tomato slathered across crusty bread, fellow pilgrims chatter away — in Spanish, of course. I can’t understand a word. That shadow is back but before I get a chance to sneak away and discretely hide in my room, Monica catches my eye. “Come, come,” she says, while pointing to an empty seat. I smile at the group and give what I can only imagine is the most American “hola” ever spoken. Much to my relief, everyone smiles and replies “Buenos dias.” That, I can understand. This is the first of many kindnesses on the part of strangers I encounter on the trip.

Full of warm bread, coffee and gratitude, I load up my pack, find the trailhead and as the miles mount up, my trepidation and fear melt away and the joy of accomplishment and its sister, self confidence, come to the fore. One step at a time over the course of five beautiful, exhausting days, I trekked 70 miles, surprising myself by weeping as I reach the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, where I spend time in quiet contemplation before celebrating with a shower and wine.

“Feel the fear,” is the advice of psychologist Susan Jeffers, “and do it anyway.”

I did. And I see you. I am you. Take the trip, write the essay, have the conversation. Your soul will thank you. OH

Sarah Ross Thompson lives in Greensboro with her husband, John, and her children, Owen and Ellie. A psychologist by training, she finds getting lost in the woods and writing little stories to be two of the greatest therapies.

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My Greek Tragedy

In which a hero rises from Athens’ ashes

By Cynthi A A dA ms

Seekinga geographic cure after my father’s sudden death, my husband and I booked tickets to Greece during spring break in graduate school. So what if we lacked money, plans and a command of Greek?

The wheels had fallen off our family wagon with Pop’s death soon after my parents’ divorce.

Pop had died of a heart attack while he and a new, visiting girlfriend (nicknamed Lucy Locket) were enjoying an energetic getting-to-know-you session. After his funeral, my brother lured her from our family home with offers of a truck — then cash as a consolation for the diamond she insisted Pop promised her. His risk tolerance left behind unpaid taxes and mortgaged properties — in short, a mess.

We found in Greece an echoing of my internal chaos. Strolling in an Athens square, we heard a bomb explode nearby. Hotel clerks quoted rates sky high and we felt increasingly stupid and helpless. We ended up in a room with no tub and a shower with a spout at shin-height. At least our feet were immaculate.

Off on a bus to wondrous Delphi and Corinth, we were issued tickets for different rows. On return, a woman with Tourette’s shouted at her seatmate. Mentioning Oliver Sack’s book on the subject, The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, a young, English-speaking passenger interrupted a conversation with me, saying, “Look, I’ve dealt with all the crazy ladies I can handle in one day.”

(This tickled me so much I later wrote Sacks, who kindly replied.)

Booking tickets to the nearby island of Paros, we narrowly avoided being shoved off the gangplank by passengers who suddenly arrived like a Zombie horde.

As the sea heaved that night, passengers heaved, too.

We reached Paros in gale-force winds and staggered on foot to the only open outpost.

We booked into a conventbare room with little heat or hot water, no blanket, no radio nor TV, only The Handmaid’s Tale to read. Downstairs we joined rowdy fishermen drinking ouzo while waiting out the storm. There was no menu and few dishes on offer. We ate (excellent, thankfully) spaghetti lunches and dinners on repeat and shivered.

We rented a car at absurd cost just to see what else was on the island. Nothing but an abandoned marble mine. It shone in the sunlight, blinding us as we wobbled in the wind. We drove back, laughing at the instruction in the car’s dash to “return all ruined rubbers to the trunk.” (Rubbers, it happened, was their translation for tires.)

After five days in Paros, the winds calmed. As soon as we spotted the ferry approaching, we sprinted to pack our things.

But, back in Athens, peril awaited. On the way to the airport, a shrimp dinner literally left us broke after we were charged a usurious price (by the gram) for them.

How would we get to the airport?

Standing on a sidewalk with our bags, trembling with stress, I jumped when someone tapped my shoulder. A smiling woman asked in perfect English if she could help us.

We had been drained of our last cash at the restaurant, I nearly wept. Could she persuade the driver to accept our credit card — our last hope?

“Allow me to get a taxi for you,” the stranger nodded.

When the taxi appeared, she spoke with the driver. Her voice was firm. She turned to us. “He will take you there. Do not worry.” Would he accept our credit card, I pleaded, my voice shaky.

“It is taken care of,” she said. “Do not worry.”

We protested — how to repay her? Could we have her address?

Shaking her head, she shooed us into the taxi.

“I don’t want your last memory of Greece to be a bad one,” she said. “So, think of me.” Flashing a brilliant smile, our benefactor turned, vanishing into the crowds. OH

Cynthia Adam is a contributing editor to O.Henry magazine.

A Case of Mistaken Identity

It’s not a baby hummingbird at all

By susA n CA mpBell

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

The answer is always the same: It’s not a hummingbird at all, but a moth. Indeed, these insects hover to feed from brightly colored flowers and appear to have a long bill, but they are insects. The giveaway is the long antennae, but, on such a small, fast flier, the antennae and three pairs of legs are easily overlooked. The odd behavior and body coloration are what grab one’s attention. The confusion is so common that many bird identification guides depict these moths on the same page alongside the details for ruby-throated hummingbirds.

Here in the North Carolina Piedmont and Sandhills, we have at least three kinds of so-called hummingbird moths, all of which are in the Sphingidae family. Two are “clearwing” moths: the hummingbird clearwing and the hummingbird hawk-moth. We have white-lined sphinx moths in late summer as well. They are all exclusively nectivorous, feeding from many of the same blooms frequented by hummingbirds. With their long proboscis, they can reach down into the tubular flowers of impatiens,

fuchsias and assorted salvias, to name a few.

The clearwings are named for the transparent midsection of their wings. The rest of the body is frequently reddish but may be a shade of blue. They are active during the day, flitting from plant to plant in search of a sweet meal. Typically clearwings are not intimidated by human activity, probably because four-legged mammals do not prey on moths in our area. That means one can usually approach these beautiful creatures very closely. If you have the patience as well as a fast shutter speed, you may be able to get some excellent shots of these very photogenic insects.

Sphinx moths are large, striking and interesting. Unlike the clearwings, they are creatures of the night. They can be abundant at the same flowers hummingbirds use during the day, but most people are totally unaware of their existence given their nocturnal habits. It’s the caterpillar of this group that is more familiar. Typically called a hornworm (given the yellowy head projections), they are voracious pests on a variety of plants such as tomatoes, peppers, eggplant and tobacco. However, not only are the adult sphinx moths eaten by bats and small owls, but, as caterpillars, hornworms are sought out by tiny braconid wasps. The eggs of the wasp develop under the skin of the caterpillar. Once they pupate, they attach themselves externally and are mistakenly thought to be the eggs of yet more caterpillars. When the caterpillars are in this state, they have very little time to live and are no longer a threat to the plants.

Keep your eyes peeled around the yard this summer. You may be lucky enough to spot one of these “baby hummers” hovering among the blooms. OH

Susan Campbell would love to receive your wildlife sightings and photographs at susan@ncaves.com.

White-lined sphinx

Hummingbird hawk-moth

Hummingbird clearwing

Downtown’s New Grub Hubs

Eating Across Elm

By Billy ingRA m

“Uptown is for people who have already done something. Downtown is where they’re doing something now. I live uptown, but I love downtown.”

– Andy Warhol

Readers of this column know I cover downtown like the green shag carpeting in my first apartment. It hasn’t escaped notice that there’s more than a cuppa recently opened coffeehouses percolating an assortment of customized caffeinated concoctions inside storefronts along South Elm. Joining them are several new places where you can overeat.

Far and away, the most elaborate of these up-and-coming klatches is Dusty Keene’s second Common Grounds location on the corner of Elm and Gate City. Much more elaborate than its original Lindley Park spot, the new digs are imbued with a funky, old-world inspired interior we’ve not seen in the center city since long ago nights and afternoons misspent lounging at the Sofa Bar in the 1990s.

Metal sculptures forged by Greensboro’s own Erik Beerbower and Kelsey Wyatt are central to the coffee shop’s vibe, including metal sculptures lining the exposed brick walls indoors and a flurry of other sculptures incorporating recycled and discarded metal elements that define and accent multiple outdoor patios. Most eye-catching of all is the stunning, southfacing owl fabricated from hubcaps, industrial scraps and over-

sized o-rings, greeting customers in the parking lot.

With artworks on display across the state, this metallurgically gifted duo created that gargantuan, gurgling waterfall sandwiched between buildings on the 200 block of South Elm a decade or so ago.

The building that houses Common Grounds at 631 South Elm has an effervescent history. A century ago, this was where Lime Cola was manufactured and distributed in the 1920s. During that same period, just a few doors north at 621 South Elm, currently a parking lot, Coca-Cola was brewing, while Pepsi-Cola, Orange Crush and Chero-Cola were bubbling up blocks away on West Lewis.

But back to coffee. Truth to tell, I’m a lightweight when it comes to caffeine. However, when in Rome . . . selecting from Common Grounds’ Star Latte selection this past Sunday, my companion, Cory Wagoner, fresh from playing bass for Mount Pisgah Church’s contemporary praise band, ordered a Marilyn Monroe (white chocolate and caramel), while I gave in to temptation with a Robert Downey Jr. (dark chocolate, caramel and salt). As a result, as I write this, I’ve got more twitches than Samatha Stephens but zero regrets.

Behind its orange doors, smoothies and, for those wishing to rollercoaster the day away, a selection of top shelf liquors to slug into your café au lait awaits non-coffee drinkers. Most inviting is a variety of scrumptious fresh baked goods direct from Veneé Pawlowski’s Black Magnolia Southern Patisserie, located next to Cugino Forno in the Revolution Mills complex. Bear with me while I take a detour to tell you more about Pawlowski.

This past May, she won her second General Mills national contest, the grand prize of $20,000, for her savory upside-down

MODERN DENTISTRY WITH COMPASSIONATE CARE

apple-praline biscuit recipe. Would it be bragging to point out I was the first to trumpet her culinary abilities here in this very column three years ago? At that time, she’d been laid off, a newlywed with a newborn to look after just as that pesky lockdown was getting under way. Faced basically with no options, she resorted to a strategy only the most creative individuals turn to — leaning into a dream. From a small kitchen in a Church Street apartment that she and her husband Ian shared, Veneé began offering baked goods for sale on Facebook.

After reading about her in this forum, O.Henry readers began ordering. More published accolades followed and, shortly thereafter, her bourbon banoffee pecan rolls recipe earned her a top-20 spot in the 2021 General Mills Neighborhood to Nation Restaurant Recipe Contest. Last year, she launched her brick-and-mortar bakery, Black Magnolia Southern Patisserie, where, right from the start, there were literally lines around the building every morning. She’s since expanded capacity and ramped up to meet demand. Don’t you just love stories like that?

As an added treat, Common Grounds Downtown hosts DJ Patrick Killmartin on the second Sunday of every month, who lays down a multifarious mix of past, present and future beats. Catch him on the other three Sundays at Common Grounds’ original grinder at Walker and Elam.

