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20 Ed Bumgardner is Back...Again! Monticello Park Publishing

380-H Knollwood St. • Suite 191 Winston-Salem • NC • 27103 www.wsartsmag.com

PUBLISHEr & EXECUTIVE EDITOR Ed Hanes ed@wsartsmag.com

VP-Business Development & Advertising director David A. Johnson dave@wsartsmag.com

ASSOCIATE EDITOR Sherry Johnson

sherry@wsartsmag.com

STAFF PHOTOGRAPHER Wendy Hanes wendy@wsartsmag.com

Contributors: Ed Bumgardner - Editorial Jean McDowell - Editorial Sherry Brown-Lawless - Editorial Cover Artwork: Patty Bailey Sheets WS Arts Magazine is published monthly by Monitcello Park Publishing. Any reproduction or duplication of any part thereof must be done with the written permission of the Publisher. All information included herein is correct to the best of our knowledge as of the publication date. Corrections should be forwarded to the Publisher at the address above.

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WS ARTS MAGAZINE


CONTENTS

06 | Letter from the Publisher 07 | Art News - North Carolina Shakespeare Festival Suspending Operations 07 | Art News - ARTWORKS August EXHIBIT "As Above, So Below" By Ty Brown 08 | Cover Story - Patty Bailey Sheets Setting Goals High in Her Studio 14 | Short Story - The Weeping Wishing Well Part Two 17 | UNC-SA News - Thomas S. Kenan Institute for the Arts Announces New Board Members 18 | Cigar & Spirits - From Chapel Hill With Love: North Carolina’s Newest Whiskey Tops the Hill 20 | Feature Story - Low Wages, Free Beer, and the Search for Soul Salvation...Part 4 26 | Business Buzz - Beebs & Bess - Unique Accessories Business Inspired by European Vacations 28 | Cigar & Spirits - Guayacan Robusto: An Everyday Alternative for a Company on the Rise 30 | Art Scene - William Goodson “Bill” Mangum: Life Retrospective (co-sponsored by Salem College Dept. of Art and Artworks Gallery) WSARTSMAG.COM

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Publisher’s Letter

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ne. As we put this issue together that is the word that stayed in my mind. No matter if I was meeting new artists at the gallery hop, driving the city from East to West, or participating in our city’s National Black Theater Festival that word, One, was ever present. Look at our city and how it is growing…its quest to look inward in order to find its way forward. Even though we continue our sprawl into the suburbs, downtown Winston is blooming before our eyes. That growth is happening because we are working and evolving as One. Wake Forest University/Baptist Health Care System and Novant has taken the helm where RJ Reynolds and Hanes once held the reigns of the city’s future. Winston-Salem State University, once a single race Teachers College, has blossomed into a multi-ethnic full service liberal arts University with grounds that remind one of Winston’s classic roots more than a cookie cutter knock off of “Ol’ State U”. BB&T has been a constant light of conservative banking roots while keeping Winston-Salem on the national radar in the Finance community. All of the above has been to the benefit of Winston-Salem…. all for One. And then there is the Arts, the constant that remains the social thread and makes Winston unique among our larger State siblings. Charlotte still can’t figure out how our Symphony blossoms while theirs merely survives. Durham struggles to understand how Opera lives in a City without a state of the art performing arts center, but can’t stay afloat in their Bull City D-PAC. Greensboro maintains a nationally relevant coliseum and events complex, but yearns for the artistic rhythm and pulse of our home. Why do we remain so relevant in this valued space? The answer is simple: we loved and respected the Arts from our beginnings and never let it leave us. Our Arts Council was the first of its kind in the nation. Our state was the first to dream and invest in a publically funded art based high school and University. Winston-Salem had the good fortune of mothering that dream. RJ Reynolds and family brought a University from a sleepy town called Wake Forest and reinvented it in their backyard. Its modern day namesake maintains museums, property, and culture in our city that are only rivaled in North Carolina by a little family out of Durham named Duke and a man named Vanderbilt in Asheville. The Arts lives in Winston because the Arts and culture IS Winston. This issue we bring you a number of short stories, visionary local artists, and small business profiles that demonstrate the future of our City and our ever deepening roots in the Arts. Thank the stars you live in Winston-Salem and the Arts surround you at every turn. Our home: An ever evolving town with the Arts solidly in the lead. All in the arts, Ed PAGE 6

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Art News North Carolina Shakespeare Festival Suspending Operations

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  he North Carolina Shakespeare Festival is suspending operations, effective immediately. Like many arts organizations, NCShakes has

faced extreme financial challenges in a difficult fundraising climate.

The Board of Trustees,

leadership and staff of NCShakes have worked diligently to overcome these challenges.

The Board of NCShakes

has unfortunately determined that NCShakes' financial circumstances require a suspension of operations and a substantial reduction of expenses at this time. The Board of Trustees of NCShakes remains optimistic that NCShakes will be able to continue to provide its Shakespeare To Go educational programming in 2014.

The Board of

Trustees of NCShakes also will evaluate other programming in the future. NCShakes has entertained, educated and enriched the lives of North Carolina students and citizens with professional productions of the world's great plays for 35 years. NCShakes has played a leading role in providing artistic excellence and educational opportunities in the High Point community and throughout the state. n

WSARTSMAG.COM

ARTWORKS August EXHIBIT "As Above, So Below" By Ty Brown

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rtworks Gallery presents two exhibits, one by Ty Brown entitled "As Above, So Below" of photographs from a Costa Rican fishing village and from Laos documenting a clean water project. The second exhibit is work by 2013 graduates of the studio programs at Salem College, Wake Forest Univ., and WSSU. TY BROWN is showing color photographs called BOAT BOTTOMS from Playas del Coco, Costa Rica. Playas del Coco is an old fishing village on the North Pacific coast of Costa Rica. As Brown relates: "Fishing is now depleted except for the sportsman. Many skiffs line the one mile beach, some not moved in years while others are in and out of the water on a daily basis. Usually in the early morning or late afternoon light I captured my boat bottoms. The image of the tree, titled "As Above, So Below," was shot near Lake Arenal, Costa Rica." In addition, Brown is showing photographs from LAOS, PDR called The Forgotten Country. He explains: "During 2010 and 2011, I spent considerable time in Laos, PDR, working with an Australian Non Government Organization, NGO, named Abundant Water. The mission was to bring clean water to the northern section of Laos. This is one of the poorest areas of the world. The method was to teach local potters to make and fire water filters from clay and coffee grounds and show villages how to do this on their own to continue the process. My function as a photographer was to document this effort using stills and video to help with fund raising back in Australia. These images are a part of my personal work while in Laos. Ty Brown (Tyrie) received his B.S. in Advertising/ Photojournalism at the University of Kansas in 1972 and studied at the Kansas City Art Institute. The past 37 years include work in film production, NYC, photojournalism in Kansas City, 24 years as publisher, photographer of Homes & Land Magazine of the High South, Boone, NC, and 2 years as adjunct faculty at Appalachian State, technical photography department, mid-nineties. He now resides in Winston-Salem, NC. n PAGE 7


