August O.Henry 2020

We’re committed to safety.

Don’t delay your care.

The doctors and caregivers of Cone Health encourage you to not let coronavirus prevent you from receiving the care you need, or from scheduling appointments, surgeries and procedures. All Cone Health physician offices and facilities are strictly following the recommendations from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, as well as other clinical experts. To learn more, call your doctor or visit conehealth.com.

Separate facility for COVID-19 care Masking everyone Screening everyone Testing scheduled surgery patients Testing all hospitalized patients Enhanced cleaning

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I N T H E FA L L I S S U E O F

The Fall 2020 issue of Seasons Style & Design has had plenty of time to age and is about to be uncorked with a look at local wine and design.

We’ve explored a handful of Piedmont wineries and found that grape pairs well not only with food but also with llamas, art and music.

For years, many a table has been dressed up with the colorful, Italian pottery of Hillsborough-based Vietri.

Find out what’s new for Fall entertaining . . . and whether the company’s popular warehouse sale will take place as scheduled.

The greening of design has quite literally arrived in the form of Fiddle Figs, an in-house boutique of Allen & James Interior Design consisting of plants. What better home accent to spruce up a room — or a garden?

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August 2020 FEATURES

DEPARTMENTS

41 Ritual Revived

11 Simple Life

27 The Pleasures of Life

14 Short Stories 15 Doodad

By Nancy Oakley

30 Home by Design

Poetry by Barbara Baillet Moran

42 Great Beginnings

Hooked on summer reading

50 A Passage to India and Beyond

By Cynthia Adams Todd Nabors’ global décor

58 Summer's Lease

By Nancy Oakley Though short, it’s just a brushstroke away

65 Almanac

By Ash Alder

By Jim Dodson

By Tony Cross

By Susan Campbell

37 Wandering Billy

By D.G. Martin

23 Scuppernong Bookshelf 24 Spirits

By Todd Pusser

35 Birdwatch

By Maria Johnson

20 Omnivorous Reader

By Cynthia Adams

32 The Naturalist

17 Life’s Funny

By Maria Johnson

By Billy Eye

78 GreenScene 80 O.Henry Ending

By Cynthia Adams

Cover photograph by Amy Freeman 4 O.Henry

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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O.Henry 5

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boutique boutique We have always loved O.Henry magazine, so we jumped at the opportunity to advertise with them. We get new customers on a weekly basis from our ads! Our successful partnership is due to their community reach. With our success, we have been able to give back to our community through the charity events they help us promote. O.Henry magazine is the only place for us!

WWW.OHENRYMAG.COM For advertising sponsorship information, contact Hattie Aderholdt 336-907-2107, hattie@ohenrymag.com

M A G A Z I N E

Volume 10, No. 8 “I have a fancy that every city has a voice.”

336.617.0090 1848 Banking Street, Greensboro, NC 27408 www.ohenrymag.com PUBLISHER

David Woronoff Jim Dodson, Editor jim@thepilot.com Andie Stuart Rose, Creative Director andie@thepilot.com Nancy Oakley, Senior Editor nancy@ohenrymag.com Lauren M. Coffey, Associate Art Director Alyssa Rocherolle, Graphic Designer CONTRIBUTING EDITORS

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

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

Here for you In these unprecedented times, it is important that you know we’re committed to providing you the financial access, guidance, and support you need during this rapidly evolving situation. Through digital, mobile, and by phone, Wells Fargo Advisors is here, and we continue to serve you and support our communities so that you can focus on what matters most — caring for your family’s health and safety.

Helping you focus on what matters most

Private Client Group Alex Sigmon

Wealth Brokerage Services Greg Costello

Branch Manager 806 Green Valley Rd. Greensboro, NC 27408 Phone: 336-545-7100

Private Wealth Area Manager 100 N. Main St. Winston-Salem, NC 27150 Phone: 336-842-7309

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Ash Alder, Jane Borden, Susan Campbell, Wiley Cash, Tony Cross, Billy Eye, Ross Howell Jr., Billy Ingram, Sara King, Brian Lampkin, Meridith Martens, D.G. Martin, Ogi Overman, Todd Pusser, Stephen E. Smith ADVERTISING SALES

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O.H

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8 O.Henry

MAY Lose Value

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

© Copyright 2020. Reproduction in whole or in part without written permission is prohibited.

O.Henry Magazine is published by The Pilot LLC

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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10 O.Henry

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The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Simple Life

In the Sweet By and By Until then, the dance of life continues

By Jim Dodson

The Great Pandemic Summer of 2020

is drawing to a close.

How have you coped?

As you read this, I am coping by being thigh-deep in a tumbling stream at the base of Mount Mitchell, deep in a national forest, amusing a few sleepy rainbow trout with my rusty fly-casting skills.

If ever there was a summer to get away to the wild, this is it. For me, fly fishing has long provided relaxation and unexpected answers to questions that seem to resist easy answers.

Twenty-five summers ago, during an unexpected family crisis, my daughter Maggie and I spent a glorious summer camping and flyfishing our way across America. Maggie was 7 years old. Our old dog Amos was pushing 13. It was a summer to remember chasing trout in some of the West’s most iconic rivers.