WELCOMING NEW

A couple of doors north at 611 South Elm, platters of a different type are spinning. Jake’s Diner is plating what you haven’t been able to get downtown on Elm since the lunch counter in the Southeastern Building closed many years ago: scrambled and fried eggs, hash browns, bacon, sausage, and country ham, served up all day, from 7 a.m. to 3 p.m.

Built in 1950 for Blue Bell’s pattern department and servicing its sprawling denim factory across the street, the space that Jake’s Diner grills in was for many years an Earl Scheib Auto Painting shop, so it’s quite spacious.

Our mission is to exceed your expectations of what great dental care can be. Our team and practice is rooted in our core values of compassion, integrity, and expertise.

A retro-esque atmosphere with a high ceiling and enormous picture windows makes this an ideal spot for what one comes to expect from a diner: staples such as burgers, BLTs, pork chops, wings, subs and salads, plus fried chicken on weekends. I’ve eaten here a few times, both alone and with friends . . . every time, it’s met my expectations.

Still on the subject of dining downtown on weekdays, in the Piedmont Building at 114 North Elm, you’ll thank me for turning you on to International Food, a tucked-away cafe serving up authentic Mexican cuisine similar to what someone’s abuela would prepare. I delighted in the quesabirria platter (four deep-fried tacos filled with shaved, braised beef with two dipping sauces). I’ll be back for steak or chicken tortas, milanesa (fried chicken breast with rice and beans), fish tacos, chori pollo, chimichangas and the obligatory arroz con pollo. Pop in for lunch and you’ll likely find me there.

There’s also a recently opened honest to goodness, old-school luncheonette situated on the first floor of a newly renovated Renaissance Building across from Tanger Center. Often, my noontime cravings are for nothing more than what Mother and I would typically order at Brown-Gardiner, so I was thrilled to discover Cafe 13, with a pleasing selection of basic comfort foods such as a simple toasted chicken salad sandwich with lettuce and tomato. Nothing fancy, more down-home if anything, it’s the kind of place Rob, Buddy and Sally ordered down from for a working lunch on The Dick Van Dyke Show. One of the ladies’ aunties even makes the pound cake they sell by the slice. Ground floor lunch counter in a high-rise office building isn’t something I expected would make a comeback. Seems everything new is old again! OH

Like his father and grandfather before him, Billy Ingram is the third generation to do business in Downtown Greensboro.

Mary Kay Andrews

O.Henry magazine proudly presents Mary Kay Andrews, New York Times-bestselling author of 30 novels with a celebrated career spanning more than three decades. Splitting her time between Tybee Island and Atlanta, both in Georgia, Andrews’ strong, feminine, Southern voice resonates with readers of all generations. We are excited to share in conversation with her about her latest book, Bright Lights, Big Christmas, due to release on September 13.

Tickets include heavy hors d’oeuvres and two drinks (catered by Grandover).

Wednesday, September 27, 2023 6 — 8 p.m. Grandover Resort

Washington as Count Dracula

Tryon Place, 1791

Washington comes in. He is wearing black velvet with gold buckles at the knee and foot, a sword with finely wrought steel hilt, in scabbard of white leather, a cocked hat with a cockade and a feather, also black. His powdered hair is gathered in a black silk bag. His hands in gloves of yellow clasp extended hands. Above his head medallions of King and Queen flicker beneath dripping wicks, the little flames in circles on the chandeliers surrounded by bits of glass, like worlds in the sky, the telescopes of astronomers. The crystals like Newton’s prisms split the flames, blue, yellow, red, violet. As in the “The Masque of the Red Death” the dance goes on in rooms, where colors glint from rubies in women’s ears. He bows deeply, his corneas refract ideas: science dances from tiaras, bracelets, rings. The battle of Alamance was lost. The Regulators’ defeat had finished the rebellion, or so Tryon thought. Washington’s eyes grow red. He leads the minuet.

— Paul Baker Newman

Art Here

don’t let them eat cake

Fiction by brendan Slocumb • illuStration by m ariano Santillan

He smelled like the cake factory: frosting, the yeasty stench of batter and butter, but more than anything else, sugar. Baked sugar, tangy and sweet, that coated the back of his tongue and the inside of his eyelashes. Leaving the factory at the end of the shift, he could feel the sugar aroma around him like a coat or a fog, always moving with him. Of course, his friends started calling him Bon Bon. He’d hated the nickname, but by now it had hung on him so long that he didn’t mind it.

He ordered another beer and checked his watch. His buddy, Tig, was late, as usual. Meet me at the bar at 6:30 and DONT BE LATE, Tig had texted him. SERIOUS!!!

Now it was 6:49, and he’d finished the first beer and ordered a second. Why Bon Bon had believed Tig that this time actually was urgent, Bon Bon didn’t know. He’d shown up in his work clothes without changing back into his street clothes, the King Arthur Brand cake flour misting up from his pant legs every time he

shifted on the bar stool.

“You makin’ me hungry, buddy,” Alan, the bartender, told him for the third time. “What do you think of carrot cake? You a big fan?”

“I figured you for a chocolate cake man,” Bon Bon said. “That was your wife in the shop the other day, wasn’t it? She bought the 14-inch and the 18-inch. Double chocolate.”

“Wife loves them,” Alan said, buffing the bar and looking away. His A-shirt, with dozens of stains on it — bourbons, whiskeys, wines — barely covered his paunch. Seemed like Alan loved those chocolate cakes, too.

Bon Bon nodded politely, tried to squeeze out a smile and looked again at the door.

“You must get sick of cakes,” Alan said. “All them sweets. That vanilla confetti cake is my favorite.”

“Never touch the stuff,” Bon Bon said. “I only eat salty stuff. You got more of these?” He pushed the empty dish that had con-

Here

tained pretzels and peanuts towards Alan. The first few months at the factory, Bon Bon had eaten so many pastries that he became nauseated by the sight of anything with sugar in it.

He looked at the clock. It was 6:54. If Tig didn’t show by 7, Bon Bon was out of there. Home, out of the sugar-stenched clothes and into the shower. He imagined hot water sluicing over him, the powdered sugar circling the drain and disappearing. He fumbled in his pocket for his wallet, looking for a ten, when a familiar voice said behind him, “You stink like the inside of a fat woman’s purse, you know that?”

Tig. Of course. “What?” Bon Bon asked him. “What does the inside of someone’s purse smell like? And where were you?”

“They keep cake in them,” Tig said. “The ladies.”

“Nobody keeps cake in their purse,” Bon Bon told him. “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard you say.” And he’d heard Tig say plenty of stupid things over the years.

“Come on, let’s go.” Tig was already heading toward the door.

“Go where?” Bon Bon said. “Why did you want to meet here? Now we’re leaving? What’s going on?” Bon Bon grabbed a handful of the peanut-pretzel snack from the newly replenished dish, thanked Alan with a wave and trotted to keep up with Tig, who was already outside

By the time Bon Bon caught up with Tig, he was almost to his car, a beat-up dark green Chevy Malibu, whose passenger door had gotten side-swiped years ago and was missing the side mirror and

most of the chrome trim. Tig was what Bon Bon’s mother referred to as “a character.” Overalls, sleeveless shirt, dirt-and-oil-coated John Deere trucker cap, Reebok tennis shoes so faded and stained with oil and dirt that their color would forever be a mystery.

“Get in,” Tig said.

“Where are we going? When will we be back? I can’t just leave my car — ”

“GET IN,” Tig said, almost an order this time.

Bon Bon never knew why he got in the car that night. Maybe because he’d done other stupid things with Tig in the past and this was just par for the course. You wouldn’t believe what Tig just did, Bon Bon imagined texting his friends later tonight. It would be fodder for conversation for days to come.

The car stunk of cigarette smoke and chaw. A spit cup sloshed in the dashboard console. Bon Bon shoved McDonald’s wrappers, Entenmann’s boxes, Dunkin’ bags and miscellaneous trash off the seat, and got in. Before he could even buckle his seat belt, Tig spun the tires and headed out of the parking lot toward the highway.

“What’s this about?” Bon Bon repeated, swallowing the last of the pretzels.

Tig smiled. Drove for a minute, enjoying the power. Then, dramatically, he said, “I’m about to make us rich.”

“No,” Bon Bon said.

“Yep.”

“OK,” Bon Bon said. “Let me out. Turn around. Stop this piece-of-crap and let me out. I told you before. I’m not getting involved in any of your messed-up money-making — ”

“It’s guaranteed cash and you’re already in it,” Tig said without missing a beat.

“Stop the car. I mean it.”

“Too late. You’re going to thank me in about 12 hours.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Twelve hours? What did you do? What are we doing?”

“I just made you 23K. I get 27K, you get 23K.”

“For what?” Bon Bon asked. Frustration and fury boiled in his gut the way it often did when he had to deal with Tig. “You just handing me 23K for sitting here?”

“For coming with me, yeah,” Tig said, darting a glance at him. Bon Bon couldn’t decipher it. “All you gotta do is drive when I get sleepy.” The highway spooled out before them, the endless ripple of white lines bisecting the night. Few cars were out this late, and all seemed to be going in the other direction.

“Hell no. I don’t know what kind of craziness you’re getting into, but I’m out. I gotta work in the morning. Turn around. Take me back to my car.”

Tig laughed. “Bro, they won’t miss you at that cookie house. Besides, in 12 hours, you’ll have enough money to quit that job and do something that doesn’t leave you smelling like a giant cupcake. Lose that dumbass nickname. Grown man named Bon Bon. I’m doing you a favor.”

“Screw you. Dammit, I knew I should have just gone home.”

The car banked around a wide curve, then through a series of up-and-down humps in the road. If you drove fast enough, it was like riding a roller coaster. For an instant, you could lose your stomach as you crested the rise.

On the descent, a thump came from the trunk.

“What was that?” Bon Bon looked in the back seat, stacked neatly with big square boxes: Macbook Air, read several. UN3481, read others, with the logos of a battery and a flame. They were all laptop computers. The back-seat floor was the usual sea of fastfood wrappers, napkins and trash. Nothing moved.

The thump came again, as if whatever was back there shifted back to its original position.

“What’s going on?” Bon Bon asked. He couldn’t hide the note of nervousness now in his voice. “What’s in the back seat? Is that stuff stolen? You raid an Apple Store or something?” He tried to imagine how many laptops would be worth $50,000. There’d have to be at least twenty-five, maybe more.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” The car was going faster now, well over 80 mph.

“I knew it. I freakin’ knew it. What did you do? I’m not dealing in stolen goods, Tig. Stop the car.”

Tig groped in the driver side door. Bon Bon thought at first that Tig was looking for his wallet or maybe a soda bottle. But after a moment Tig retrieved a small triangular object that seemed to absorb the dim lights from the dashboard before it resolved itself into a gun. It glittered as if alive. Tig gripped the handle and then the muzzle was pointing, impossibly, at Bon Bon himself.

“T, what the . . . ”

“Just shut up,” Tig said. “I’m doing you a favor. Nobody is getting hurt. We walk away with more money than either of us has ever seen.”