Cover Story

Patty Bailey Sheets Setting Goals High in Her Studio By Jean McDowall

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 he north light from the second floor window of the artist’s Lewisville studio, shimmers over panoramic view of the treetops and fields. Patty Bailey Sheets, however, seems unaware the world outside as she focuses her gaze on the outline of a barn that is emerging on the canvas. Laying down her brush and wiping a strand of straw colored hair from her eyes, she squints then steps backs for a clearer view. Her wide smile is her personal thumbs up for how the commission piece is going. Her infectious enthusiasm is also proof that, despite the 8-10 hours of work at her easel each day, she says, “Painting is true joy.” It’s been twenty years since Ms. Sheets turned her passion for painting—one that found her selling portraits to her high

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school friends for $5—into a professional career as a portraitist, a creator of glimmering still-lifes, soulful pet portraits and stunning landscapes. Describing herself as “a classical realist,” she explains, “I am fascinated by the changes

in value, the shifts from light to dark .“ Which is not to say she ignores color. In a portrait of a child intent on his own painting on a floor covered with newspapers, the background disappears in a haze of deep browns, while viewer’s eyes are drawn to the brilliance of the boy’s blond hair and reds of his paint box. While her formal training began as an art student at North Carolina State, she later switched to studio art, graduating from Salem College. In the intervening years she honed her skills by studying works of such master artists as John Singer Sargent and Francisco Goya and through workshops from the leading portraitists in the country. Today she shares a studio at 560 N. Trade Street, with friend and fellow painter Sharon

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Grubbs as well as internationally recognized artists, Scott Burdick and Sue Lyons. The studio of Cheryl Ann Lipstreu, who was featured in last month’s edition of WS Arts, is just down the hall. Ms. Sheets revels in the creative input and camaraderie available within the Winston-Salem’s Arts District and in her ability to teach private lessons there as well. Her goal, she explains, is to imbue into each portrait the unique personality of the person, along with the artistry acquired by of years of practice and training so that a viewer would enjoy the portrait and have a strong sense of that individual, without ever having met them. “Although it’s critical that a painting capture the physical likeness of a person, she says, PAGE 10

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a great portrait should be more than simply a rendering of their physical body; it is the light that shines in their eyes, the way they hold their hands, their smile, all those can be indicators of what makes them who they are. “As artist, I think it’s important to fall in love with virtually every painting you do, “ she says. “When you’re in love, you see all the best in that person, those special qualities that set them apart from everyone else on the planet. A good portrait does the same. “ More about Patty Bailey Sheets and images of her work can be found on her Website, www. Pattybaileysheets.com. n

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Kilpatrick Townsend LLP is a proud sponsor of the arts in Winston-Salem

www.kilpatricktownsend.com

World Class Cigars, Pipes & Tobacco

301 Mill Street Winston Salem, NC 27103 336-448-2423

www.twincitycigars.com WSARTSMAG.COM

Open to the public.

Monday - Thursday 11:00 AM to 8:00 PM Friday - Saturday 11:00 AM to 10:00 PM Sunday 1:00 PM to 5:00 PM

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Short Story

THE WEEPING WISHING WELL part tWo By: Sherry Brown-Lawless

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ome people are born knowing exactly who they are and exactly who they are meant to become. Their lives are like a straight line, forever aimed towards their intended goal. It boasts colorful peaks and valleys of triumphs contained with grace and fortitude. Their failures, if any, remain locked away or left behind for no one ever to find. However, Millie's life was far from a straight line, nor was it ever meant to be. Her life was more like a circle. A continuous cycle of pain, loss, and heartbreak, with only occasional glimpses of happiness. It remained a mystery to all who knew her how she could remain such a light hearted loving person. Millie could be described as never having met a stranger. Her smile could light up a room and her laugh, with it's infectious giggle, could awaken even the most damaged soul. Though very much in love with her college sweetheart Jason, her heart still felt splintered and torn. The most plausible cause was from the devastating loss of their first born daughter to SIDS. There is no pain like losing a child in the entire world. When a woman becomes a Mom, her body shares a heartbeat with her child for nine months. A bond is formed that becomes unbreakable, even in death. Millie snapped herself back into reality before the darkness could consume her. All she had to do was think of her other two beautiful daughters Emily and Brynn. She was truly blessed. However, the dark hole remained inside her soul from losing her first daughter. Nothing or no one could ever fill that void. In all truthfulness, Millie didn't ever want anything to fill it. That void only belonged to her bereaved child. She felt it was her responsibility to respectively always keep it alive inside of herself. The problem with keeping such a large hole open in your heart is that eventually darkness will creep in. The darkness does not care why there is such a hole or if the hole belongs to a good person. It only does what is in its nature to do, and that is to consume and destroy. Loud squeals of laughter rang out from the kitchen downstairs. Millie smiled. Jason must be attempting to make their daughters pancakes again. She pulled back the comforter and stretched her legs to the floor. She could hear the ocean PAGE 14

waves crashing against the shore outside. The tide must be coming in she thought. She walked over to the enormous bay window in their bedroom and open the windows. The brisk salty breeze was a merciful welcome to the smell of burning pancake batter coming from the kitchen. Millie descended down the long spiral staircase and walked into the kitchen laughing at what she saw. Flour was spread everywhere from top to bottom in the kitchen and all over Jason and the girls. "Maybe I should take over'" she giggled. Jason laughed and bowed his head in mock defeat. He stood before her with a burnt spatula, covered in flour. Best of all, he was wearing her lacy flowered apron. Even with his best efforts gone awry, he was still simply irresistible with his blonde hair softly falling across his face. Millie tugged at the apron and said, "You sir, have officially had your man card revoked." They both broke into laughter as Jason removed the apron, then pretended to hand over an invisible man card to Millie. "By the way pancake man, I will give you a chance a little later tonight to earn that card back," Millie said with a grin. Jason smiled coyly back at her and raised one eyebrow. It was nice, everyone sitting and chatting together as a family eating breakfast. It was the first real sense of peace Millie had felt since learning of her parents tragic death. So nice in fact, Millie was afraid to allow herself to fully embrace the sheer happiness of the moment. Most people grow up in life being taught to dare to dream, but Millie had always learned that dreams can quickly turn into nightmares. At some point of the conversation, her daughter Brynn complained about hearing strange noises coming from her closet the night before. "What type of noises", Millie asked desperately trying to disguise the uneasiness in her voice. "I don't know, like a hissing noises I guess", Brynn said. Then, she joyfully jumped up from the table and asked if she and Emily could go looking for sea shells on the beach. Millie reluctantly agreed, but made them promise to stay in front of their beach house. "Don't worry honey, I'll be hosing off the front porch and the boardwalk. The sand has really built WS ARTS MAGAZINE