This summer, Maggie and her fiancé, Nate, and their two rescued pups are retracing portions of our route through the West as they head for new jobs in Los Angeles, camping and hiking. The other night, Maggie phoned from the banks of Shoshone River in Wyoming just to hear her old man rhapsodize about the summer night we spent camped by the swift blue river beneath a quilt of glittering stars. Such nights stay with you.

Throughout this devastating pandemic and summer of social discontent, many of us have faithfully sheltered in place and adopted wearing face coverings in public. We have placed our trust in science, avoided crowds, dutifully washed hands and learned new phrases like “safe distancing” and “community spread.” We’ve also marveled at the human capacity for finding meaning, change and creativity in the midst of a crisis our children will probably tell their grandchildren about in tones of wonder and solemnity, and maybe even gratitude.

Change and history move in halting steps, stumbling before we who are living through them finally come to terms with the truth.

To many in America, a racial awakening in the midst of a worldwide pandemic either seems like a cosmic piling on or a clear message from

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

the universe that it’s time for America to face up to the sins of our collective past and finally take steps to end systemic racism, a reckoning long overdue.

One man’s awakening, I suppose, is another’s End of Days.

For what it’s worth, a different metric on this time of trials comes from leading astrologers who point out that for the first time in thousands of years, half a dozen planets are simultaneously in retrograde and the rare success of three consecutive eclipses, two lunar, one solar, combined with the planet Pluto — the diminutive power broker of darkness and chaos — passing through America’s chart in almost the exact location at the time of our country’s founding, indicates a period of feeling “stuck” in a protracted time of intense disruption and bitter division. As the planets move forward, or so we are told, we may experience a vast spiritual awakening, possibly even a new age of enlightenment springing from lessons of the past.

Whether the problem lies in our stars or ourselves remains an open question.

In the meantime, lacking the gift of celestial prophecy, I stand in tumbling waters thinking how this year of chaos and change reminds me of valuable lessons learned at an early in life in the racially bifurcated world where I grew up.

My father was a newspaperman with a poet’s heart who lost his dream in 1958 when his partner cleaned out the operating funds of their thriving weekly newspaper in coastal Mississippi, disappearing without a trace.

One day later, his only sister died in a car wreck on an icy road outside Washington, D.C., and my mother suffered her second late-term miscarriage in three years.

We left Mississippi with everything we owned in a Pontiac Star Chief and drove all night to Wilmington, where my dad worked for several months at the Star News before moving on to a better job in South Carolina.

I started first grade in Florence, a pretty Southern town of old houses and shady streets. I was the only kid in my class who could read chapter books and had perfect attendance at school. At year’s O.Henry 11

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12 O.Henry

end, Miss Patillo presented me with a small brass pin shaped like an open book with Perfect Attendance inscribed on its pages. I still have the pin.

For my parents, however — something I learned many years later — Florence was like a silent ordeal, a twilight world between the unyielding values of the Old South and a brave new world of tomorrow.

The summer before second grade, a lovely African-American woman named Miss Jesse came to help my mother get back on her feet. She was said to be a natural healer and a woman who knew how to take care of families like ours. My mother held strong views about race and resisted the notion of having a maid like other women in town.

But her health was dangerously frail. So Miss Jesse came.

It is no longer the fashion to speak of having someone like Miss Jesse in your privileged white life. I get that. But for one summer this kind woman took me everywhere with her to keep me out from under my mother’s feet — to the public library, to the Piggly Wiggly, to and from vacation Bible school at the Lutheran Church. I adored riding around town with Miss Jesse. The radio of her blue Dodge Dart was always tuned to a Southern gospel station. I can almost hear her singing “In the Sweet By and By” and “I’ll Fly Away.” I sang along, too.

She and my mom quickly became friends.

Among other things, Miss Jesse introduced my mother-a former Maryland beauty queen-to flower gardening and turned her into quite a respectable Southern cook. Her beauty and vitality returned.

One evening while the two of them were cooking supper, a lively gospel tune came on the transistor radio and Miss Jesse invited me to hop on her strong feet, sashaying us both around the kitchen floor. She called this “feet dancing.”

One night that autumn of 1959, my father’s boss came to supper. He was a thin old man with loose change jingling in his pants pockets. Miss Jesse was cooking supper.

The adults were all standing in the kitchen talking about “protests” that were suddenly happening across the Deep South. My father’s boss jingled his change and declared, “Fortunately, we don’t have that kind of The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Simple Life trouble around here, do we Jesse? That’s because we have good nigras round these parts.”

“Jimmy,” my mother chimed instantly, “could you come with me, please?”

I was barely into the hallway when she took hold of my ear and perp-walked me to the bathroom, leading me in and shutting the door. Over my protest, she ordered me to sit and hush up.

As I watched, she calmly opened a new bar of Ivory soap and held it inches from my face.

“If I ever hear that word come out of your mouth,” she said, restraining her Germanic fury, “you’ll be sitting on this toilet with this new bar of soap in your mouth for an hour. Is that clear?”