Bon Bon had only seen Tig this erratic once before. It ended with Carl Simmons walking with a permanent limp and Tig spending three years in prison for aggravated assault. Bon Bon stared at the dark muzzle of the gun. His mouth had gone dry, the pretzel crumbs turned to gooey dust on his tongue. He wiped his hands on his pants and could feel the flour and sugar coating his palms. He wanted to scream. Instead he took a deep breath, looked out the window into the dark, trying to ignore the feel of the gun staring at him. “OK man, just tell me where you got all these computers from. And what we’re going to do with them.”

“The less you know the better,” Tig told him. “Get some rest. You’ll take over in six hours. We gotta make the drop by 8 a.m.”

Bon Bon had heard that Tig had gotten into some shady business while he was in prison. This whole scenario was making more sense. Tig, and now Bon Bon, were driving stolen electronics over state lines. He wondered if $23,000 was worth getting caught. If the police pulled them over —

Tig turned on the radio with an aggressive punch of his forefinger. Kellie Pickler’s “Red High Heels” deafened them. Bon Bon turned down the volume.

Over the next two hours, Bon Bon sat in silence, thinking. Tig couldn’t be reasoned with, that was pretty clear. Bon Bon could wait till Tig fell asleep and turn the car around, but what would happen when Tig woke up? Bon Bon glanced down at the gun again, resting lazily on Tig’s thigh, and looked out the window. He could grab his phone and try putting it on mute and dialing 911, but the phone’s light would turn on and Tig would see it for sure. Bon Bon’s palms felt chalky from the mixture of sweat and cake flour dust. The damp, sugary smell from his trousers made him want to retch.

“Hey,” he said when lights from the next exit glimmered on the horizon. Signs for gas, food, lodging. “I didn’t get dinner when I was sitting there waiting for you, and I’m starving. Do we need gas?” He pretended to stretch and stifle a yawn.

Tig kept his eyes on the road, but his grip tightened for an instant on the gun, then relaxed again. “OK,” he said after a minute. “I am, too. All right. I’ll pump the gas and you get us some food.” Tig took the exit too fast, the car almost on the berm before he overcorrected. Again came the thump from the trunk. “And don’t try anything, man. I’d hate to kill you, you hear me?”

The gas station was a half-mile down the road, its fluorescent lights bright and disorienting. No cars were parked at the pumps. A single beat-up Honda sat tucked against the building. Bon Bon had been hoping for a late-night police cruiser, an RV, anything.

After the car had come to a halt, Bon Bon got out, making sure his movements were slow and casual. He could run in, tell the attendant to call the cops, who could be here in minutes. He glanced over at Tig, who was staring hard at him. He looked away, pulled open the glass door. He could feel Tig’s eyes on him, even in the snack aisle.

He picked up several bags of  Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, hot chili and roasted lime Takis, jalapeño Kettle potato chips, and honey

barbecue and hot mustard pretzels. Then went to the refrigerators on the wall and pulled out four bottles of Pepsi.

At the cash register, Tig’s gaze brushed his shoulders as Bon Bon paid and the clerk stuffed everything in a plastic sack. Again and again, he contemplated saying something but then imagined Tig leveling the gun at them, the bullets spider-webbing the glass.

The door behind them jingled, and Bon Bon jumped. “You almost done, man?” Tig called in.

“Yeah,” Bon Bon said. The clerk put a handful of change on the counter, and Bon Bon swiped it into his palm. “You owe me 18 bucks,” he told Tig as he brushed past him out the door, out into the cool night and the waiting car.

“Oh you’ll get that and more soon, buddy.” Bon Bon could hear the relief in Tig’s voice. “You feel like driving now?”

“Yeah, I can take over,” Bon Bon said. “You eat up. Did you check on the trunk? On whatever fell over back there?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s fine,” Tig said.

Bon Bon pulled out of the parking lot as Tig tore open the purple bag of Takis, stuffing a handful into his mouth. “Damn, these are good. You want some?”

Bon Bon shook his head. “In a sec.” He took a sip of Pepsi.

“These things are spicy,” Tig said, playing on the word spicy. “Whooo-eee.” He cracked open his Pepsi and drained half of the bottle. Bon Bon took a sip of his.

Tig didn’t tell him where they were going, just directed him once to turn south, toward the highway running to the coast. Tig broke into the potato chips and Bon Bon munched on pretzels. They passed city after city, and a rest stop in three miles.

“I’m thirsty,” Tig said when he was halfway through the Honey Barbecue Pretzels. “These pretzels are making me thirsty.”

“Seinfeld,” Bon Bon told him without looking over. He checked the rearview mirror. The boxes sat primly on the backseat, giving away nothing.

“What?”

“Seinfeld,” Bon Bon said. “That was a running joke on Seinfeld.” The rest area illuminated the road. “Remember, George said it about 200 times during that show?” They passed the entrance, kept going.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You got more to drink?” Tig said.

“There ain’t no more. We drank it all.”

“That ain’t funny,” Tig said. “I’m seriously thirsty. We gotta stop.”

“OK,” Bon Bon told him. “Next place we see. I need to take a piss, too,” he added.

They passed a sign. “Next Rest Area: 28 Miles.”

“Damn,” Bon Bon said. “Another half-hour.”

“We can make it,” Tig said, staring out at the darkness. But after another 10 minutes he said, “I really gotta go.”

“So do I,” Bon Bon said. “Bad. I’m going to pull over.”

He eased the Chevy onto the shoulder, put on his flashers. “What the hell you think you doin’?” Tig said, spraying pretzel crumbs onto Bon Bon’s shirt.

“What? You want me to piss myself in the driver’s seat? I didn’t shower after work because somebody wanted me to meet them at 6:30. So now I smell like cupcakes and if I piss myself I’ll smell a

lot worse. That is not a good combination. So you’ve got a choice. Either stop yapping in my face and let me pee, or you can drive the rest of the way in a wet seat.”

He hoped Tig would be too preoccupied to suggest that he pee in the Pepsi bottle. Tig was.

“Whatever. Don’t do nothin’ stupid.” Tig got out of the car, slammed the door. Again the thump from the trunk, and then another.

The car’s headlights beamed into the nondescript grass as Bon Bon climbed out, went around the front of the car. As he reached the berm, he stumbled, tripped, and fell. Then got up, close now to Tig.

“Clumsy idiot,” Tig said, laughing, transferring the gun from his right hand to his left, unzipping. “Next rest stop we’re gonna get something to drink. I’m really thirsty. We got how many miles? 15 or — ”

Wham. The rock that Bon Bon had just picked up struck Tig perfectly, right on the temple. Tig dropped, soundless, so quickly that Bon Bon thought for a second that he was pretending.

But he wasn’t. A moment later he groaned, reaching for his scalp. Bon Bon lunged for the gun, grabbed it and sprinted back to the car.

In a moment, cinders flew and he was back on the highway, heart in his throat, going 70, 80, 90 miles an hour.

After a couple of miles he slowed slightly, pulse still pounding. The thump from the trunk came again. Bon Bon pulled over, popped the trunk, went around back.

Inside, a young boy lay wedged against tires and fabric, his hands and feet bound with zip ties. His eyes were bigger than any eyes Bon Bon had ever seen, with such terror and misery that Bon Bon couldn’t speak for a moment as he loosened the gag. The boy struggled away, a panicked bird.

“Hey, it’s OK,” Bon Bon said. “That piece of garbage can’t hurt you.”

He looked in the front seat for a knife, scissors, anything to cut the ties, but could find nothing. So he carried the boy to the front seat, tried to make him comfortable.

“I’m taking you to the police,” Bon Bon told him as he adjusted the seat belt. “The bad man won’t hurt you anymore, OK?” He tried to sound as calm and nonthreatening as he could.

“You smell like a cupcake,” he told Bon Bon accusingly, voice rough.

Bon Bon laughed. “Story of my life,” he said. “I get that a lot.”

The little boy eyed the bag of pretzels, tucked in between the seats. “Can I have some?”

Bon Bon reached past him for the pretzels, fed him a couple at a time.

“These are making me thirsty, “ he said.”

“Do you like Seinfeld, kid?” Bon Bon said as he pulled out his phone and dialed 911. OH

Brendan Nicholaus Slocumb is a graduate of UNC Greensboro with a degree in music education. He is the author of The Violin Conspiracy and Symphony of Secrets. He is currently working on his third novel.

Andi hadn’t been startled awake for several nights, ever since the contractor fixed that foundation problem, but now she sat straight up in bed. Something was wrong. The house, her new home in a new city, remained quiet, all that groaning and cracking having been eliminated by the repairs. It was that other silence — no hum of cars passing on the street, no sounds of a city waking up. And, she realized as she stared into total darkness, no streetlight glow filtering around the blinds. For a while, she heard nothing. Gradually, light began to show and she heard a chorus of shrieks and whistles — birds? She got up, shuffled to the back door and opened it on a bright dawn, cornfields stretching flat and green in every direction. The

rows came right to her steps, tassels waving well above her head. Blackbirds wheeled in huge flocks.

Her house had moved. And she had moved with it.

Even as she tried to make sense of it, speculating that this looked like Iowa — must be, maybe, everyday, common Iowa — nothing to be afraid of, the rest of her brain was rabbiting around the bonkers impossibility of her situation.

She had loved the cottage from the moment the realtor opened the door, but, after moving in, she came to realize there was an uneasiness about it. Day and night, floors creaked and popped without the weight of a footstep. When she reached to put something in a high cupboard, the top of it did not line up with

Fiction by Valerie nieman

illuStration by Jenn H aleS

the ceiling. Everything was slightly off one way or another, but that’s the way old houses were. They settled year by year, in a long, uneven conversation with the ground.

She didn’t miss her previous home. It wasn’t that, at all. When her ex abruptly went away (for good this time), and shortly after so did her job, she’d decided she needed something smaller to meet her changed circumstances. Something older, solid, with its own history.

Stay, or go. It hadn’t been a difficult choice. Her former home had no longer felt like home. It just felt like him, his house, cold all the time.

Three different construction dates — 1921, 1927, 1928 — were listed variously on deeds, descriptions and reports. It made no sense. A house was completed or not in a certain year. The cedarshake cottage had been moved sometime in the 1970s and new sections had been added, a porch, a deck. Extensions that almost seemed to buttress the square main building, pushing out on three sides.

Andi had become fascinated by the idea of house-moving. It wasn’t unusual, of course; houses were moved out of the path of development all the time. Even lighthouses were raised up on rollers and carried inland, away from the encroaching sea. She remembered reading about a town in Minnesota that was hauled away from mining damage by horses and tractors and a steam engine. Elsewhere in North Carolina, the former village of Avalon had been moved when its mill burned down, the little houses incorporated into the neighboring textile town of Mayodan. History was like that, for a house or a person — gaps in the record, mysteries.

The recommended contractor came within a week — the benefit of a small town, Andi supposed — and rang the doorbell with his ball cap off, gripped in his hands like he was entering a church.

“Miss Andrea?”

“Andi.”

“Miss Andi. I am pleased to meet you.” He paused and glanced inside. “What were you needing done?”

“I’d like you to look at the foundation.” It sounded too — something — to say she heard strange noises. “I understand the house was moved. Is it well supported? The home inspector didn’t mention anything.”