up in some places," Jason reassured her. Millie smiled at him gingerly and mouthed the words thank you. With that, he kissed her on her forehead and followed the girls outside. Millie finished cleaning the kitchen, made the beds, and then got dressed. She had just sat down to make a grocery list when the entire house shuttered with such a force she thought all of the windows had been broken. She looked around and everything was fine. She could see Jason and the girls through the window down on the beach playing. Her mind was having trouble processing what had just happened or even if it had just happened. As she grabbed her purse to leave for her doctor's appointment, she looked up and saw a chandelier swaying in the kitchen. This weirdness would have to wait until later. She was already late for her appointment. Traffic at the ferry was always a nightmare. Millie arrived five minutes late for her appointment with Dr. Susan Edmonds. Dr. Edmonds was a petite woman with short brown hair and an icy stare. She had the power to make her small five foot two frame be noticed and felt. The doctor waved her in and Millie sat down. She couldn't help but feel unusually uncomfortable in Dr. Edmonds presence. Millie had been seeing Dr Edmonds since the death of her daughter. There was no need to feel uncomfortable around her. She knew everything. "How are things going now that you have moved into your parent's house?" the doctor sweetly asked. "Fine", Millie responded reluctantly. "I am experiencing a few strange things". Dr. Edmonds moved closer to Millie and sat down beside her. "Millie, we have discussed this. This void you keep for your daughter is unhealthy. You need to properly grieve so that you can move on. Moving on doesn't mean you are forgetting her. It means you are accepting what she meant to you and that she is no longer here." Millie began to weep. Dr. Edmonds put her arms tightly around her. "It is going to be okay. You have not had an easy life, but it will get better." The doctor reminded Millie of the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. "Everyone grieves differently Millie. Some people get stuck in one the stage of grief and it can last for years. Where as another person may breeze through the five stages and resume their life sooner than most. There is no right or wrong way to grieve. However, now with your parents death, it is perfectly normal for you to feel it has reopened the wound of losing your daughter." Millie nodded. She knew everything the doctor was saying made sense. Millie realized she had never made it passed the second stage of grief when her daughter died. She had shut herself down at that stage and a darkness had almost completely consumed her. Millie left Dr. Edmonds office feeling like she was at the precipice of something new and wonderful; a personal awakening of sorts. Millie slowly pulled down the gravel driveway to their beach house. The house looked majestic with the sunset reflecting off it's large stained glass windows. "Mommy's home", squealed Emily. Both girls came running from around the back of the house. "Whoa, what is that smell", Millie laughed as she pinched her nose. "We have been clamming", Brynn said proudly. Jason waved from the patio where Millie could see several large pots of clams steaming. Clamming was not all that uncommon along the Outer Banks. In fact, it was a family tradition. WSARTSMAG.COM

Short Story

Millie's father had taught her how to feel around in the soft sand for clams with her toes, then scoop up the clams with a small shovel when she was only six years old. It was a proud and fun tradition she and Jason had passed down to Emily and Brynn. There was only one rule Millie's father had absolutely drilled into her head on a regular basis. No clamming during any month without the letter "r" in it. Millie smiled as she recalled memories of herself clamming along beside her father. The smell of the steamed clams was as overpowering as it was enticing, but Millie knew a delicious feast awaited them. She saw Jason had prepared his famous homemade cole slaw, along with several other mouth watering side dishes to go along with the steamed clams. It was only then she realized she had not eaten lunch. Her stomach growled at the anticipation of shucking herself a bushel of clams. Quickly, she raced inside to change her clothes and freshen up before dinner. "That is weird", she thought to herself as she looked around her bedroom puzzled. "It was as if I thought it, and then I was here." She laughed to herself at how preposterous the very notion of that seemed. Millie thumbed through her closet looking for something light and comfortable to wear. A beautiful Ralph Lauren sundress caught her eye. "Perfect", she said pleased. After putting on the sundress, she tied her long blonde hair into a ponytail. She rejoined Jason and the girls downstairs out on the patio to eat. Emily and Brynn could shuck an oyster or a clam as good as any grown adult. It was easy to see they had spent many summers and vacations in the Outer Banks. There is just a certain bond people share who love the ocean. The desire for fresh seafood is only one. Millie watched as Jason shucked a few clams for little Brynn. However, she quickly took over after pouting for him to hand over the shucking pliers. It was a magical evening, but something about it seemed very familiar to Millie. The waves crashed along the shore in a soft rhythm, as if they were playing a lullaby. A brisk breeze was just enough to cause the wind chimes to blow gently against the house. The next morning, Jason woke their daughters up bright and early to take them fishing on the pier. Millie rolled over and groaned at the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window. She reluctantly shuffled over to the window to close the curtains. A chill came over her, which caused her to shudder. Millie pulled her bathrobe tightly around her shoulders. Something did not feel right. Now more awake, she began to slowly walk through the house. The entire house felt vacant and oppressed now. Not alive and happy like when Jason and their daughters were there. Millie seemed to be drawn toward one guest bedroom in particular. She slowly opened the door and saw a large box sitting on a beautifully made bed. She had no memory of placing a box in this bedroom. Millie sat down on the bed beside the box and looked inside. It was filled with dozens of newspaper clippings and what appeared to be some of her parent's personal belongings. Her eyes glanced over one of the clippings which contained a picture. She looked more closely. It was a photo of herself standing with her parents. The caption below the photo read: Mr. and Mrs. Ellington, along with their only child Millie Simpson, were tragically killed in an automobile accident when

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Short Story

a driver fell asleep at the wheel striking their vehicle head-on. The news clipping floated to the floor as Millie sat in horror. How could this be true? She began frantically searching through the other clippings in the box. They all stated the same facts about the car accident. "Millie", she heard calling her name softly. With tears streaming down her face, she lifted her head, but kept her eyes tightly closed. She knew that voice. She had longed to hear it. It was the voice of her Mother. "It is time sweetheart", her Mother said in an angelic voice. Millie slowly opened her eyes. It was real. Her Mother stood in front of her warmly reaching for her hand. "Your father and I have been waiting for you. We knew you needed time to say good-bye." When their hands met an electric charge surged through Millie. Images of the accident flashed through her mind. She saw it all in slow cinematic motion. Then, came the flashes of her in the hospital surrounded by Jason and their daughters. Finally, the tearful images of Jason agreeing to take her off life support. Everything was painfully starting to make sense now. All of her time spent back at her parent's beach house had only been her most precious and treasured memories there with Jason, Emily, and Brynn. No wonder the days and nights had run together. No wonder it had seemed she would arrive at places with only a thought. The memories had been replaying in her mind as her frail body fought to live. As her body died, the reality of her death was unavoidable. Millie knew she could no longer stay. She held tightly to her mother's hand as she led her out of the bedroom and down the grand staircase. Millie could see her father standing at the bottom with his arms opened wide. He waited patiently for her and her mother to join him. While embracing her father, she softly whispered to him, "I have one last thing I need to do". "Okay sweetheart", he said quietly. Millie walked outside to where the Koi pond was. She stared into the water, but this time she could no longer see her reflection. She bent down and traced the initials "J + M" that Jason had inscribed into well on their first wedding anniversary slowly with her fingers. When she finally stood up, she turned and rejoined her parents. She did not know when, but she knew eventually Jason and their daughters would return to the beach house. However, next time when Jason went to the weeping well, he would see the word "always" inscribed beneath their initials. n

Sherry Brown-Lawless Bio:

Career: Freelance Writer Education: BA Communication from Wingate University (Class of '94) Hometown: Winston Salem, NC Currently Resides: Winston Salem, NC Charities: SIDS Awareness, Breast Cancer Awareness, Hospice Care, and The Humane Society Inspirations: My Mother Kay Brown, Maya Angelou, Nina Simone, and Ernest Hemingway Favorite Activities: Spending time with my daughters Kaylyn and Isabella, gardening, reading, cooking, catching up with friends, and falling asleep to a great thunderstorm. Favorite Quote: "I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." - Maya Angelou PAGE 16