I knew exactly the word she meant. She explained that “nigra” was the way “supposedly educated white people in the South” said the word my brother and I were forbidden to ever use, though I heard it often used in those days.

For what it’s worth, I can’t stomach the smell of Ivory soap to this day.

Weeks later, shockingly, Miss Jesse went into the hospital and we went to visit her in its “colored wing.” She passed a few days later. We went to her funeral service at the little brick church she attended. The place was full of flowers and people, including a few white women who’d benefited from Miss Jesse’s healing presence. The music was pure gospel. My mother cried. I remember meeting Miss Jesse’s daughter, her pride and joy whom she called “Babygirl,” an art teacher from Atlanta.

A few weeks later, my dad took a new job and we finally moved home to Greensboro, where I started mid-way through the second grade.

Just days after my brother and I got our new library cards, our history-mad father mysteriously turned up at school to spring us for the afternoon. He drove us downtown to stand near the “colored” entrance of the Center Theater and watch as four brave students from A&T attempted to integrate the Woolworth’s lunch counter across Elm Street.

“Boys,” he said to us. “This isn’t just going to change life in Greensboro. It’s going to change America.”

That event is considered a watershed moment of the nonviolent Civil Rights Movement of America.

It was my 7th birthday, February 2, 1960.

Sixty years later, as statues of Confederate generals and segregationists topple and sweeping racial reckoning has finally commenced, I’ve been playing a lot of Southern gospel in my car, thinking about Miss Jesse and the first music I ever learned to sing. Embarrassing to admit, I’m having trouble remembering her last name. To me she was always Miss Jesse.

As I cast after slumbering trout in a gorgeous mountain stream, far away from that strained and vanishing South, I find myself humming “In the Sweet By and By” and wishing I could properly thank Miss Jesse for saving my mother’s life and unexpectedly shaping mine.

Maybe someday, if I’m lucky, I’ll get to feet dance with her again.

And learn her whole name. OH

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The Art & Soul of Greensboro

O.Henry 13

Short Stories Light in August

We’re holding our breaths and keeping our fingers crossed that the cautious optimism of Reynolda House Museum of American Art (2250 Reynolda Road, WinstonSalem) bears fruit on August 15 with the postponed opening of the much-anticipated exhibition Tiffany Glass: Painting with Color and Light. As detailed in the April issue of this magazine, the show, now scheduled to run through November 29, emphasizes Louis Comfort Tiffany’s painterly eye through a series of lamps illuminating the museum gallery. Complementing the exhibit is Katharine Smith Reynolds’ collection of Tiffany blown-glass vases on view throughout the bungalow-style house. Whether stained glass or blown, Tiffany’s handiwork will shine all the brighter, as the switch is flipped on the pandemic and we move from darkness to light.

Tickets: (888) 663-1149 or reynoldahouse.org.

Swing Time

Baseball season’s officially shelved and football season hangs in the balance, but in spite of the pandemic, the Royal and Ancient Game continues to thrive. If you’d like the chance to drive for show and putt for dough, then sign up for the inaugural Captain’s Choice tournament, Golfing for the Gals.

Held September 13 at The Champions Course at Bryan Park (6275 Bryan Park Road, Browns Summit), the tourney benefits research and care for something even deadlier than coronavirus (yes, Virginia, there is such a thing): uterine cancer. Sure, you’ll have to practice the usual distancing protocols on the links but the reward is knowing the contest’s profits will go directly toward UNC’s Lineberger Comprehensive Cancer Center, deemed one of the most exceptional by National Cancer Institute. Can’t make the 9 o’clock shotgun start? Then consider making donation either online or via snail mail. For information and registration: https://give.classy.org/golfingforthegals.

Down the Garden Path

We never tire of one of the Triad’s loveliest gems, Paul J. Ciener Botanical Garden (215 South Main Street, Kernersville), which brings joy year round. If you’re as grateful as we are for this gift that keeps on giving, enjoy the last gasp of the season, a twilight walking tour of the garden’s summer annuals at their peak. Led by Adrienne Roethling, PJCBG’s director of curation and mission delivery, the tour, which includes light snacks and refreshment, starts on August 20 at 6 p.m. so that each glorious bloom is highlighted by the setting sun. There’s a limit of 25 people, so register sooner rather than later by calling (336) 996-7888 or visit cienerbotanicalgarden.org.

14 O.Henry

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Doodad

Mane Attraction: The Astrological Outlook for Feline Fine

Here, Kitty, Kitty! If anyone deserves — or demands — a place in the sun, it’s Leo. After all, the sun does govern the bold, creative and — let’s be honest — over-the-top lion, who awakened late last month from a Neptune-induced stupor.

You’ll find prides of Leos in the performing arts (Alfred Hitchcock, Tony Bennett, Mick Jagger, JLo, Whitney Houston, Daniel Radcliffe, Anna Kendrick.) Is it any wonder cineastes have been greeted by the MGM king of beasts for more than a century? And as king, Leo is also the sign of royalty and rulers, such as Roman emperor Claudius.