“Well, you are spot on about the move. I remember when they did it. Quite the show, with traffic held up and all. They put an office building where it used to be.” He kept talking as she led him back to the utility room and the trap door to the crawl space, wondering if a man that old (he had only a fringe of white hair around a polished dome) was agile enough to get around under the joists. But she needn’t have worried — he was quickly out of sight, banging around beneath the floor, and it wasn’t long until he came up out of the hole.

“Found your problem.” He turned off his flashlight, dusted off his hands. “The main support beam, a steel beam at that, has been cut in two.”

“What?” That sounded terrifying, as if the house might bend

at the center like a cardboard box and fold itself flat.

“Yep. Might have been part of moving it, I don’t know.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“No, no, there’s plenty of support pillars. Just . . . strange.”

She hadn’t been able get the vision of a collapse out of her mind. “Can you put it back together?”

“I can do that, sure. Have to come back with some tools, bolts and such. And good steel.”

And so it was done.

Two mornings after the cornfields appeared, she awoke to the mooing of cows.

She hadn’t ventured into the tall corn, featureless as a sea. Now she looked out on new fields that rolled away over little hills, fields bounded by hedges instead of fences. Brown and white cows. She looked out of windows on each side of the house. Far away she could see a steeple and what appeared to be a castle.

England?

The house did not move on a regular schedule. It stayed in the same place for days, even weeks, then she would hear the wind moaning from a new corner of the eaves and look outside to see — what was that?

She was cautious. When the house set down in a populated area, no one seemed to notice. People apparently could not see the house, but once she stepped off the porch, they could see her. The first time she’d tried, somewhere under a hot, pale sky, blackhaired children clamored at her and she ran back inside. They stood for a moment, wide-eyed, letting the stones drop from their hands, and fled.

Did she appear suddenly, popping into view? Was she floating in a bubble like Glinda? No way to tell.

The movement of the house in space and time became wider and wilder. One day she might look out on a Japanese seaside town with little boats and a pagoda, and a couple days later, she’d be in the United States, far to the north, in a logging town at the edge of a redwood forest. The house, severed from a permanent base, had no utilities, but Andi did have a large supply of candles. And a rain barrel that had been strapped to one of the additions.

I am resourceful, she thought. I am doing fine.

Turn and turn and turn again.

The days were long and the nights longer in the wandering house. She missed her friends, especially Nicole, a coworker who had stayed close through both the divorce and her early (forced) retirement from their employer. Nicole had always teased her for overly careful preparation, cautious decision-making. What would she say about this?

Andi even sort of missed her ex. He had been a familiar problem, at least.

She learned how to gather food in exotic places, covering her foreignness with a long, hooded cloak, a souvenir of her role in a college Shakespeare production. Where there was a store, a souk, a market cross, she waited and watched, moving in when the crowds had thinned and the leavings were cheap. The smell of

cooked meat made her ravenous.

She could barter jewelry and small items to merchants. Gestures were pretty much universal. As her hair grew unruly and her scrupulously kept-up color faded to salt-and-pepper, with her head down and a hand upturned, she could sometimes gather alms from passersby. No need to speak. Maybe she couldn’t any longer.

Andi fell asleep with the house settled someplace that was high and cold and empty, a steppe. She woke to find it beside a long lake clasped by dark-forested mountains. Well down the shore was a cluster of thatch-roofed cottages.

Hunger drove her to the village and, as she looked for someplace to get food, she was relieved to realize the people were speaking a sort of English. It wasn’t market day, but a house displayed a bush over the door. That meant beer was available, she remembered from a long-ago advertising class.

She nodded to the woman inside, dressed in a bodice and full skirts, her hair covered.

“Beer,” she ventured.

The woman, stout as one of her casks, looked oddly at her.

“Ale?” Andi mimed drinking.

The woman responded by shaking a bucket at her.

Ah. Medieval takeout. She had no pitcher, bucket, anything with which to carry the beer away.

Andi put her hand on a pottery pitcher and indicated that she would buy it. She produced a piece of jewelry she’d brought to trade, an alloy ring decorated with the figure of a nude dancing woman.

The woman backed away, eyes wide, and whispered something that sounded like “elf.” Or “help.”

A man came from outside and she pointed to the ring where it lay. He picked it up and turned it in his dirt-caked fingers, squinted at her, and then spoke to the woman, who hustled off to get someone, a priest, a soldier, someone that Andi didn’t think she should meet.

She gathered up the skirts of her cloak and ran.

The house didn’t move that night, or the next, or the next. She wished it would.

Andi did not go back to the village, fearing people who feared her. Andi imagined the townspeople might think she was something supernatural, in league with the Devil. She also considered that maybe the stylized figure of a naked woman on the ring had offended them. People went past the house, on their way to fields or driving herds of sheep along, without even a glance.

Then a man as dark as a devil stopped right in front, turned and stared into the window.

“I spy a lass, through the window,” he said.

She hid behind the curtain.

“There thou be, though how this house came hither I dinnae ken.” The man began to walk away, and she thought he’d gone until he emerged from the other side, having circled the house. He stepped up onto the porch and came to the door.

“How can you see this house?” she asked, almost whispering

into the gap between the old door and the frame.

“Metal calls to me, shaped in some cantrip-time.”

Andi opened the door but stood behind the screen as though that bit of protection would be sufficient to keep out this brawny man. A blacksmith, she realized, his skin and clothing darkened by the smoke of the forge.

“The house moves,” she confided. “It was cut apart underneath and then, when it was fixed, it began moving.”

He cocked his head as he listened, the way a dog turns its head as it tries to tune in its person’s unfamiliar words. “The house is magiked.”

She nodded.

“Gie me leave then to see?”

Andi opened the flimsy door and stood back. The whiff of fire and charcoal came with him. He looked around the room, bemused (What did he make of the black slab of the television, photographs on the wall?) then followed her to the access. Like the old contractor, he moved with the assurance of someone who dealt with problems all the time, physical problems that could be addressed with tools and skill.

He was quickly back up, head and shoulders out of the trap door. He tried to explain the situation, and now she was the one who couldn’t put all the words together. However, she came to understand that he had found the steel beam bridged by the contractor’s plates and bolts.

“Can you fix it?”

“Fixt? Your house is scarcely that,” he said, a smile opening his sooty face. “I’ve a gift from the Fair Folk to forge steel that will nae break nor blunt at the bite. Aye, I can do this task. A wandering heart can be put aright, house or lass alike.”

He heaved himself out of the crawl space. She pulled back, away from his seared hands and leather apron.

“If you do, if you fix — unmend — it, what will happen?”

“The heart was cut in twain to end the wandering. If I take away the clampar, ’twill rest again.”

She thought about the various recorded dates of the house’s construction. Had it skipped from year to year, somehow, appearing and disappearing until it was tamed?

“But where? Where will it be?”

“Why, here, lass! I canna make it skip the sea from one shore to another like a stane from the hand of the giant Benandonner,” he said, laughing. “Here this house stays, and thou with it, or else be ever a-wandering like Will-o’-the-wisp.”

She looked out at the dense forests and the long silvery lake. She was aware of the interest in his merry eyes. And the able heft of the man. Solid, he was.

“My folk will thee like. There’s much eerie hereabouts, m’self not least, though we’ve never seen a lass sa conveyed.”

He offered his fire-marked hand.

“Andi,” she said, as she took it. OH

A former professor at NC A&T State University and editor for the News & Record , Valerie Nieman lives and writes in Rockingham County. Her novel, In the Lonely Backwater, won the Sir Walter Raleigh Award for 2022.

Editor's Note

Some things just belong together: peanut butter and jelly, Hermione and Ron, Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy. In celebration of our favorite pairing — a beach and a book — O.Henry has produced its summer reading issue every August for over a decade. In that span, our contributors have included Frances Mayes, Daniel Wallace, Etaf Rum, Ron Rash, Lee Smith, Clyde Edgerton, Bland Simpson, David Payne, Lee Zacharias, Celia Rivenbark, Michael Parker, Nan Graham, Terri Kirby Erickson, Shelby Stephenson, Fred Chappell, Anthony S. Abbott, Wiley Cash, Ruth Moose, Sam Barbee, Virginia Holman and Jill McCorkle, to name a few. This year, we added Valerie Nieman and Brendan Slocumb to our roster.

And every August, we strive to find a cover that celebrates both reading and readers. This year, we’re fortunate enough to feature the work of California artist Michael Stilkey, a “book sculpture” entitled Out of the Night That Covers Me. In a style reminiscent of German expressionism, Stilkey uses a mix of paint, lacquer, ink and pencil to capture his melancholic, whimsical characters painted on stacks of books, many of which are destined for the recycling bin. Stilkey told the L.A. Times, “Books are dying. There are so many that go to the garbage. It’s crazy. If I can paint on them, I’m giving them a second chance.” His work has been exhibited throughout the United States and around the world, in-

cluding the United Kingdom, Italy, Switzerland, The Philippines and China. When the curator of the Rice University Gallery randomly saw his work in a Los Angeles gallery, she flew him to Houston where he created his first large book sculpture. It went viral. “Then I went on a world tour for the next, I don’t know, 15 years,” says Stilkey. “Right place, right idea, right timing. It all aligned.”

In 2018, Stilkey was invited to the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland, as a cultural leader. There, he created a book installation entitled Down to Earth, consisting of nearly 8,000 books, standing 27 feet tall and 20 feet wide, and depicting people from diverse walks of life floating on the music of a pianist. In 2019 at the Starfield Library in South Korea, he created his largest piece, a three-sided sculpture made of roughly 15,000 discarded books.

If you’d like to see more of Stilkey’s artwork, visit mikestilkey.com. For now, we hope you enjoyed our 2023 pageturners. And we really hope you’re sitting in your beach chair, toes dipped in the water. OH

— Cassie Bustamante

To see more of Stilkey’s artwork, visit his website at mikestilkey.com.

The Wonder Kid

The secret to Glenn Dobrogosz’ success? Seeing through the eyes of a child

by caSSie buStamante

PHotograPHS by m ark Wagoner

In the fall of 1996, after hopscotching across the country chasing zoo careers, Glenn and Tonya Dobrogosz found themselves on the road again, destined for a place that would change their lives forever. The couple was headed to New York State Living Museum at Thompson Park (now Zoo New York) in Watertown, where Glenn would take on his very first directorship role. The day they arrived for his interview, tears rolled down Tonya’s cheeks.

“I’m from Florida!” exclaims Tonya. “And it was as far north as you could go and still be in the United States.”

Glenn, CEO of the Greensboro Science Center, was ready for an opportunity where he could make a real impact and, in his words, Watertown’s zoo was in “rough shape.” Challenge accepted.

His first day in the “office,” he discovered his desk was made from a door on cinderblocks, and the crammed space was shared with two coworkers as well as “a possum that had chronic diarrhea . . . I was humbled pretty quick that day.”

While Glenn worked to greatly improve the Watertown zoo in his six years there, “most importantly, year one . . . Hannah was born.”

Hannah, 25 and the Dobrogoszes’ only child, now lives in a New York City apartment and writes for the popular website, BuzzFeed. She says that whenever she tells people that she grew up living in zoos, they inevitably point out that she lives in New York City: “That’s like a zoo, too,” they joke.