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UNC-SA News

Thomas S. Kenan Institute for the Arts announces new board members

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  he Thomas S. Kenan Institute for the Arts at the University of North Carolina School of the Arts (UNCSA) announces that Linda Carlisle and J. D. Wilson have joined the Institute's Board of Advisors, effective May 2013. Carlisle, from Greensboro, N.C., is the

former Secretary of the North Carolina Department of Cultural Resources and a former member of the UNCSA Board of Trustees. Wilson is President and Chief Executive Officer of Excalibur Enterprises, Inc. in Winston-Salem and a former member of the UNCSA Board of Trustees and Board of Visitors. Complete biographies of the new Kenan Institute for the Arts board members follow the press release. "We are thrilled with the diversity of expertise, experience and background that our new advisors bring to our work", said Interim Executive Director Lynda Lotich. "We expect that their input will significantly broaden our vision for the future and the impact of our work." The Thomas S. Kenan Institute for the Arts (www.uncsa. edu/kenan<http://www.kenanarts.org/>) is a privately funded program of the University of North Carolina School of the Arts that incubates projects that sustain artists at every point in their creative development through strategic partnerships that capitalize on visionary thinking in the arts. As America's first state-supported arts school, the University of North Carolina School of the Arts is a unique stand-alone public university of arts conservatories. With a high school component, UNCSA is a degree-granting institution that trains young people of talent in music, dance, drama, filmmaking, and design and production. Established by the N.C. General Assembly in 1963, the School of the Arts opened in WinstonSalem ("The City of Arts and Innovation") in 1965 and became part of the University of North Carolina system in 1972. For more information, visit www.uncsa.edu<http://www.uncsa.

Linda A. Carlisle was appointed by Governor Beverly Perdue to be Secretary of the North Carolina Department of Cultural Resources from 2009 to 2012. Carlisle is an experienced corporate executive, entrepreneur and community activist. In each role, she has excelled and shown extraordinary leadership and professional competence. Out of college, she worked for what is now Bank of America, and rapidly progressed through a broad range of positions to eventually become a vice president/metropolitan director in Charlotte. In 1979, she left Bank of America to start her own business, Copier Consultants, Inc., headquartered in Greensboro. After developing the multi-million-dollar business with multiple offices in the Triad and western North Carolina, she and her husband sold the business in 1989. She remained as president of the wholly-owned subsidiary until 1997, at which time she retired to focus on her community and educational interests. She has been extensively involved in the nonprofit sector, providing leadership, strategic planning, financial expertise and key resource development. Her community work has included serving on the boards of the Chamber of Commerce, Community Foundation of Greater Greensboro, UNC-G Board of Trustees and various roles with United Way, United Arts Council, Piedmont Craftsmen, Inc., and the Girl Scouts. She served as co-chair of the UNC-G Students First Capital Campaign, surpassing the $100 million goal one year early. Carlisle has been a strong supporter of various community arts organizations including Triad Stage, Community Theater of Greensboro and the Greensboro Symphony. She is a strong proponent of the arts as an economic development driver, downtown rejuvenator, and small-town catalyst. J. D. Wilson is president and chief executive officer of Excalibur Enterprises, Inc., the Winston-Salem-based direct response marketing communications firm, which he founded in 1972. He began his career as Director of the College Fund and Associate Director of Alumni Relations at Wake Forest University, where he graduated in 1969, and then as a photojournalist in the U. S. Army in Berlin, Germany. Both as a professional and as a volunteer, he strategically helps businesses and organizations communicate more effectively and efficiently with clients and prospects to increase business or raise money, and helps develop creative visions and lead organizational turnarounds. He believes in "giving back" and has a strong commitment to business, civic and community involvement for himself, his firm and its employees. He has served on the boards of a variety of organizations including Wake Forest University's Calloway School of Business Board of Visitors and Wake Forest's Arts Advisory Committee; Piedmont Craftsmen, Inc.; Weatherspoon Art Museum Foundation at UNC-Greensboro; the Tanglewood Park Foundation; and the South African Environmental and Educational Project. Wilson has chaired the boards of the Winston-Salem Symphony and Reynolda House Museum of American Art. With his wife, Janie, he has co-chaired capital campaigns for the University of North Carolina School of the Arts (UNCSA), Salem Academy and College, and recently the $27.7 million, three-year, capital campaign that included creation of Winston-Salem's downtown center for the arts. He is a passionate advocate for Winston-Salem and for the role of the arts in its vibrancy, having recently helped broker the city's branding as "City of Arts & Innovation," leading the effort to feature the city in 98 pages of U. S. Airways Magazine in October, 2012, and facilitating the showcase launch of "Apollo 13: Mission Control" at Hanesbrands Theatre in 2013. His primary community focus has centered on UNCSA, where he has served as a trustee and as chair of its Board of Visitors, and where he received its Giannini Award in New York City in 2002, and its first honorary degree for service in 2007. Currently, he serves as a director on UNCSA's Board of Visitors, on the boards of two entrepreneurial alumni outgrowths of UNCSA-No Rules Theatre Company and Peppercorn Children's Theatre, and of the Winston-Salem Alliance.

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Cigars & Spirits From Chapel Hill With Love: North Carolina’s Newest Whiskey Tops the Hill By Staff

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ourbon lovers may be surprised to learn that the American Government recognizes six different types of American Whiskey: Bourbon, Rye, Malt, Malted Rye, Corn and Wheat. Like six sisters from the same family, they share family lineage. All American Whiskeys have to be aged in new charred oak containers and can’t be taken above 80% alcohol by volume during the distillation process. But after that, each has its own personality and reputation. Bourbon, and to a lesser extent Rye, are the two most popular girls in town. Malt suffers from being the American version of Scotch and thereby being overshadowed from the fine spirits made in bonnie old Scotland. Corn and Malted Rye are harsh spirits that, rightfully so, struggle to get asked out on a date. The last sister is Wheat. Arguably the most sophisticated and smoothest of the sisters, she rivaled Bourbon for the attention of suitors one hundred and fifty years ago. Unfortunately, after the Civil War, she lost her place in society when she was deemed too expensive to make and the more economical corn-based Bourbon took her place. Thanks to Top of the Hill Distillery in Chapel Hill, Wheat Whiskey is being reintroduced to North Carolina and this reviewer thinks she may steal some attention from her sister Bourbon. In distilling circles, wheat is known to produce a softer, sweeter spirit than corn or rye and there are many “wheated” bourbons that take advantage of its characteristics to mitigate the “bite” of the corn. Maker’s Mark and Old Fitzgerald are two brands renowned for their smoothness. So it’s really interesting to taste a whiskey that’s distilled from 100% local, organic wheat. I got a chance to taste the unaged PAGE 18