At their best, they are warm-hearted, passionate, generous and protective souls. At their worst, they are insufferable megalomaniacs. (Paging Napoleon Bonaparte!) But boy, do they ever like to have fun and entertain. Just ask lioness Martha Stewart. If the sign had a mantra, it would likely be: “I vant to play!” Too bad most of this year has had the zodiac’s feline on the literal and figurative treadmill, with buzzkills Saturn and Pluto, along with expansive Jupiter touring Capricorn, tagging the lion’s sixth house of work, health and daily routines. But with all these big boys retrograding for a bit, a wave of eclipses fading in the rearview mirror, Mercury direct and riding shotgun with El Sol, and turbo-charged Mars hangin’ at home in fellow fire sign Aries, August just might shift from boring to roaring. So toss that mane, Leo, open wide and cut loose!

***Given the unusual circumstances currently facing all events and their organizations, anyone planning to attend any program, gathering or competition should check in advance to make certain it will happen as scheduled.

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

And the (Art) beat Goes On

Four Gate City organizations receive much-needed lifeline

N

o need to worry about the art and soul of Greensboro: With $200,000 in grant awards from the National Endowment for the Arts through the Coronavirus Aid Relief and Economic Security (CARES) Act, four Gate City stalwarts will be able to thrive.

Among some 855 organizations, Dance Project, North Carolina Folk Festival, Triad Stage and ArtsGreensboro will each receive $50,000 to cover expenses. Under normal circumstances (whatever that is or used to be), the arts enrich and educate our citizenry, whether from advocacy of artists, agencies and teachers courtesy of ArtsGreensboro; the training, performances and collaboration (think: Dance Marathon) of Dance Project; live theater at Triad Stage; or the numerous musical stages, craft demos and freewheeling fun of the N.C. Folk Festival.

During the pandemic, the arts have saved us, serving as sources of comfort and distraction. Thanks to online galleries, plus virtual concerts, performances and tutorials, many of us who were sheltering in place without a full day’s work found solace and inspiration through new avenues of imagination and expression. And though our local arts organizations worked hard to feed our souls, who has been feeding them during this bizarre era of cancellations and shuttered doors?

With aid from NEA through CARES, the organizations’ cares are assuaged for the time being, and ever the cockeyed optimists, we know that in time, there will be dancing in the streets at Folk Fest and modern moves at Van Dyke Performance Space. Players will once again strut and fret upon the boards at the Pyrle downtown, and galleries and classrooms will flourish and throughout the city, as ArtsGreensboro continues to nourish them.

And a shoutout to the other 22 fellow grant recipients across North Carolina, such as Winston-Salem’s RiverRun International Film Festival, Blue Ridge Music Center and North Carolina Black Repertory Company, the Charlotte Ballet and Mint Museum, Wake County’s United Arts, Wilmington’s Cameron Art Museum and the Penland School of Crafts.

From where we stand, the state of the state’s arts looks mighty fine. OH — Nancy Oakley O.Henry 15

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Life's Funny

Blanking Out

How to live a storied life amid a pandemic

By Maria Johnson

For the entertainment of

our Covid-weary readers, we’ve concocted a fillin-the-blank game in the spirit of Mad Libs. To play with another person, don’t read the story aloud. Just ask him or her to supply a word for every blank space, using the prompt. Remember, the wackier and saucier the answer, the better. Then read the story aloud. If you want to play solo, go to ohenrymag.com/mad-libs/.

How I Spent My COVID Summer By ( ______ ­­­ _ ______ your playmate’s first and last name if you’re playing with a partner, or your name if you’re playing alone) One pandemic day, it was really hot and humid, and my air conditioner was broken, so I decided to go to a Zoom meeting wearing only a ( ______article of clothing). The camera was focused tightly on my face, so nobody noticed. Then my ( _____uncommon animal) walked across my laptop keyboard. Forgetting my attire, I got up to put him out, and then someone said, “Hey, nice ( ______ vegetable, plural) and I was like, “Excuse me?” And they said, “In your garden.

I can see your new raised bed garden through the window.” And I said, “Oh, thanks. Maybe I’ll bring some of the harvest into the office when we have another meeting there in ( _____ year in the future).” And everyone laughed ( _____ adverb ending in -ly). Except my boss. She just sat there looking like the proverbial cat who ate the (_______ cooking utensil). People were getting slaphappy because already the call had lasted for ( _____number) hours.

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

When the call ended, I needed a break. So I put on a mask made of solid ( _____ type of metal), which they say is the best kind because it lets nothing through. I saw a picture of ( ______ name of a celebrity) wearing one, and I thought maybe I could pull it off, too, because people say we look alike. Also, I put on a pair of ( _____ Disney character) sunglasses for eye protection, and I hung a garland of ( ______type of fruit) around my neck. I felt pretty safe.

We were in Phase (_____ number) of the reopening, which meant you could leave home but only if you were an essential ( ______ type of worker), which I happen to be. Perhaps you didn’t know that about me. A lot of people don’t. Anyway, I put on more clothes, including a ( _____ type of hat), which I stuck with a (______type of bird) feather as a fashion statement. I got in my car and drove to ( ______ a North Carolina town) because there’s a store there that always has ( ______ noun, plural), which have been hard to find locally. I know it’s a long way to drive for that, but I enjoy the scenery: the rolling hills with trees, cows, horses and an occasional ( ______ zoo animal) ( ______verb ending in -ing) through the countryside.