“A dangerous one,” interjects Glenn, who, by the way, considers most snakes “harmless.”

In 2022, Hannah wrote a BuzzFeed piece about her experience of growing up in zoos (buzzfeed.com/hannahdobro/i-lived-in-two-zoos), sharing that although her birth was “in a human hospital like many other human babies,” her next five years were spent living in an old 1918 limestone-block house, smack dab in the middle of the zoo campus. As perk of Glenn’s job, the family resided in the zookeeper’s house, though it came with noisy neighbors — a great horned owl named Big Bird who hooted constantly — and spirited residents.

“Let’s put it this way,” says Glenn, “we had weird experiences.”

“It was very haunted, most definitely,” Tonya chimes in. “I used to hear music all the time, playing a violin.” They later discovered that a gentleman who had lived there — and was now deceased — played the violin. The music echoed from what had once been his room.

With animals — and other-worldlies — aplenty, human neighbors were scarce. “Fortunately Glenn had two coworkers, two girls who worked in his office. We all were pregnant about the same time,” says Tonya. “And we became friends.” Out of this friendship, a “mommies group” was formed that helped both Tonya and Hannah find community.

The social scene wasn’t exactly thriving, but living on the zoo campus provided copious opportunities for family time.

“She used to look out the window in the living room and sit up on the couch and she would sometimes see him out walking around,” says Tonya. “And she’d be knocking!”

And Glenn also came home regularly for lunch with the family. “These were extremely busy times, because when you’re just starting out, you do whatever it takes to succeed. And it was very intense, very stressful because I didn’t know we could do it.” But, he says, “having that ability to come home, give her a hug, walk — that was huge for my mental condition.”

Also just outside the window of their New York zoo home sat a butterfly house, which Hannah, who still considers butterflies among her favorite animals, frequented. That structure, says Glenn, “was the motivation for why we built the butterfly house at the [Greensboro] Science Center.” More so than the building itself, it was seeing Hannah interact with it “because watching her in that space, from the chrysalis to the caterpillar to the butterflies — it was pretty special.” Even today, he says, though “it sounds immature and silly,” he designs “through the eyes of an 8-year-old child.”

His daughter’s fascination with the animal world mirrored his own. Growing up in Raleigh, Glenn recalls that while other kids were playing sports, he was wading knee-deep in a creek that ran, quite literally, through his backyard and “turning over rocks for salamanders and frogs.”

After-hours walks around the zoo are favorite memories among all the Dobrogoszes. “I remember specifically we would go into the gift shop, we would go into the ice cream machine and I would get a drumstick, still my favorite ice cream,” says Hannah, adding that they’d then walk around the zoo together as the sun set. “It’s a child’s dream, really.”

“For me, it really is just taking her little hand in New York and walking that path and we’d mimic the animals,” recalls Glenn of those special evenings together.

While Watertown provided the family with obvious challenges, it provided Glenn the opportunity to see just what he was capable of doing. In fact, “I kinda wrapped my arms around the project and wrote a master plan called Thompson Park 2000 and just presented, presented, presented,” says Glenn, to “whoever would listen.”

His tenacity paid off. “We ended up raising about $3.5 million.” What really helped, Glenn says, was that “there was an army base up there and [we] met a colonel who just loved us and helped clear land, build roads — all free of charge for donuts and pop.” Under Glenn’s six-year directorship, New York State Living Museum became fully accredited, with several new exhibits, landing the spot of number one tourist destination for Watertown.

After successfully transforming the Watertown zoo, the family

headed to the Chehaw Zoo in Albany, Georgia. There, Glenn spent a short two-year stint getting it accredited, and then happened to see a job listing for the Greensboro Science Center.

Happy to be closer to his own parents in Raleigh, Glenn and his family made the move to Greensboro in 2004. While this was the first time they didn’t have a campus dwelling, Hannah still recalls special moments involving her dad’s work. “He’d bring animals [to school] and we’d go on field trips to the science center,” she says, adding that, with Glenn as her father, it was “a really special field trip.”

But Glenn has worked to make the science center special for kids — and adults — from all walks of life. In his 19 years in Greensboro, supported by “a team and board that are the best I’ve had,” he’s added SkyWild, the Kiwanis Treehouse and Revolution Ridge. To see the faces of children enjoying new additions at the Greensboro Science Center, it’s clear that it was planned by people who understand what it is to look through their eyes.

One of the recent changes Glenn is proudest of allows accessibility to kids from all socioeconomic backgrounds. The Greensboro Science Center now admits those who show their SNAP (Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program) cards for just $5, compared to a regular admission fee of $19.50. “I’ll tell ya, it’s been one of the most powerful things we have ever done,” says Glenn. “Seeing kids who normally have no exposure to this and maybe one to two percent could become science-inspired and science-minded — that gets you. Because when you’re out on the boardwalk . . . and you can tell these kids have never seen anything like this before, it’s powerful.”

And Glenn’s work here isn’t done. Due to open in 2025 is a brand-new state-of-the-art biodome which will include a freeflighted aviary, endangered species breeding programs, watery and forested environments, bridges and caves, and playscapes. Once a visitor has traveled through the biodome, they land in “this weird immersive theater that tells the story of conservation in these tropical environments.”

Glenn’s eyes, indeed, sparkle with the excitement of that boy who once tromped through backyard creeks. “I’ve done a lot of things, but I’ve never built or been part of building a rainforest. So it will be a great legacy for Greensboro, I hope.”

His own legacy shines on in his daughter, who reflects his wonder at the natural world. “I have forever been finding reasons to sneak in and see something new,” says Hannah, who visits the science center when she can these days. “I remember when you first got the hippos . . . You, Beth Hemphill [GSC Chief Operating Officer] and I drove out there to see the hippos late at night.”

And now those paired endangered pygmy hippos, Ralph and Holly, have started a family of their own with the recent addition of a baby earlier this year. Are there parallels between how animals and people raise their young? Absolutely, according to Glenn, because there’s “a lot of instinct built into our complex brains.”

So far that instinct, paired with his awe-inspired curiosity, has not steered him wrong. He adds, “I go with my gut on everything. Maybe in raising a child that’s sometimes good, sometimes not good. But, to me, it’s the only way.” It’s certainly worked for the Greensboro Science Center. OH

Bidding Adieu to a “Jewel Box” Home

The Otto Zenke stamp stands the test of time

by cyntHia a damS • PHotograPHS by bert VanderVeen

Had Robert and Adeline “Addie” Smith not taken on a hybrid midcentury modern/traditional ranch, restoring it to its full, Otto Zenke-era glory, who knows what might have happened? Would the singular designer’s touches have been lost forever?

Not a chance.

As you read this, the Smiths will have already decamped from their newly rejuvenated Starmount “jewel box” after living there for less than a year. “We’re starting all over again, like we did last year,” Addie says wistfully.

“We made a splash and now we must dash,” she says with an upbeat tone of voice but an expression that says otherwise. Leaving a “dream home” in which they’ve invested time and

resources came as a surprise, they both stress, although they’ve uprooted before.

They’ve closed on and begun planning a refresh of an 84-yearold sun-soaked cottage in Jacksonville’s historic San Marco neighborhood, Florida.

A difference of night and day, they say.

Packing up their worldly belongings, setting off with their beloved wirehaired fox terrier, Bobby, for their next reno-venture, seems like déjà vu all over again, in the words of Yogi Berra.

Robert, a senior project engineer/associate with the global architecture and engineering firm Stantec, has been recently tapped to start a new “bridge group” — or satellite office — for his company in northeast Florida. His territory has grown from West Palm Beach, where the couple formerly lived, to northern Georgia.

Addie, a Pennsylvania-born designer, hopes to recreate some of the magic in their new abode that they felt in one of Greensboro’s most wooded and walking-friendly neighborhoods.

Even, Addie says, with a serious exhale, if the San Marco cottage is half the size of the jewel box and lacks the stylish cleverness designed into its nooks and crannies.

Bobby seems to agree, taking to his bed looking dejected, tail drooping, but Addie takes notice and calls him over for a treat.

She can’t help but gush about the aesthetic aspects of the Starmount property. “I have to pinch myself; I lived in this work of art.”

Artistry was burnished into its very DNA, she discovered, largely thanks to the home’s builders, who worked hand-in-glove with, arguably, the most renowned Triad designer. (Addie belongs to the American Society of Interior Designers, ASID, both in Philadelphia and Miami, her former home.)

Today, ASID still sponsors an annual Otto Zenke student competition in his honor.

Zenke deserves the following he cultivated, she says.

More about the former and latter soon, but first, the why

For if, like the Smiths, you’ve ever poured yourself into a renovation, only to soon discover you must relocate, then best follow Lemony Snicket’s advice to “look away, look away” and read another story in this issue. Because the Smith’s saga may

prove too sad.

However, there is another point of view, one which Addie herself offers: “Talk about the passing of the baton to the new owner, Russ La Belle,” she suggests. La Belle, who has Greensboro roots, is president of North Carolina-based Wilmington Machinery, with headquarters incorporated in the Triad.

And so, the story of this house concerns a short but significant tenure given the Smiths’ shared vision. “Our creative thread goes through our person, what we wear, our homes,” she adds philosophically. “Our homes impact us.”

Prior to changing paint colors and refinishing floors to a lighter, blonde look, Addie had weighed all the period touches that would be preserved as well as those that would be added. But before the first brush stroke was applied late last summer, Addie had prepared a detailed notebook of paint colors, renderings and specifications. “I treated myself and Robert as the client,” she explains.

Addie first found the Starmount property in August last year — one she began calling “the Duncan house” after meeting former owners Linda and Randy Duncan.

The 48-year history of the Duncans’ ownership and their improvements impressed her. As did the home’s beginnings.

In 1955, Arthur Schwartz, owner of Arthur’s Fine Shoes on North Elm Street, built a ranch style home on Kemp Road

West for his family. Linda, who befriended Schwartz, learned that he retained “the well-renown interior designer, Otto Zenke,” confirmation of what Addie felt was true. In fact, she had done a fair amount of sleuthing.

“There are still today some remnants of Mr. Zenke’s handiwork,” she says and points to Zenke’s custom-made brass pulls on folding doors and hardware designed specifically for the built-ins.

These and other identifiable Zenke touches inspired Addie as she planned refurbishments.

On a walk-through, she mentions “the wallpaper in the bar and some of the very unique brass doorknobs in the den and foyer” as further evidence.

The Smiths invited Benjamin Briggs from Preservation Greensboro to have lunch earlier this year at their home to learn more about its provenance — and reveal the redo.

Before Briggs visited, however, the Smiths had already gotten the scoop from the Duncans. The Smith/Duncan luncheon, a true meeting of the minds, “went on for four or five hours.”

The original house plans, which reveal a meticulously designed home, conveyed with the property. Unfortunately, the architect’s name is unknown. “He [the architect] was a visionary.”

He envisioned the picture windows spanning the main room at the rear of the home — a departure from the norm at the time when such windows were typically on the front elevation. Someone, possibly the Schwartzes, oversaw, or at least supported, some of the home’s best features, Addie speculates. Then, there was the Zenke imprint.