version, a version aged 7 months in a 15 gallon cask and a version that was made in Top of the Hill’s “Age Your Own Whiskey Kit.” Let’s start with the unaged Carolina Whiskey. Proprietor Scott Maitland explained to me that all unaged whiskey is moonshine but most moonshine is not unaged whiskey because it has been taken above 80% alcohol by volume. The result is a spirit that has more of a nose than moonshine but, apparently because of the wheat, is much smoother and cleaner with hints of anise, buttercream and peppercorn. It was fantastic for a moonshine or a white dog (unaged bourbon) but, obviously, immature for a whiskey. It got real interesting when I got to taste the whiskey that had been aged in 15 gallon cask for 7 months. Maitland explained that the smaller cask (normal casks are 53 gallons) ages the whiskey faster due to the increased surface to volume ratio of wood in the cask. Despite being in the cask for only 7 months, the wheat whiskey had the amber color of a fine bourbon. The strong nose of the white whiskey had transformed itself into hints of vanilla, maple syrup, leather and a hint of peppercorn. On the palate my first impression was how smooth it was. The smoothness allowed me to really let it rest in my mouth where I was struck by the complex interaction of vanilla, caramel, and burnt sugar tempered by the oak itself. Only after I swallowed it did the characteristic warming occur. In other words, this whiskey had everything a bourbon has but without the bite which was a refreshing change. Finally I tasted the sample from the “Age Your Own Whiskey Kit.” I admit I was skeptical that something aged only 3 months would be worth our while but it was. This sample was very similar to the sample out of the 15 gallon barrel but it did seem to have a little more tannin and char taste which, Maitland WS ARTS MAGAZINE


explained, varies from cask to cask. In effect, the “Age Your Own Whiskey Kit” is the ultimate single barrel experience truly unique to the kit. Top of the Hill Distillery is the first certified organic distillery in the South and uses only local agricultural products as the base for its spirits. Top of the Hill Distillery is also one of the few microdistilleries that ferment their alcohol from scratch. “We are a true local, organic grain to glass distillery and there aren’t very many of us in the world,” said Maitland. The distillery is located on Franklin Street in downtown Chapel Hill. n

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Feature Story

Low Wages, Free Beer, and the Search for Soul Salvation... Part 4 By Ed Bumgardner Reflections, ruminations and twisted tales of baiting and bartering with the fickle musical muse. Part memoir, part chronicle of a musical scene and life traversed with great musicians, colorful characters, damaged psyches, broken hearts, memorable tarts, shadowy forces, all offset with learned ponderings and considered opinions on all matters musical. No apologies offered, except when absolutely necessary to avoid a court of law. Some names will be changed to protect the guilty and easily embarrassed. Proof positive that rock 'n' roll never forgets; hail, hail rock 'n' roll! PAGE 20

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There are people I have known for more than 20 years, close friends, serious confidantes, that don’t know I had a brother. I don’t talk about him much. His name was Bill. William Lee Bumgardner. Sweet Willie Lee. He was named after his cotton-baron grandfather, whom we grandkids never knew, at least not in a “shake-a-howdy” kind of way. Willie “William” Lee Trapp was born in the Mississippi Delta in 1886. He was literally a cotton-picking, God-fearing man of power and moral rigidity who commanded, and ceremoniously demanded, respect. He was a racist, as were most white men of his time, bearing and place. He was also a bit of a Southern eccentric, an intimidating man of odd habits. For instance, he bought one of the first automobiles seen in his part of rural Mississippi, but he refused to drive it. He left that task to my 7-year-old mother – that’s right, seven - who, while either standing or perched on cotton sacks, grinding gears and wrestling the oversize steering wheel, became personally acquainted with every ditch, pothole, bump, boulder and creek bed on the family’s sprawling cotton and soybean acreage. “Mister Trapp,” as everyone called him, ate peas, his vegetable of choice, if one had to be ingested, by lining them up on, and rolling them down, the blade of a knife – not table silverware, mind you, but a Bowie knife. He lived life on his own hyper-strict terms and schedule, no questions tolerated. So it was no real surprise that he chose to die the same way. He was still a relatively young and healthy man when he announced at the dinner table that he was done, not with dinner, but with living, and therefore would retire to his bed to die. It took him three days. It seemed that not even The Maker was going to argue with Mister Trapp (although the smart money maintained that God had the last laugh). William Lee Trapp was a man of resolve to the end of his days. When he made up his mind, there was no turning back. No discussion, no argument. So it is proclaimed. So it shall be. The boy who later carried forth his name was every bit his grandfather’s blood. He did things his way, quietly, often slyly, but always emphatically. Brother Bill was younger than me. One-and-a-half years, to be exact. Such minutiae is crucially important in the hierarchy of it all when one is young, male and all about the privileges of territorial pissing. Bill spent his life racing to catch up and become older than me, physics and calendar be damned. He worked harder, acted older, grew taller and became more mature in every way. He had plans, he had purpose, and he pursued it, driven, pushing the limitations of living in the present. Nonstop. Then he … was. Note the past tense. WSARTSMAG.COM

Bill and Ed Bumgardner

Bill was vocally frustrated that he was always to be my little brother, my reluctant charge. To underscore this status, I tortured him endlessly. I had to. That’s what brothers do. Rules are rules. I blazed trails, bucked the existing ruling order and fought battles that were, really, for both of us – parcel to being the rebellious, ungrateful and trouble-making oldest son. Not that Bill felt any gratitude as I railed against the ruling order. He took in my antiauthoritarian antics and actions and observed them from a safe distance, using my daily crimeand-punishment regimen to make himself look better in the eyes of the parental units. I might have been smarter, at least according to the testing of the day, although that, too, is certainly not without question, but he had far more common sense. Accordingly, he always came out unruffled by the fray. He was bulletproof. He was a pain in my ass. Retribution by combat quickly became the order of the day. We loved each other, but we still regularly beat each other to the brink of egregious injury. Black eyes. Broken bones. Head wounds. Puncture wounds. Busted teeth. Stitches. Concussions. Contusions. We amassed quite the medical resume of injuries. There was one spectacularly bloody bout that revolved around a deep-puncture arrow wound to my backside, followed by a ball bat to the chortling shooter’s forehead, that, if observed and documented in today’s ER, would be a redPAGE 21


letter day for Social Services. But we always somehow survived, torn and frayed, but miraculously only briefly the worse for wear and tear – and each well aware that the next meticulously plotted act of Bugs Bunny-worthy revenge (for us, Looney Tunes cartoons were like field manuals) lurked around the next blind corner. We laughed. We argued. We battled. We bled. Together. Always together. People thought we were twins when we were very young. We were towheads; we both sported crewcuts. Our parents even tended to dress us alike. One waggish friend of the family, a bit of a tippler, couldn’t tell us apart, especially after a few cocktails. So he called each of us BillyEddie. Adults were amused. We weren’t. It stuck. I hated it. Nobody cared.