Anyway, I turned on the radio and listened to an interview with a chef who became famous for making pan-seared (______type of toiletry) with tofu. I had it once, and it was surprisingly good, considering the main ingredient. Anyway, this chef got Covid while her restaurant was closed in Phase I. Her first symptom was a fever of ( ______number above 100) degrees Fahrenheit that lasted for ( ______number) days, during which she was plagued by nightmares of ( ______verb ending with-ing) squid. Naturally, her doctors were ( ______adjective) about the whole thing.

Finally, her fever subsided but she had lost her sense of smell and taste, which is terrible for a chef. So she decided to close the restaurant permanently and go into the ( _______type of flying insect)-farming business, which seems like a strange career switch, I grant you, but you have to be flexible in these trying times. By the time the interview was over, I had arrived at my destination, a new grocery store called Trader ( _______ first name)’s, which is a very socially conscious store. All stockholders are required to reduce their O.Henry 17

Life's Funny

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18 O.Henry

personal ( _______type of cookie) emissions by more than 50 percent. Anyway, I pulled up my mask, adjusted my sunglasses and garland and started ( _______verb ending with-ing) through the parking lot. Suddenly I heard a loud voice “Hey! You with the ( ______ color) hair!” That’s right, I dyed my hair this summer just so I could look in the mirror and see someone new. Anyway, I looked up to see a store employee on a megaphone. This was because the number of infections had soared, and social distancing had been increased from 6 feet up to ( ______number over 100) feet. The guy continued on his megaphone: “I need to ask you a few questions. First, have you had a fever or coughed up any ( _____noun, plural) in the last two weeks? “Certainly not.” I replied.

Have you had any hallucinations or thoughts of ( _____noun, plural). “Negative,” I said.

“Have you ever ( ______verb, past tense)?”

I said, “Once. In college. Does that count?”

“No,” he said, but I could tell he was smiling under his mask. “You can go in.”

No one else was in the store, owing to the new social distance. I picked up a few items and put them on the conveyor belt at checkout. Then I left the store. This was the new protocol for shopping. You had to put your items on the belt and leave the store, then a cashier would ( ______action verb) in from a back room and leave a note for you saying “Did you find everything you need?” — and leave. Then you would come back in and leave a note saying, “Yes. Also, I find your selection and prices to be (______adjective)”— then leave. Then they would come in and ring up your purchase — then leave. Then you would come back in and swipe your credit card and bag your own groceries and leave. It was exhausting. As a result, people were eating less and walking more and we were actually becoming a much more just, verdant, ( ______ adjective), ( ______adjective) society, if that makes any sense. Which it probably doesn’t.

Who would have ever imagined such a ( _____adjective) surprise ending, except maybe O.Henry himself? OH Maria Johnson is a contributing editor of O.Henry. She can be reached at ohenrymaria@gmail.com The Art & Soul of Greensboro

LET YOUR imagination TAKE OVER.

C O M E H O M E TO AN OT EY HOME,

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7/10/2020 4:55:04 PM

The Omnivorous Reader

Portrait of “Little Thunder” Sue Monk Kidd imagines the wife of Jesus

By D.G. Martin

“It could have happened.”

My friend was talking about The Book of Longings, the latest novel from Sue Monk Kidd, the bestselling author of The Secret Life of Bees that sold over 8 million copies and appeared on The New York Times bestseller list for 2 1/2 years.

The central character and narrator of Kidd’s new book is Ana, who opens the story with the following, “I am Ana. I was the wife of Jesus ben Joseph of Nazareth. I called him Beloved and he, laughing, called me Little Thunder.”

It could have happened, just as my friend asserted, but it is a stretch to believe Jesus was married. No, it would be many stretches, and Kidd, the expert storyteller, uses each one to build a rich, complex, and almost believable tale of a woman who became Jesus’ wife.

Although the book is set in the Middle East of 2,000 years ago, the coming together of Jesus and Ana was framed in North Carolina, where Kidd wrote her book. That came as a complete surprise to me. I knew Kidd had deep roots in Sylvester, the town in Georgia where she grew up. Until I learned about her new book, I did not know that she and her husband moved to Chapel Hill a couple of years ago, a place they chose, never having seen, after reading articles about best places to live in America.

Her move to our state solidifies North Carolina’s claim to be a home and refuge for the nation’s best writers.

The book’s story begins in the year 16 A.D. Ana is the teenage daughter of the head scribe of Herod Antipas, son of Herod the Great, and, subject to the Roman overlords, the ruler of Galilee.

We know this Herod Antipas as the King Herod from the Bible’s account of his ordering the execution of John the Baptist.

Ana and her mother, father, aunt and servants live near Antipas’ palace in Sepphoris, a thriving city. Ana’s cousin and adopted brother, Judas, has left home to join with Zealots fighting against the Roman occupation. Near Sepphoris is the poor village of Nazareth, where Jesus lives in a less-than-modest hovel with his widowed mother, Mary, and his siblings.