“Otto Zenke was highly influenced by Dorothy Draper,” says Addie, “and she was Baroque or Rococo.” Indeed, Draper, Zenke’s contemporary, was a high-society interior designer credited with inventing Modern Baroque with work that survives today in The Carlyle in New York and in the Greenbrier in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia. Zenke, who was educated at Pratt, had a local following in the Triad, but also maintained offices in Palm Beach and London. Zenke, in fact, designed homes for the likes of the notable restorationist John Jenrette. “I think Otto had a great commission here.”

The Schwartzes were design-minded and house-proud, choosing both good form and functionality.

Addie says the Duncans’ contributions were similarly spot-on. They took ownership in October of 1972 and lived in the house until 2020.

“Linda and Randy Duncan left a legacy that we were able to build on.”

Randy, a former Stanley Furniture Company designer who had recently opened his own firm, added design embellishments and customized paneled doors to a wall of fir bookcases in the den. They feature an original drop-down campaign-style desk.

“He customized the doors further, just to give them more detail, and added custom hardware.” She traces their still-stylish facades, noting, “I kept this the original fir and stain.”

And more personal details were kept, even retaining “the growth chart on the wall across from the coat closet in the den,” where the Duncans recorded their children’s and grandchildren’s heights

During the mid-eighties, the Duncans added the garage specifically to house Randy’s red 1984 Porsche 911 Carrera Coupe.

“Work began on the garage fairly quickly and it was completed in 1985,” Linda wrote Addie, “a perfect place for Randy’s ‘midlife crisis.’”

The home was intentionally designed to separate public spaces from

bedrooms, found in a private wing.

A main foyer flows into a secondary foyer, which dramatically opens into a living room.

In the foyer, Addie installed Sputnik-style lighting and high gloss ceiling, enhancing their drama.

She reinforced the Space Race-inspired touches with star-embellished wallpapers and period details.

“In good design, you have some repetition of form,” says Addie, noting the circular details on the front doors by Zenke, which she repeated throughout.

She points out the unusual, original doorknobs.

“Do you see the circle repeating in the ballerina [sculpture]?” she asks, referencing a sculpture on a pedestal, set to great effect

before a massive bank of windows.

These subliminal, almost unconscious elements repeat, which Addie compares to good grammar and exclamation points in writing.

“See what I did visually to make it all seem [part of the whole] . . . and balanced?” She considered original design themes even when it came to styling shelves and cabinets.

But she most admires the former living room, where the aforementioned window open to the outdoors.

In a personal history that Linda Duncan prepared after lunching with the Smiths, she describes also falling in love with the house and its orientation to the outdoors.

“I loved the beautiful old trees. I loved the spaciousness of the

interior,” she wrote to the Smiths.

“Even the landscape architect we hired staged the [flowering plantings and] blossoms so nothing upstages anything else,” says Addie.

She learned that the beautiful tree outside the primary bedroom had been a housewarming gift to the Duncans. There is also an enormous tulip poplar tree nearby, one believed to be over 250 years old.

“Our arborist loved it,” says Addie.

“He said it was the biggest tulip poplar he’d ever seen,” adds Robert.

She returns to the wall of windows, demonstrating the minimalistic linen shades, which replaced a bank of shutters in the

(present day) living room. “Now, open, you get peeks of [the back yard], but when you lower them, you see the shades as a backdrop for the sculpture.” It is part of how good design manipulates space, she says.

“We gravitate here, not to the main designated den.” The den became a work area, and leads to the screened porch.

Before a house next door of the same era was demolished, Addie requested the opportunity to salvage hard-to-find items, each period-perfect. As she turned to refurbishing the rear screened porch Addie used the screen accents and grills from the tear-down. “They’re not made anymore.”

To the front of the house, she returned shutters rescued from under-house storage and installed porch railings, again architec-

tural salvage from next door.

There was more confirmation gained from the Duncans. Addie’s suspicion that the original paper is inside what was the former cocktail bar was verified. She insisted upon keeping the paper, though the nook no longer functioned as a bar. Instead, she used the space to store architectural plans and drawings as her design work room.

Even in the least visible places details were thorough.

The hardware there, too, she points out, “is like Mercedes-Benz quality hardware. I don’t think it would be available anywhere,” she says.

She marvels at details like the dedicated lights through the home’s closets and storage areas. “Highly unusual at that time,” she observes.

No walls were removed during the Smiths’ renovation, only certain interior doors — especially those leading into the public rooms — given that contemporary tastes are more open. “We don’t like to be so sequestered as was the preference at the time of the house’s construction,” Addie says.

She used the hallway passageway to the bedrooms as a gallery

featuring photos of friends and family. “I love passing through this,” she says, pausing again at the bathroom.

The guest bathroom retained its original appointments and built-ins; softly colored gray tile and hardware remained. “We wouldn’t tear out the vintage bathroom.” The vintage Jack-and-Jill guest bath features a telescoping base for the original white sink and walk-in shower, punctuated by a harlequin wallpaper.

“This house is like living in a piece of art, the most beautiful home I’ve ever had the privilege of living in,” she says, later slicing a rhubarb and strawberry pie cooked by Robert. Robert used to summer in Ohio, where his grandmother, Pauline, taught him the art of baking.

He still uses her biscuit cutter, nut chopper and other accoutrements. Those were prized possessions chosen from her estate and put to use.

Robert’s pie has the ideal ratio of tartness to sweetness, and the crust is delicate.

“The crust is basic pie dough from the original Joy of Cooking,” he says. “The flour affects it. Even the water you use can affect it.”

“My favorite rhubarb story is when I first moved South. I

remember buying rhubarb at a Publix in Tallahassee and the clerk asked me, ‘What is it? Is this red celery?’”

Addie, who also cooks, prepared stuffed pork chops and mashed potatoes for their first date. She does the basic meal cooking, and he does the baking, so both preferred professional-grade appliances.

“It’s been a pleasure to live in this house . . . so beautifully designed and laid out,” she says, sipping a steaming coffee before adding a dollop of chocolate ice cream to her pie. (“The secret,” she insists. “Try it!”)

“If anything,” adds Addie, “things that are old are timeless. And better.”

Without a doubt, that maxim extends in the way the Smiths live, from protecting Grandma’s pie recipe to Otto Zenke’s design touches. OH

ALMANAC

August

by a SHley WalSHe

Going Moony

August slows us down. Speeds us up. Goes by a host of honest names.

Call it “Epoch of Purple Coneflowers” or “Dawn of the Swamp Rose Mallow” or “Rudbeckia in C Major.” In the garden, call it “abundance.”

Call it “too many tomatoes” or “fresh salsa for days” or “winter marinara.”

Call it sweet corn tossed with butter. Pickled chili peppers. Green beans sizzling in the skillet. Call up the neighbors to share the harvest.

The bees seem to know these days are numbered. The butterflies, too. They sip warm nectar long and slow as if to become it. As if the beauty might swallow them whole.

It’s the beginning of the end. Summer’s swan song. The firefly’s last dance.

Perhaps you call it bittersweet, the way the golden light begins to soften. How the cicada still sings. How it’s all so subtle.

Black snake basks in candied light. As the season fades, the crickets play their hearts out. Beautyberries bear whorls of purple fruit. The gray squirrel bears her second litter.

It’s the beginning of something new.

By month’s end, the hives are fat with honey. The spring fawns have lost their spots. The crickets perform late summer’s opus.

“Rudbeckia in C Minor” swells into the balmy evening.

As the earliest apples ripen, something in the air will shift. You’ll want to name it “joy” or “sorrow” — maybe even “respite.” Call it what you’d like: gift, heartache or threshold. August is all of it.

Those who garden by the moon’s phases should know that two full moons will grace us with their brilliance this month — on the first and last day. According to The Old Farmer’s Almanac, this age-old planting practice is based on the idea that the gravitational pull of the moon “affects the moisture in the soil” just as it causes the tides to swell and recede.

Ever tried it? Annual flowers and above-ground crops (as in your fall greens) should be sown into the earth during the waxing phase of the moon. In other words, from the new moon (August 16) until the blue moon (August 31). Flowering bulbs (think spider lily and sternbergia) and below-ground crops (beets, radishes and rutabaga) are said to thrive when planted during the moon’s waning phase, beginning the day after it is full (in this case, August 2) until the day before it is new again.

If those full moons happen to look just a bit bigger and brighter this month, it’s because they are, in fact, supermoons — as close to the Earth as they can get.

August of another summer, and once again I am drinking the sun and the lilies again are spread across the water.

— Mary Oliver

The Bees Knees

Among the native wildflowers sure to dazzle pollinators and nature lovers alike, behold the blooming swamp rose mallow (Hibiscus moscheutos), found thriving in moist soil and full sun, especially alongside creeks and ponds. Irresistible to bees, butterflies and hummingbirds, this showy perennial is known for its sizable pink and white flowers. Fragrant and funnel-shaped, these five-petaled wonders open at night, revealing a vibrant red or purple center with a riot of yellow stamens. Long bloom this late summer beauty! OH

Signature dishes made fresh weekly conveniently located at Aubrey Home and Watkins Sydnor. Popular casseroles include chicken tetrazzini, beef enchiladas, chicken pie, and a variety of homemade dips and soups in the fall and winter. Amy’s homemade chicken and tuna salad, as well as pimento cheese are always available!

For a quick last minute dinner pick up, the freezer is fully stocked at each location with a variety of items.

If you’d like to receive our weekly email, send us an email or go to our homepage, and scroll down to the bottom where is says, “stay in the loop.”

336-337-3416 | alle@luv2cookcasseroles.com | luv2cookcasseroles.com In store pick up at your convenience

Wednesday- Saturday at Aubrey Home & Watkins Sydnor Luv2Cook Casseroles @luv2cookcatering

O.Henry

Please verify times, costs, status and location before attending an event. Although conscientious efforts are made to provide accurate and up-to-date information, the world is subject to change and errors can occur!

To submit an event for consideration, email us at ohenrymagcalendar@gmail.com by the first of the month one month prior to the event.

Weekly Events

SUNDAYS

TALK DOGGY. 4:30–5:15 p.m. Megan Blake, The Pet Lifestyle Coach, provides great tips and real time practice as you learn to connect more deeply with your four-legged best friend. Free. LeBauer Park, 208 N. Davie St., Greensboro. Info: greensborodowntownparks.org/calendar.

BARRE CLASS. 10 a.m. Strengthen, tone and stretch your way into the week. Tickets: $10. Grandover Resort & Spa, 1000 Club Road, Greensboro. Info: grandoverresort.com.

KARAOKE & WELLNESS. 3:30–7 p.m. Two of your fav activities merge for one evening of fun with DJ Energizer. Free. Center City Park, 200 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: greensborodowntownparks.org/calendar.

TUESDAYS

GREENWAY FLEX. 6–7 p.m. The YMCA of Greensboro leads drop-in fitness classes for all ages and abilities at the Morehead Park Trailhead adjacent to the Downtown Greenway. Free. 475 Spring Garden St., Greensboro. Info: downtowngreenway.org/events.

WEDNESDAYS

WINE WEDNESDAY. 5–8 p.m. Sip wine, munch pizza and enjoy the soothing sounds of live jazz. Free. Double Oaks, 204 N. Mendenhall St. Greensboro. Info: double-oaks.com/wine-wednesday.