Bill and Ed Bumgardner PAGE 22

Early childhood was spent on Watson Avenue in Ardmore, where the neighbors were all biblically old – think Moses or Noah. There were no kids. None. So we were forced to amuse ourselves: We watched cartoons, cackling, until ordered to wreak havoc outdoors, where, in a Daffy Duck-induced frenzy, we trampled flower and vegetable beds, broke toys, colored on walls, bounced balls off the roof and through windows, smashed flowerpots, threw rocks, splintered furniture …. Thoughtless mayhem was the order of the day. There was the time we played Davy Crockett in the backyard. I was the wearer of the coonskin cap, not by any legitimate electoral process, but by personal decree and threat of violence to all dissenters. Bill was thrust into the role of the redskin savage, sporting Indian plumage scored from a family trip to Cherokee and hastily applied warpaint nicked from jars of model-airplane paint stashed in the Forbidden Zone of Dad’s study. Much stalking, simulated bugle calls, (pretend) gunfire and whooping whoo-whoo-whoo war cries ensued. In the end, inevitably, Bill ended up captured and roped to a tree in the backyard – tied so well that he stayed there, gussied and, for good measure, gagged, for two hours. Never mind that it was the frontier settler, not the Indian, that should have been tied to a stake for roasting. My game, my rules. Inside the house, Mom asked me several times as I strolled by where Bill was. Things were unnaturally quiet. I just shrugged. “Dunno. Outside, I guess.” Already suspicious, she figured it out when she went outside to hang laundry. I seem to recall a scream. My name definitely came up. It didn’t end well for me. It rarely did. I spent months in “time out,” serving a lonely sentence ensconced in The Big Chair facing a blank wall, waiting for Dad to get home from work, tired and grumpy, to execute the corporal part of my punishment. It was like being on Death Row. In lieu of thinking about the consequences of my hooligan actions, as instructed to do, I would conjure up ways to distract, charm and dissuade Dad. My most successful ruse was the creation of “tribute” shows for Mom and Dad. Who doesn’t love showbiz? These were elaborately constructed events, complete with songs, costumes, flashlights and skits. How could my parents not love and forgive me, thus commute the spanking portion of my sentence, when I had created an extravaganza just for them? It worked. Sometimes. I loved these shows, and, naturally, took full credit for them. Bill disliked them, as they were involved affairs and took prep work that, naturally, he had to do, as I was locked up in (relative) solitary, conniving while not thinking about my actions. Accordingly, he would often refuse to participate. So I would bully Bill until he reluctantly agreed, knowing, shrewd kid that he was, that hecould patiently bide his time – never one of my attributes – until the time was right to brain WS ARTS MAGAZINE


me with a well-placed building block to the cranium, or some equally devious act of revenge. Retribution was our dynamic, all day, every day. Our battling-brother dynamic continued throughout our teen years, with Bill, now well over six-feet tall, starting to even the score. He had been biding his time, oh, yes, and revenge was often sweet. There was the summer afternoon that he started shooting at my bare feet with a pump-action pellet gun. I told him to quit or pay the consequences. He just laughed, and promptly shot me between the shoulder blades. I turned, blind with rage, and swung at his head, only to hit the barrel of the gun, breaking my hand, wrist and two fingers, effectively shutting down all bass-playing activity, thus band activity, for six weeks. I screamed. Poor Mom came running. She looked at my ballooning hand. Bill looked at her and calmly said, “He started it. You know how he is. I was just defending myself.” She just sighed and nodded, knowingly, all the while ushering me, wholly irritated, toward the car for the trip to the Emergency Room. WHAT? I glared at him. He smirked. A new day was rising. His masterstroke of retribution occurred when Mom was visiting her mother in Mississippi, leaving my brother and me alone at the house. We had our instructions, foremost of which was the edict that there was to be no gathering of friends at the house in her absence. There was to be no fun. Period. Her plane was barely off the runway before party plans were underway – and, oh, what a bacchanal it was. His friends … my friends ….friends of friends of friends … more than 100 people on a once-quiet cul-de-sac in suburban Sherwood Forest, all indulging in oceans of alcohol and ounces of marijuana, overly stimulated boys and girls doing what overly stimulated boys and girls do with increasingly bleary and boisterous gusto. Sex, drugs and loud rock ‘n’ roll was the whole of the law. The police came TWICE. Decades later, acquaintances still recall that party. Good times. Good times. I had to leave early the next morning to play a week-long gig in Roanoke. The house looked like a war zone; wreckage, garbage and bodies were scattered everywhere. When pressed, a bleary Bill assured me that he and his comatose friends would take care of the cleanup, which was massive. No problem. It was the least he could do for allowing them to come to the party. I smelled a rat. A dead rat. I asked again. “‘NO PROBLEM,’” he screamed. Four days later, bored and stoned in a Holiday Inn room, I called home to see how Mom’s trip went, part of my perpetually unsuccessful attempt to rehabilitate my image into that of The Good Son. She answered. I cheerfully said hello. How was your trip? Grandma good? She frostily asked who was calling. WSARTSMAG.COM

Uh-oh. What? It’s your son, Mom. Ed. I can still hear her emotionless reply. “MY son is sitting right here. I have no other son.” CLICK. Bill had left the house in a total shambles. He had gone to Boone with his friends. Then days later, he went straight from Boone to pick Mom up at the airport in Greensboro. When he and Mom arrived home to find rooms ripe with the detritus of merriment carried to extreme, Bill’s explanation, as Mom recounted to me later, “I can’t believe this. Only Ed and his friends would leave the house like this. Just like him. How thoughtless. You should throw him out.” Touche. No matter our crimes against the other … we always looked up to and, perhaps begrudgingly, looked after one another. I was in awe of his natural ability to fix anything, as I could barely wind a watch, much less take a clock apart and put it back together, as he did. He loved the fact that I played music, a shared love. He created a light show that worked with my early bands just so he could hang around. Once he was living on his own, working two jobs, only then did he take up guitar. He was less interested in rock music than bluegrass, a style of music that I then knew little about. He opened that door for me. I only got to play one time with Bill and his bluegrass buddies. I had a grand time. He was good, and he was getting better. I was proud of him. His face, all soft features and chiseled cheekbones, framed by a yard of hair, glowed when he played. That is what I see now when I think of him. We were different, Bill and I. I lived too deep inside my head. I was a worrier, overly cautious, often afraid, fearful of the consequences of failure, but still driven to perfectionism. He was spontaneous, reckless and fearless, but meticulous in his work. We were the same – but different. I didn’t always like him. But I loved him. He was always in my heart. Not that I told him, or he, me. There was always time for that. Tomorrow was a new day. Then he was gone. Just … like … that. It took just 18 seconds. I know. I counted them. Fade to black. He was just 21 when he died. A baby. He seemed much, much older. It still hurts. I miss him. Every. Single. Day. Bill never seemed here to stay. We all thought that, and we all hoped, prayed, that we were wrong. His was a life of ever-closer calls. When he was four, he stuck a spring from a toy rocket launcher that he had disassembled into a light socket. It dimmed the house lights and burned his fingers black. He didn’t make a sound for three days and was left with no childhood memories. But he survived. PAGE 23


As a kid, he was hit by cars three separate times while riding his bike. He never learned to swim because of ear problems, but he went white-water rafting, refusing the constraints of a lifejacket. He was twice pulled out of rivers, unconscious, lungs filled with water, near death. He survived, unscathed, two car-mangling wrecks. He woke one morning at his house in the country, and kicked something under the covers at his feet. Pulling back the sheet, he discovered a large, coiled copperhead. Driving a fork lift at work down a street to a warehouse, the forklift jackknifed on a bend of rain-slicked road. It fell on him, bounced, and pinned him. Then it was hit by a skidding car. He suffered multiple broken ribs, a broken collarbone and a cracked skull. The doctors said it should have killed him. Again. Those are just the highlights. Cue bluesman Albert King: “Born under a bad sign. If wasn’t for bad luck and trouble, he’d have no luck at all.” So naturally, there was widespread fear and concern when Bill, who was about to graduate as a jet-airplane mechanic, nonchalantly announced that he was taking up skydiving. His close friends tried to talk him out of it. My friends pointed out the obvious – there was no room for error or accident, thus was something ill-suited for him. My mother begged him not to do it. I shook my head and asked him if he was totally crazy. He just laughed. “Probably,” he said. “But it is my life. I want to do it. Relax. Have a beer.” So he did, and he was good at it. Really good at it. So good that after a year he was asked to join a group of veteran skydivers who were in high-altitude Olympic training. Bill loved to jump. He would talk about that moment,