Unlike most other young women of the times, Ana is well-educated and writes stories of women heroes of the Bible. Although she cherishes her unmarried status, her parents arrange for her betrothal to an elderly, unattractive but wealthy man. She is distraught. When he dies before the wedding, she is relieved. Then her parents push

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her to become Antipas’ concubine, a position that would provide security for her and her parents.

Meanwhile, she has encountered the young Jesus, who walks each day from Nazareth to Sepphoris to work on a massive construction project for Antipas. The spark is immediate. She appreciates his deep connection to God, or as Jesus calls him when he prays, Abba or Father. He appreciates her education and aspirations to write and promote the place of women.

Their marriage transforms her privileged life into hand-to-mouth poverty in the crowded house in Nazareth, where Ana does not get the warmest of welcomes from Jesus’ brothers and their spouses.

Kidd describes the smells and the constant chores of cooking, milking, feeding, sewing, petty jealousies and resentments that fill the lives of the struggling poor family. Jesus is often gone for long periods to work on projects in other parts of Galilee, sometimes even going as far as the Sea of Galilee to work with fishermen.

Jesus’ search for God leads him to the preaching of John the Baptist. He becomes a follower, and when John is arrested by Antipas, Jesus becomes a leader, leaving Ana alone with his family in Nazareth.

When Ana offends Antipas, she becomes another of his targets.

For safety, Ana’s aunt takes her to the great library city of Alexandria in Egypt, where she encounters another set of conflicts and challenges.

Ana waits and waits for a message from Jesus telling her to return. The message finally comes in the form of a letter from Judas, who urges her to hurry. She arrives in Bethany near Jerusalem just in time for a Passover dinner with Mary, Martha, Lazarus and Jesus, but Jesus is not there. He is on trial in Jerusalem. The next day Ana hurries to Jerusalem just in time to watch as Jesus carries the cross toward the execution site. He collapses. Ana rushes to comfort him and say goodbye.

Kidd reconstructs the crucifixion experience in a way more horrible and poignant than any of the four Gospels.

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She also offers a surprising explanation of why Judas betrayed Jesus. Many deeply faithful religious people have never understood Judas’ motivation. Was it simply for the 30 pieces of silver? In Kidd’s version, it is not for the coins, but rather his belief that Jesus’ death at the hands of the Romans would ignite a rebellion against those occupiers, a goal Judas and his fellow Zealots shared, but Jesus rejected, working instead to prepare for the coming Kingdom of God. “One of the biggest questions in the Christian crucifixion story is why Judas betrayed Jesus,” Kidd says. “I wanted to give him a motivation for his betrayal, to humanize him, too, and cause our thoughts about him to be less black-and-white and more complex. In my imagined version, Judas is Ana’s adopted brother who was orphaned when his father was crucified and his mother sold into slavery after a failed Jewish revolt against the Romans, a historically real insurrection by the Jews of Sepphoris in 4 BCE. I portray Judas as a child consumed with hatred for Rome, as a radical Zealot, and as an ardent disciple who believes Jesus is the Messiah destined to deliver them from Rome. His betrayal of Jesus is a piece of intricate and earnest political theater. It speaks, I think, to the danger of hyper-idealism, how a person overly possessed by a principle can begin to justify almost anything for his cause.”

That Ana’s story continues after Jesus’ death emphasizes Kidd’s and Ana’s belief that excluding and minimizing the role of women in the days of Jesus and today has been a tragic mistake.

For many years, Kidd has been interested in feminist theology and has written “about silenced and marginalized women and the missing feminine within religion. I can only speculate that the premise for the novel bloomed out of that exploration.”

Whether Kidd’s readers are true believers or skeptical inquirers, whether they are strong supporters of an expanded role for women in religious organizations or resisters of change, The Book of Longings will be an enriching and challenging read. OH D.G. Martin hosts North Carolina Bookwatch Sunday at 3:30 p.m. and Tuesday at 5 p.m. on UNC-TV. The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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Scuppernong Bookshelf

Is Democracy Coming to the U.S.A.?

In the tradition of Alexis de Tocqueville, several authors address the current state of America’s Great Experiment Compiled by Brian Lampkin

What has happened to Ameri-

can democracy? Has it been undermined to the point of no return or has our republic always been teetering between the hopes and dreams of a Constitutional ideal and a Three-Fifths-Compromise reality of a desperately flawed beginning? Still, while it’s been said many times before, this election seems to be an existential moment for democracy itself. These recent books that Scuppernong’s staff recommends all examine democracy at its breaking point — as some try to find a way forward to save democracy for our children.

Twilight of Democracy: The Seductive Lure of Authoritarianism, by Anne Applebaum (Doubleday, $25). From the United States and Britain to continental Europe and beyond, liberal democracy is under siege, while authoritarianism is on the rise. In Twilight of Democracy, Anne Applebaum, an award-winning historian of Soviet atrocities, was one of the first American journalists to raise an alarm about antidemocratic trends in the West. The authoritarian and nationalist parties that have arisen within modern democracies offer new paths to wealth or power for their adherents. Applebaum describes many of the new advocates of illiberalism in countries around the world, showing how they use conspiracy theory, political polarization, social media and even nostalgia to change their societies.