LIVE MUSIC. 6–9 p.m. Evan Olson and Jessica Mashburn of AM rOdeO play covers and original music. Free.

August

2023

Print Works Bistro. 702 Green Valley Road, Greensboro. Info: printworksbistro.com/gallery/music.

MUSIC IN THE PARK. 6–8 p.m. Sip and snack at LeBauer Park while grooving to local and regional artists. Free. Lawn Service, 208 N. Davie St, Greensboro. Info: greensborodowntownparks.org/calendar.

THURSDAYS

JAZZ AT THE O.HENRY. 6–9 p.m. Sip vintage craft cocktails and snack on tapas while the O.Henry Trio performs with a different jazz vocalist each week. Free. O.Henry Hotel Social Lobby, 624 Green Valley Road, Greensboro. Info: ohenryhotel.com/o-henry-jazz.

EASY RIDERS. 6–8:30 p.m. All levels of cyclists are welcome to ride along on a guided 4-mile cruise around downtown. Free. Lawn Service, 208 N. Davie St, Greensboro. Info: greensborodowntownparks.org/calendar.

WALK THIS WAY. 6 p.m. Put on your sneakers for a 2–4 mile social stroll or jog with the Downtown Greenway Run & Walk Club, which is open to all ages and abilities. Free. LoFi Park, 500 N. Eugene St., Greensboro. Info: downtowngreenway.org/events.

FRIDAYS & SATURDAYS

LIVE MUSIC. 7–10 p.m. Enjoy drinks in the 1808 Lobby Bar while

soaking up live music provided by local artists. Free. Grandover Resort & Spa, 1000 Club Road, Greensboro. Info: grandoverresort.com.

SATURDAYS

BLACKSMITH DEMONSTRATION. 10 a.m.–4:30 p.m. Watch a costumed blacksmith in action as he crafts various iron pieces. Free. Historical Park at High Point Museum, 1859 E. Lexington Ave., High Point. Info: highpointmuseum.org.

CITY SUNSETS. 7–9 p.m. Bring a lawn chair or blanket for an evening of live music while gobbling down food truck grub or your own picnic goodies. Free. Center City Park, 200 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: greensborodowntownparks.org/calendar.

YOGA. 9:30 a.m. Don’t stay in bed when you could namaste in the spa studio. Tickets: $10. Grandover Resort & Spa, 1000 Club Road, Greensboro. Info: grandoverresort.com.

WATER AEROBICS. 10:30 a.m. Make a splash instead of breaking a sweat. Tickets: $10. Grandover Resort & Spa, 1000 Club Road, Greensboro. Info: grandoverresort.com.

01 ‒ 31

ARTISTS AT EDGEWOOD. 10 a.m.–5 p.m. Meet the 31 artists-in-residence at Elliott Daingerfield’s restored historic cottage in Blowing Rock. Featured artists change weekly. Free. Main Street and Ginny Stevens Lane, Blowing Rock. Info: artistsatedgewood.org.

PEACE LIKE A RIVER. 6 p.m. In this comedic sequel to Peace in the Valley, the Harmony Valley Church congregation is anything but unified when it comes to celebrating Unity Day. Tickets: $28+. The Barn Dinner Theatre, 120 Stage Coach Trail, Greensboro. Info: barndinner.com/2023.

PHOTOGRAPHY EXHIBIT. From early black-and-white images of New York City to his renowned Hurricane Katrina series and more recent shots in color, John Rosenthal displays his work with that of 10 other North Carolina photographers he’s curated. Admission: $7. GreenHill

Center for NC Art, 200 N. Davie St., Greensboro. Info: greenhillnc.org.

FIELDS & FEATHERS. 10 a.m.–4:30 p.m. Discover photos and artifacts at a new exhibition, Fields & Feathers: Hunting at Deep River Lodge, 1895-1935. Open through January 2024. Free. High Point Museum, 1859 E. Lexington Ave., High Point. Info: highpointmuseum.org.

MILES DAVIS TRIBUTE. Times vary. Throughout the month of August on various dates, The Historic Magnolia House will host a series of events, including a Rise Up live DJ evening, an art crawl, a Miles Davis tribute concert and table talks featuring a locally-recognized moderator, all with proceeds supporting the hotel’s nonprofit foundation. The Historic Magnolia House, 442 Gorrell St., Greensboro. Info: thehistoricmagnoliahouse.org.

01 ‒ 09

SUMMER FILM FEST. Munch on movie theater popcorn while catching the season’s popular classics. Tickets: $8+. Carolina Theatre, 310 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: carolinatheatre.com/events.

02 & 09

CAROLINA KIDS CLUB. 9 a.m. Keep your kiddos cool while watching familyfriendly films and noshing on complimentary kids’ snack packs. Tickets: $5+. Carolina Theatre, 310 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: carolinatheatre.com/events.

READING THE WORLD. 7–8 p.m. Discover contemporary authors’ works in translation, such as this month’s selection, The Hummingbird. Free. Scuppernong Books, 304 S. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: scuppernongbooks.com/event.

GOO GOO DOLLS. 7 p.m. The band that created hits such as “Iris” hits the stage with special guest O.A.R. Tickets: $32+. White Oak Amphitheatre, 1403 Berwick St., Greensboro. Info: greensborocoliseum.com/events.

ABE PARTRIDGE. 7:30 p.m. With a flair for Southern gothic storytelling and dark humor, singer-songwriter Abe Patridge performs with guest David Childers. Tickets: $10. Flat Iron, 221 Summit Ave., Greensboro. Info: flatirongso.com/events.

03 & 10

NASHVILLE NIGHTS. 6 p.m. Sip beers, grab some pizza and tap your feet to Music City’s melodies without leaving the Gate City. Free. Steel Hands Brewing, 1918 W. Gate City Blvd., Greensboro. Info: steelhandsbrewing.com.

03 & 17

NIGHT PADDLING. 8–10 p.m. Rent or BYOBoat for a guided moonlit paddle on Lake Brandt. Free; rentals $20+. Lake Brandt, 5945 Lake Brandt Road, Greensboro. Info: greensboro-nc.gov (click on “events”).

GALLERY TALK. 12:15 p.m. Head to the “Shared Space” exhibition for a conversation between museum director Juliette Bianco and UNCG assistant professor of peace and conflict studies

Marcia Hale. Free. Weatherspoon Art Museum, 500 Tate St., Greensboro. Info: weatherspoonart.org/calendar.

COWBOY CROONING. 8 p.m. Put on your spurs for an evening with Riders in the Sky, a group that revitalizes nostalgic Western music with a dash of humor. Tickets: $15+. Steven Tanger Center, 300 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: tangercenter.com/events.

FIRST FRIDAY. 6–9 p.m. Head downtown for a night of live music and happenings stretching all the way from LeBauer Park and the Greensboro Cultural Center to the South End. Free. Downtown Greensboro. Info: downtowngreensboro.org/first-friday.

ARTS SPLASH CONCERT. 6–7:30 p.m. Enjoy an evening of live music from Carolina Soul Band. Free. High Point City Lake Park, 602 W. Main St., Jamestown. Info: highpointarts.org.

FORTUNE FEIMSTER. 7 p.m. Catch the comedian’s Live, Laugh, Love tour where you’re sure to experience all three “L” words. Tickets: $25.50+. Steven Tanger Center, 300 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: tangercenter.com/events.

06 & 20

BLUEGRASS & BISCUITS. 11 a.m.–1 p.m. Enjoy live bluegrass and folk music while munching tasty treats from vendors. Free. LeBauer Park, 200 N. Davie St., Greensboro. Info: greensborodowntownparks.org/calendar.

06

MUSEP. 6–8 p.m. Enjoy MUSEP, aka Music for a Sunday Evening in the Park with the hot salsa sounds Orquesta Internacional La Clave while cooling off with some StayFresh Italian Ice. Or savor Taco Bros food truck fare. Or BYO snacks. Free, donations accepted. Lindley

Park, 3300 Starmount Drive, Greensboro. Info: creativegreenboro.com.

SCOTTISH FISH. 8 p.m. Enjoy a fresh take on traditional and contemporary Scottish and Cape Breton music, featuring lively arrangements by this group of five young female performers. Tickets: $15. Flat Iron, 221 Summit Ave., Greensboro. Info: flatirongso.com/events.

09 & 23

NIGHT PADDLING. 8–10 p.m. Rent or BYOBoat for a guided moonlit paddle on Lake Higgins. Free; rentals $20+. Lake Higgins, 4235 Hamburg Mill Road, Greensboro. Info: greensboro-nc.gov (click on “events”).

09

GEOCACHING. 6–7:30 p.m. Learn the ins and outs of geocaching, a hobby that will get you moving outside. Free. Woven Works Park, East Lindsay Street and North

Murrow Boulevard, Greensboro. Info: downtowngreenway.org/events.

10

MARY CHAPIN CARPENTER. 8 p.m. The Grammy-winning singer-songwriter returns to Greensboro for a night of “Passionate Kisses” and other familiar hits. Tickets: $45+. Carolina Theatre, 310 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: carolinatheatre.com/events.

12

BRIT FLOYD. 8 p.m. Enjoy a night of Pink Floyd’s music from the renowned tribute band, complete with stunning soundscapes and visuals. Tickets: $20.50+. Steven Tanger Center, 300 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: tangercenter.com/events.

TEA TIME. 10 a.m.–5 p.m. Take a roadtrip through Seagrove for tea tastings and treats plus pottery shopping. Free. N.C. Pottery Highway, Seagrove. Info: teawithseagrovepotters.com.

WRESTLING. 6 p.m. AEW: COLLISION, the highly-anticipated new show from All Elite Wrestling, kicks down the doors of the coliseum. Tickets: $29+. Greensboro Coliseum, 1921 W. Gate City Blvd., Greensboro. Info: greensborocoliseum.com/events.

13

MUSEP. 6–8 p.m. Hit the park for a night of bluegrass vibes from Banjo Earth and Friends and eats from Hot Diggity Dog or StayFresh Italian Ice — or BYO snacks. Free, donations accepted. Keeley Park, 4110 Keeley Road, McLeansville. Info: creativegreenboro.com.

18

ARTS SPLASH CONCERT. 6–7:30 p.m. Finish up the Arts Splash Concert series with a spicy kick from West End Mambo. Free. Mendenhall Transportation Terminal, 220 E. Commerce Ave., High Point. Info: highpointarts.org.

ARRIVAL FROM SWEDEN. 8 p.m. Have an ABBA-solutely incredible time as you groove to the cover band’s renditions of “Dancing Queen” and more from the original repertoire. Tickets: $29.50+. Steven Tanger Center, 300 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: tangercenter.com/events.

19

ELIJAH ROSARIO. 8 p.m. The urbanpop performer joins forces with North Carolina artists and bands to deliver a multi-genre show, including sounds of R&B, pop, hip-hop and rock ’n’ roll. Tickets: $10+. In the Crown at the Carolina Theatre, 310 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: carolinatheatre.com/events.