Bill Skydiving PAGE 24

poised at the open door of the plane, engine noise so loud it was hard to think, then, whoosh, leaping into total silence, the world suddenly oh-so peaceful, the otherworldly beauty of falling through clouds, sailing, flying free of constraints … That feeling, those moments, he said, were freedom. Total freedom. On June 18, 1978, while training, he failed to pull his parachute’s ripcord until 300 feet from the ground. His instructor chalked it up to something called rapture of the skies, where, when jumping from high altitudes, the illusion of standing still while falling at great speed is so pronounced that the jumper becomes transfixed, failing to know when to pull the ripcord. By the time Bill pulled the cord, all he saw was ground and trees, coming quick, too quick … The chute fluttered open as he landed in a large tree. His back was broken. His death, immediate. His jump, like all of his group’s jumps, was filmed. I later watched the film. Eighteen seconds. Nobody was home when a police officer came to deliver the news. Not getting an answer, he left a scrawled note that blew off the door. Nice. The note was found in the yard on the way to the funeral. I found out that he had died when my closest friend called and asked where Bill was; he had heard on the radio that there had been a parachuting death. He was concerned. He knew Bill’s calamitous history all-too well. But the location of the accident that he gave me was not where Bill was jumping. We laughed it off. I hung up the phone, heart pounding, chest tight. I knew. I began frantically making phone calls. I called the Winston-Salem Journal . I asked if they had a report of a William Lee Bumgardner being in a parachuting accident. No, was the answer. I called the Greensboro News & Record. Had there been a parachuting death that afternoon? Yes, came the reply. William Lee Bumgardner. Do you know him? I put down the phone, numb and shaking, and walked downstairs to where my mother was sitting and watching television. “Turn off the television, Mom” “Why? I’m in the middle of a show.” “I have something to tell you.” “Can’t it wait?” “No.” My voice was now quavering. She looked at me. “It’s about Bill.” She remained expressionless. “Bill was killed this afternoon in a parachuting accident.” Silence. No reaction. No tears. Nothing. She firmly asked how I knew. She processed my answer, then calmly said that until there was confirmation from someone WS ARTS MAGAZINE


official, not a newspaper, then there was nothing to worry about. She then turned back to the television. I began to call “official” people. Confirmation came from the coroner an hour later. She arranged to have the body, post-autopsy, transported to the funeral home. Then she went to bed. I never saw her cry. First her husband, ten years gone. Now her baby. I shakily called a couple of key band members – my brothers of other mothers – who called other mutual friends. Within an hour, our back yard was filled with musicians. There was not much talk. There were many stunned expressions, concerned looks and long hugs. A bottle was passed, a joint or two. Toasts were made. Companionship, in good times – and bad. Days passed in a blur. I remember little about the funeral outside of the mass of people who attended – testament to Bill’s ability to profoundly touch the lives of almost everybody he met. A girl who Bill had been dating, and who was jumping with him the day he died, came by the house the day after the funeral. She handed my mother a Gothic crucifix on a chain that Bill had been wearing. She found it tangled in a branch when she scrambled up the tree to help retrieve his body. She was also carrying his helmet and jump suit. My mother took it all in. It was the only time I saw her cry. (In an odd and eerie postscript, the girl, who was given my brother’s helmet and suit, joined the military and, as a member of the Golden Knights, became a top competitive skydiver. She often wore Bill’s helmet in personal tribute. She was wearing his helmet when she fell several thousand feet into a swampy field after her parachute failed to open. She survived.) Several nights after the funeral, I had gone to bed, troubled, but straight and sober. I was lying in the dark thinking about Bill, wondering if he had felt pain, wondering about his faith, wondering where he was … I was drifting off to sleep when I was startled awake. The room felt odd, and the hair on my arms was standing up, as if pulled by static electricity. Then I saw it. A shape at the foot of the bed, tall and thin, glowing, undefined, but with vague features … a smile … and eyes … kind eyes … knowing eyes. There was an overwhelming sense of benevolence; looking into those eyes, my pain disappeared. There was no fear; the smile carried a sense of reassurance that Bill was fine, that he was in a place of happiness, a beautiful state of existence. He was free. Then whatever it was disappeared. I thought back to the last conversation that Bill and I had the morning of his death. There was something about seeing his parachute and helmet in the den that bothered me. He could tell I was upset and asked me if I was worried WSARTSMAG.COM

about something. Yes, I said. I am worried about you. I wish you would give up this whole parachuting thing. He laughed. “That would be like asking you to give up music,” he said. “You don’t think Mom worries about you out on the road? But she has never asked you to stop.” I nodded. We hugged. We never hugged. He smiled, and got in the car. He rolled down the window. “Stop worrying. We will talk about it later. I will see you in a few days.” Then he drove off. Sitting in the dark, pondering what had just happened, those words seemed to ring in my head. “I will see you in a few days.” Perhaps I just had. I ran from the reality of his death for years. It was another life-altering trauma, and one that I simply did not, could not, process, much less discuss. It deepened my insecurities, heightened my anxieties, and undercut my self-esteem. Bill seemed to have it all. I was struggling. Survivor’s guilt, they call it. I still feel angry that he died. I do not have my brother to share in the complexities and joys of mature life. He would have been a marvelous uncle to my three sons. And I would have been a better person with him at my side for support, kicking my ass for a change. Over the last few years, I have come to realize that my brother’s kind heart and free spirit are close. He talks to me. He guides me. He brings me peace from time to time. I just have to listen, which, for me, is not always easy. But I know that he lives inside me, the better parts of a flawed personality. BillyEddie. Forever.

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Business Buzz

Uni q ue Acc essori es Busin ess

A

Inspired by European Vacations

fter 19 years of friendship and family vacations taking them from stateside weekend trips to travel throughout Europe, Shannon Chang and Beth Lyon, both Winston-Salem residents, became increasingly inspired by the sophisticated European accessories they saw on these trips. They found a niche in the U.S. for a chic and sophisticated accessories collection to extend a woman’s wardrobe simply. For nearly a decade, the two ladies were collecting their inspirations and ideas for fashion trends, accessories, and design as the fabric of their future business was being woven. Having carpooled their kids together during school years, as their children reached the “leave the nest” age, Beth and Shannon decided to take off for a European adventure on their own. Not only did they have fun, they found they had time to concentrate on shopping and garnering ideas for the business they had been dreaming about. During their sightseeing, they were able to experience firsthand the fashion and design that had always been so intriguing to both. Ideas to start their own company began to emerge... Soon after a trip to Italy, Beth and Shannon decided to go for it, and held their first new business planning session at the beach in Alabama, Shannon’s home state, this time locking themselves indoors with their computers to set the foundation PAGE 26