Indecent Assembly: The North Carolina Legislature’s Blueprint for the War on Democracy and Equality, by Gene Nichol (Blair, $16.95). University of North Carolina constitutional law professor and attorney Gene Nichol has been a burr under the saddle of the Republican-majority N.C. Legislature for several The Art & Soul of Greensboro

years, and with good reason. More than any other commentators, his fiery OP-EDs have chronicled the literal dismantling of long-held conventions and values in our previously moderate state. He accused the veto-proof majority of fostering racism, gerrymandering voting districts, legislating bathroom behavior and grossly limiting the power of the governorship, to name just a few of his jabs. Nichol has not been shy to call out these perceived outrages, and in this book, commissioned by Blair, he was asked to “let it rip.” He has. In plain language, he lays out the recent history of this body and the effects of their actions. Many of their enacted pieces of legislation are now cropping up in other states, so in the upcoming election year, this book will remind the citizens of North Carolina what has happened to their state — and maybe, even more importantly, it will serve as a cautionary tale to other states who are about to go down the same path.

Lifting as We Climb: Black Women’s Battle for the Ballot Box, by Evette Dionne (Viking Books for Young Readers, $19.99). For AfricanAmerican women, the fight for the right to vote was only one battle. This is an eye-opening book that tells the important, overlooked story of Black women as a force in the suffrage movement — when fellow suffragists did not accept them as equal partners in the struggle.

Democracy in One Book or Less: How It Works, Why It Doesn’t, and Why Fixing It Is Easier Than You Think, by David Litt (Ecco Press, $28.99).

The democracy you live in today is different — completely different — from the democracy you were born into. You probably don’t realize just how radically your republic has been altered during your lifetime. Yet more than any policy issue, political trend, or even Donald Trump himself, our redesigned system of government is responsible for the peril America faces today. Poking into forgotten corners of history, translating political science into plain English, and traveling the country to meet experts and activists, Litt explains how the world’s greatest experiment in democracy went awry. OH Brian Lampkin is one of the proprietors of Scuppernong Books.

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Spirits

The World of Del Maguey Mezcal so good, I forgot how to count

Back in June, I was invited to dinner and a mezcal tasting by my good friends Bo and Suze. I first met the couple six years ago when I was tending bar. Bo and I bonded over our love of spirits and cocktails. He was one of the few people I knew at the time that shared the same knowledge and appreciation of everything from cocktail books, to bars across the United States and the great drinks they are known for. Needless to say, we’ve been pals ever since.

In the time we’ve known each other, we’ve shared lots of great drinks, many of which were imbibed in his bar, The Bo Zone. That’s right. He’s got quite the selection, and almost everything on hand for most cocktails across the board. Along with his invitation, he informed me he’d just received a huge delivery of spirits online. Yes, you can order spirits online and have them delivered to your home in North Carolina. I’m not going to name names, but do your research and thank me later.

The majority of bottles from Bo’s latest shipment was mezcal from Del Maguey. Pronounced ma-gay, the single village Mezcal was founded in 1995 by Ron Cooper. Each bottle is made by individual family producers and, as the website states: “We are the first producer to credit each product after the village where our liquid is made. When you see our beautiful green bottles, you know it’s Del Maguey.”

After the three of us enjoyed a fabulous dinner, we retired downstairs to The Bo Zone, where many beautiful green bottles awaited us. Here are a few of my favorites from that evening. I’m including the tasting notes that Bo provided, along with my recollections. I took pictures so I would remember just in case I time-traveled — I didn’t, but I’m glad I have the pictures to remind me. They were all excellent. The mezcals, I mean.

Del Maguey Tepextate ($115)

This was the first bottle we got into. What a great start.

Bo’s notes: This glorious mezcal made from wild agave is the work of the same master mezcalero that produces the legendary Tobala (see

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below) bottled by Del Maguey. Tepextate expressions are rare, to say the least, and the extreme conditions that the plant grows in result in mezcals with concentrated, sweet tones of pure nectar.”

My recollections: Honeysuckle. It was a touch sweet. The problem with all of these great mezcals is you want to have another taste — there’s so much going on that you need one more little sip to figure out what your palate is picking up.

Del Maguey San Pablo Ameyaltepec ($130)

Number three on the list was this beauty from Puebla. For “mezcal” to be printed on a label, the agave has to originate from one of eight Mexican states. Puebla is now on that list.

Bo’s notes: With this extraordinary bottling from master mezcalero Aurelio Gonzalez Tobnon, Del Maguey takes a big step forward with their first official bottling from the state of Puebla. The wild Papalote agaves for this spirit were harvested after 12 to 18 years maturing to full ripeness in the remote hillsides outside the city limits. Showing off an incredible range of complexity, the spirit resolves to an umami-like level of intensity and harmony with notes that hit on the tropical, floral, spicy, savory, salty, mineral and more.