GERARDO ORTIZ 8 p.m. AmericanMexican singer-songwriter performs with special guest El Yaki. Tickets: $50+. Greensboro Coliseum, 1921 W. Gate City Blvd., Greensboro. Info: greensborocoliseum.com/events.

GUIDED GREENWAY TOUR. 9

2023-24 Guilford College Bryan Series Speakers

august calendar

a.m.–noon. Step into Greensboro’s history, take in public art installations, plus learn about environmental stewardship and economic impact during a walking tour of the 4-mile Downtown Greenway. Free; registration required. LoFi Park, 500 N. Eugene St., Greensboro. Info: downtowngreenway.org/events.

JAVIER CARRANZA EL COSTEÑO.

8 p.m. Enjoy a night of hilarious music and stand-up comedy performed in Spanish. Tickets: $50+. High Point Theatre, 220 E. Commerce Ave., High Point. Info: highpointtheatre.com/events.

DOG DAYS. 8 a.m.–noon. Browse adoptable pups or bring your own furry bestie to the market for a costume parade, pet vendors and even pet-sitting while you shop. Free. Greensboro Farmers Curb Market, 501 Yanceyville St., Greensboro. Info: gsofarmersmarket.org.

POETRY CAFE. 6–11 p.m. Local poet Josephus Thompson III leads a

Romance

night of poetry, music and vendors in the park. Free. LeBauer Park, 200 N. Davie St, Greensboro. Info: greensborodowntownparks.org/calendar.

20

MUSEP. 6–8 p.m. SunQueen Kelcey and the Soular Flares heat up the park with an evening of rock ‘n’ soul accompanied by grub from Sweet Turkey’s BBQ and Catering, Boho Berries — or BYO snacks. Free, donations accepted. Barber Park, 1500 Barber Park Drive, Greensboro. Info: creativegreenboro.com.

24

NEW TO TOWN? 11:30 a.m.–2 p.m. Greensboro Newcomers Club hosts its annual kickoff luncheon, welcoming anyone who’s moved to the area or experienced life changes in the last two years. Union Grove Baptist Church, 5424 Union Grove Road, Greensboro. Info: greensboronewcomersclub.com.

25 ‒ 27

Sterling Kelly - CEO 336-549-8071 MichelleS@burkelycommunities.com There are times when it’s smarter to lease than to sell your home. Call me when you think you’re there! I’ll be pleased to discuss how Burkely Rental Homes can help you. “I refer investors and renters to Michelle. I trust they are in good hands with her“.

Katie Redhead

outdoor market featuring original art, antiques, clothing, jewelry, handmade treasures, home decor, outdoor furnishings, consumable yummies and seasonal plantings. Tickets: $5+; children under 12, free. Greensboro Coliseum, 1921 W. Gate City Blvd., Greensboro. Info: greensborocoliseum.com/events.

WAYNE SHORTER CELEBRATION. 7:30 p.m. Saxophonist Chad Eby brings a collection of the state’s finest jazz performers to the stage to celebrate what would have been Shorter’s 90th birthday. Tickets: $16. In the Crown at the Carolina Theatre, 310 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: carolinatheatre.com/events.

NIGHT PADDLING. 8–10 p.m. Rent or BYOBoat for a guided moonlit paddle on Lake Townsend. Free; rentals $20+. Lake Townsend, 6332 Lake Townsend Road, Greensboro. Info: greensboro-nc.gov (click on “events”).

26

TASTE OF HEAVEN. 6 p.m. Benefitting the School for Every Village Initiative, gospel artists from various ethnicities and backgrounds perform for an evening of shared community and spirituality. Tickets: $35+. Carolina Theatre, 310 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: carolinatheatre.com/events.

ULTIMATE VARIETY SHOW. 7 p.m. Vegas’ top impersonators and impressionists look and sound like stars of yesterday and today. Tickets: $20+. High Point Theatre, 220 E. Commerce Ave., High Point. Info: highpointtheatre.com/events.

ADOPT & SHOP. Noon–3 p.m. World of Beer hosts an afternoon of live music from Ketamine Pigeon and adoptable pets from Guilford County Animal Services, with a portion of sales benefiting Break the Chain Kennel Kru. Free. 1310 Westover Terrace, Greensboro. Info: btckennelkru.org.

Handmade In House

27

MUSEP. 6–8 p.m. Africa Unplugged drops a world beat while you munch on eats from Taco Bros, Boho Berries — or BYO snacks. Free, donations accepted. Blandwood Mansion, 447 W. Washington St., Greensboro. Info: creativegreenboro.com.

28

YOGA. 6:30–7:30 p.m. Get in the flow with yoga instructor Cheryl Timmons. Free. LeBauer Park, 200 N. Davie St., Greensboro. Info: greensborodowntownparks.org/calendar.

ROMANCE BOOK CLUB. 7–8 p.m. End your summer with a light, modern romcom read, We Could Be So Good, and hit the club to discuss. Free. Scuppernong Books, 304 S. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: scuppernongbooks.com/event. OH

CHRIS BOTTI: Grammy award-winning jazz trumpeter and composer, who has been the largest-selling American instrumental artist since the release of his 2004 critically acclaimed CD “When I Fall In Love”;

JEWEL: Four-time Grammy-nominated singer-songwriter, actress, and author whose life story—from homelessness to selling millions of albums— is as compelling as her music;

GARTH FAGAN DANCE: an internationally acclaimed contemporary American dance company led by The Lion King choreographer Garth Fagan; and

COLLAGE: a captivating and totally unique performance featuring School of Music faculty and students in one riveting work after another.

The season also includes performances by three top jazz musicians in our Robinson Family Visiting Jazz Artists and an artist talk with Moroccan photographer Lalla Essaydi, known for her staged photographs of Arab women in contemporary art.

2023 WINNERS

Sponsored By:

Roux

Yeet Elphaba

Axel and Draxx

Clyde

Tucker

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TRAIL REACH FOR THE

Try a taste of the Trail, Greensboro!

Trailbound Hazy Pale Ale is the newest addition to the Highland Brewing line-up. With notes of citrus and soft melon, this modern hazy ale goes wherever your trail leads. Try it in Greensboro or hike on over to the brewery in Asheville!

GreenScene

Women’s Study Club

100th Birthday Celebration

Wednesday, May 3, 2023

GreenScene

Juneteenth GSO

Thursday – Sunday, June 15–18, 2023

Photographs by Brandon Demery

Demetrius “D.” Noble

Rokesha Bowser

E. Michelle Krystalynn Johnson

Erin Blue

DJ GQ

Kevin Elwood

Jamyia Garrett

Eliza Beth Kay Marion

Photographs by Sam Froelich

Monica Vaughn, Beverly Mott

Betty Morgan, Prue Griffin

Jennifer Nowlin, Nancy Grantham, Jayne Malinsky, Betty Potter

Prue Griffin, Elaine Snipes

Betty Potter, Jennifer Nowlin Monica Vaughn

Gale Owens, Linda Sullivan

Rose McConnell, Susanne McIntire

Jayne Malinsky, Jennifer Nowlin, Nancy Grantham

Linda Sullivan, Barb Engel. Rose McConnell, Patti Gilmore

Jayne Malinsky, Betty Potter

GreenScene

30th Anniversary Gala Canterbury School

Saturday, March 25, 2023

Photographs by Wayne Reich

Heather Oakley, Mary Chandler Bachelor, Katbird Farless Gayle Wannamaker, Kelly Russell

Dorothy Cooke, Harrison Jobe, Matthew Eckrich, Trisha Fisher, Preston Fogarty, Travis Cooke

Sterling Kelly, Ralph Thoma

Sally & Matt King

Harrison Stuart Charles & Carol Lucas

Danny & Ronnie LoCas

Rhonda & Matt Wakefield

Margaret Lowe, Wendelyn Kelly, Katbird Farless, Caroline Walker, Mary Dator,Sarah Healy

Lizzy Stemke, Kelen Walker

Kaki Zell, Adrienne Woods, Hunter Silides, Katherine Stuart

Libba Lafave, Adair Armfield Stafford & Wendolyn Kelly

Sterling & Susan Kelly, Kathy & Eugene Durham

Patrick & Caroline Rush Sterling Miller, Cathy Creekmuir

By M allory Miranda

Swing to Life

A tired play set oscillates a passerby’s perspective

I can almost hear its creaking joints.

One word flashes across my mind’s eye as I approach: eyesore.

I bind my dog’s nylon leash around my knuckles, determined to pass it quickly.

It’s the sort of swing set friends had in their yards in the early ’90s. Thirty years ago, these swing sets were more brightly colored, but, displeasingly, they creaked then, too.

I recall two swing sets in particular. One was in the yard of our neighborhood Girl Scout troop leader. Let me just say, I don’t have fond memories of my time in this troop. The other swing set was in a much happier backyard.

Any fond memory of my time as a Girl Scout is tarnished by the unpleasant troop leader. I’ll confess I often misplace her actual face in my memory with that of Miss Agatha Hannigan, the boozy, littlegirl-loathing head of the orphanage in Annie. You get the picture.

Did anyone actually play on that swing set? Or was it just for show, a way of proclaiming, halfheartedly, “Our child is beloved. See — we buy her things!”

Shortly after her stint as a Girl Scout troop leader, the woman and her husband dropped their daughters off at a relative’s house for an indefinite visit. Then, they bought a Harley and rode off into the dust together.

Is their old swing set still rusting in their backyard now, wheezing in the wind?

My dog yanks her shortened leash. She hasn’t gone “number one” yet. Judging from the tension on the leash, she’s ready.

I release some slack. As she sniffs for her perfect spot, I wait at the curb of the swing set house, grateful to my oversized sunglasses for concealing my condescension.

I see a motley mix of terra cotta pots and old plastic margarine containers that form a boundary around the yard. All of the pots and containers are overgrown with a vibrant variety of plants. The grass is freshly mowed.

Another yard comes to mind: my grandmother’s. Particularly, it’s the repurposed plastic containers that remind me of her abrasive voice, scolding me across time, “Aye, Mija! Don’t throw away that perfectly good Tupperware!”

My grandmother was the neighborhood babysitter, her yard always littered with a mix of toys she collected over the years. Many were leftover from former clients whose kids had outgrown them. And, yes, she had a swing set just like the one I’m trying not to stare at. It and all the other toys were faded and dated, but everything sparkled anew when it hit her lawn.

“Waste not, want not.”

My grandmother’s yard of hand-me-down toys, creaking swing sets and messy children is all cleaned up now. She’s too frail to lift a small child, let alone have one or more running wild in her yard. My dog kicks up grass with her hind legs, signaling she’s done. A screen door opens and a pair of chubby legs bursts through it. A stout little toddler flings herself onto a hard plastic seat, joyfully propelling it into centripetal motion, while a woman looks on.

With the spark of child’s play, the swing set is magically restored to its vibrant glory.

I smile and wave to my neighbor. She nods in return.

And as my dog and I amble down the street, the swing set creaks loudly, as if it’s laughing. OH

I can’t stand the sight of it: The metal and plastic swing set in its sun-faded primary colors. It stands conspicuously in a neighbor’s yard.

Mallory Miranda is a resident of Greensboro. She is currently writing a play.

BY HARRY BLAIR