for Beebs & Bess. Launching in 2013, the Beebs & Bess collection offers beautifully patterned and colorful silk and silk/cotton blend scarves that are selected to pair fashionably with leather scarfbelts detailed with high-end hardware (buckles and eyelets). These scarfbelts are made of different colors and textures of supple leather, and can be worn either at the waist or longer on the hip, updating and adding a pop of color and interest to the same old outfit. They also offer ‘Gidgets’, which is their own name for crafted swivel release snap hooks that are traditionally used in equestrian and nautical hardware, available in several finishes. The Gidget is worn with scarves around the neck, waist, or even to add a pop of color and pattern to a hat. Their collection offers colorful scarves and scarf accessories that are both contemporary and classic. Beebs and Bess line dodges rigidity, allowing you to increase the versatility of your existing wardrobe, whatever your age or lifestyle. Beebs & Bess extends any woman’s wardrobe by adding versatility of patterns, colors, and stylings of scarves in both silk and silk/cotton blends with scarfbelts and gidgets. The ladies incorporate a personal touch into their line by naming each scarf and scarfbelt for a daughter, niece, beloved family dog, or a local city. The Winston scarf features a trefoil design in three color combinations: navy, teal, or green made WS ARTS MAGAZINE


with 50% silk, 50% cotton blend and is one of their most popular sellers. Having worked as a sales rep for New York design houses, Beth brings a love for beautiful fabric and understands and appreciates fine detailing in design. Beth learned to sew at an early age and still enjoys the hobby, furthering her attention To detail such as the finely rolled hand sewn hemming on the silk twill scarves. “Our accessories offer women a very easy way to punctuate all kinds of ensembles, from casual to dressy. And we encourage clients to pull out their own collections of scarves to enjoy in totally new ways.”- Beth Lyon, Beebs & Bess Shannon describes her own style taste as more traditional and tailored, but with a contemporary edge or splash of color. Her personal favorite look from their collection is the Alexandra scarf with a leather scarfbelt. Fall Fashion Tip from Shannon: “Boots are still going to be a big favorite, especially worn with pants tucked inside. The leather scarfbelt with polished silver or gold clasp worn with a silk patterned scarf softens this look, adding femininity and a chic detail to dress up an outfit of jeans and a shirt with boots.” “Having frIends's daughters and nieces graduating from college and starting jobs, I love the idea of giving them gifts from our line, helping them to extend their wardrobes tenfold.” - Shannon Chang Beebs & Bess accessories are available from their online store at www.beebsandbess.com, as well as upcoming trunk shows at boutiques and fashion shows. If you are interested in hosting a trunk or home/sorority show, contact them at sales@ beebsandbess.com. Be sure to take a look at the Winston, Raleigh, and Charlotte scarves in homage to North Carolina style. n

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Cigars & Spirits

Guayacan Robusto: An Everyday Alternative for a Company on the Rise By Ed Hanes

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T

he Guayacan Robusto is an often overlooked cigar, especially for those who are unfamiliar with the “boutique” cigar producers. I found one of these resting in my humidor at Twin City Cigar Company and had to try it. With a finger of scotch at the ready and my favorite leather recliner in place, I began my review. I was not displeased. The Guayacan is the product of former Cuban- cigar-roller Noel Rojas. Rojas has combined an Ecuadorian Habano wrapper, Nicaraguan Corojo ’98 binder and Nicaraguan Corojo ’98 filler to create this “at the ready” cigar. I could easily see this becoming the “go to” for the everyman smoker. The Ecaudorian Habano wrapper that is used on the Guayacan looks excellent set against the rising sun on the band . There are very few veins, minimal tooth, and the wrapper is uniformly smooth. Tobacco is packed evenly throughout the cigar making for a consistent smoking experience. The expert blending of Rojas is apparent as soon as you smell the unlit foot. The spice and rich tobacco aroma envelope the lucky owner of this stick. A straight palio cut on the triple cap of this cigar coupled with a competent footing from my flame reveals the truth: an excellent draw and a rich beginning. My interest was peeked. The first few puffs of the Guayacan produces a very rich, sweet tobacco taste that persists the entire length of the cigar. There was a unique spice about the Guayacan that WS ARTS MAGAZINE


caressed the back of my throat after each draw leaving a mild taste of cinnamon. While the burn of the cigar is just average it is otherwise not notable. The cigar emits smoke surprisingly well. It is not to the famed “Liga Privada level”, but this cigar certainly puts off enough smoke to let you know the oily Ecuadorian wrapper is performing as it should. As the Guayacan progresses, the aforementioned rich, sweet tobacco flavor persists with the spice picking up noticeably. “Balanced” is the best word to describe the Guayacan. Rojas has created a cigar that is a great mixture of sugar and spice. It isn’t a master of a single category but, rather, an afternoon in Hanes Park: a jack of all trades offering something for everyone. There are very few cigars at this price point ($7) that come to mind that offer the same level of competence. For its steady complexity, for its competent construction, and for its worthy presentation, the Guayacan Robusto receives 3 E.D.S. n

WS Arts Magazine has designed and implemented a ratings system where cigars receive an E.D.S (really...I didn't name the rating system after myself) of 1-5. Each review explains, in easy to understand terms, why we chose that particular rating for a given cigar. Our ratings system is described as follows: 1 E.D.S - These are cigars of last resort. They are questionable even if only mowing the yard or planting a garden. 2 E.D.S - These cigars make tolerable companions while you wash your car. They aren't looking for attention, nor should they! 3 E.D.S - These are pretty respectable cigars but may still fall short. We recommend them for the golf course, the back porch with one of your uninitiated friends, or for the after wedding party (for the husband of your best girlfriend who thinks he knows everything about cigars). 4 E.D.S - Now we’re talking. Enjoy these fine cigars after a delicious meal or with your favorite cocktail. Again, I prefer Fridays at Single Brothers (or my Cigar Room). Join me! 5 E.D.S - Respect your elders! These complex treats are true works of art. They deserve Coltrane, good friends, and your favorite adult tasty treat. Only the best! n WSARTSMAG.COM

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Art Scene “Essentially, I’m a portraitist. I try to instill in my subjects (animate or inanimate) a sense of presence, a feeling of BEING.” - William Goodson Mangum

William Goodson “Bill” Mangum: Life Retrospective (co-sponsored by Salem College Dept. of Art and Artworks Gallery)

T

his exhibition of drawings, paintings and sculpture is to honor William Goodson “Bill” Mangum for his years of service to his Salem College students and the Winston-Salem Art Community. Mangum was born in Kinston, N.C., scion of an Orange County, N.C. family. During World War II, he flew as a member of a B-24 bomber crew with the 8th Air Force in England. After the war, “Bill” studied at the Corcoran School of Art in Washington, D.C., the Art Students League of New York and obtained an MFA in Art History from UNC. He also studied and taught at the University of Florence, Italy. For 30 years Mangum was the chairman of the Art Department at Salem College. He was also a founding member of Artworks Gallery and Associated Artists, both in Winston-Salem. He exhibited in NYC, North Carolina and Europe. Today, Bill is enjoying retirement and is proud of his children’s accomplishments, including the three who are Salem alumnae. He is a grandfather, and recently celebrated 70 years of marriage. This exhibit is free and open to the public. n

Exhibition Dates: August 23 – October 18, 2013 Reception: Sunday September 22, 2 – 5 p.m. Mary Davis Holt Gallery, Elberson Fine Arts Center PAGE 30

William Goodson Mangum, "Blue Trombone", acrylic on canvas, 28' x 22" WS ARTS MAGAZINE


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BENEFITING

Ws arts issue7 issuu  

One. As we put this issue together that is the word that stayed in my mind. No matter if I was meeting new artists at the gallery hop, dri...