My recollections: We all agreed that the Ameyaltepec left a savory, umami flavor on the finish. What’s fun about tasting mezcal (or spirits or wine) is how there is no right or wrong. You taste what you taste.

Over the years I’ve looked at tech sheets on spirits/wine provided for staff by a distillery/winery and thinking, “Nope. That’s not what I taste at all.” This was one of the times where we all thought the notes hit the nail on the head. What a finish.

Del Maguey Madrecuixe ($110)

Bo’s notes: Not far off the banks of the Red Ant River in the dense, green village of San Luis del Rio in Oaxaca, Paciano Cruz Nolasco produces some of the most traditional mezcals on Earth. This rare bottling was made from the wild grown agave species of Madrecruixe.

The opening notes are herbaceous and green in nature, then slowly,

layers of tropical fruit are revealed spiked with earthy, edgy flavors that all seem to fit together thanks to the gorgeous texture and elegant medium body.”

My recollections: I remember loving this. I also remember humming some Jimi Hendrix tune that was on in the background. Let’s go with: What tastes like bananas, silk, and something green for $300, Alex?

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PHOTOGRAPH BY TONY CROSS

By Tony Cross

Spirits Del Maguey Tobala ($120)

When we finished tasting the recent acquisitions, Bo pulled two more off the shelf. I’ve had this one before, but it had been so long I was forced to say, “Hey, man, lemme taste that one again” out loud.

Notes from Del Maguey’s website: The Tobala maguey is found growing naturally only in the highest altitude canyons in the shade of oak trees, like truffles. It takes about eight piñas (agave hearts) to equal one piña from either of the more commonly propagated and cultivated magueys. Our Tobala has a sweet, fruity nose, with a mango and cinnamon taste and long, extra smooth finish.

My recollections: “Ahh, man, that’s awesome!” At this point I was texting certain friends (who could care less) with pictures of the different, beautiful green bottles I was sipping from. My laugh was getting audibly louder and somewhat obnoxious, even in text form.

Del Maguey Pechuga ($200)

This is the showstopper. Bo had a little more than half a bottle of the Pechuga that had been on the shelf for five years — or did he say three? — and I was honored he would share this beautiful spirit with me. The first thing I learned about Pechuga involved the use of a chicken. Don’t be afraid. A whole skinless chicken breast (pechuga) is washed thoroughly to remove any grease, then hung by a string within the still for 24 hours while a second or third distillation happens. It’s not voodoo, it balances the native apples, plums, plantains, pineapples, almonds, and white rice that were already added to the 100 liters of mezcal.

My recollections: I remember taking a few sips, smiling, saying something brainy, and then tuning out. I was transported immediately to Santa Catarina Minas. I’m a donkey.

Kind of like Eeyore, but not melancholy; my mood was the equivalent of being in a commercial for unwanted facial hair where everyone is really, really, happy. Oh, and I was a cartoon. I’m in the middle of grinding piñas during mezcal production. And then I came to. Maybe I did time-travel a little. This mezcal is classy. OH Tony Cross is a bartender (well, ex-bartender) who runs cocktail catering company Reverie Cocktails in Southern Pines.

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The Pleasures of Life Dept.

Flower Power Betting the farm on a budding Business

By Maria Johnson

PHOTOGRAPHS COURTESY OF WASEDA FARM FLOWERS

Like a lucky lover who plucks flower petals in a game of “she-loves-me, sheloves-me-not” and ends on a promising note, Elaine Fryar and her family have found that many folks adore the old-fashioned bouquets they make in McLeansville.

The thirst for botanical beauty is encouraging because the Fryars are betting that their billowing arrangements — dense mounds of 20 to 30 stems — will help the family farm survive.

“It’s been something we’ve truly enjoyed doing, as well as being profitable,” says Elaine, 64, who founded Waseda Farm Flowers earlier this year with her adult children Crystal Osborne and Ricky Fryar.

Together, the family cultivates a half-acre of cutting flowers, brilliant ribbons stitched into 200-plus acres of farmland that have been in the family of Elaine’s husband Gerald for more than 100 years.

Waseda Farms — pronounced wah-SEE-duh, a Native American word for “by the pines” — has evolved several times, adapting to the markets of the day.

Gerald’s great-grandfather started with tobacco and grain.

Gerald’s father switched to dairy.

Gerald pivoted back to grain in the early 1970s.

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He added turf grass late ’80s, raising tall fescue for sod until the Great Recession of 2008, when the bottom dropped out of the housing market, and therefore the landscaping market.

The family fell back on a cushion of grain — corn, wheat and soybeans — and another income stream: a dairy barn repurposed as a wedding venue, from moo house to I-do house.

The Fryars had overhauled the classic barn for Crystal’s wedding in 2004. On the outside, they veneered the concrete-block first level with stone. They painted the hayloft red and topped the barn with a second metal roof for insulation.

To transform the interior, they milled pines that grew on the farm and used the lumber for handsome paneling, floors, doors, window frames and trim. They installed a full kitchen and HVAC system.

The Fryars rented out the site for weddings from 2005 until 2016, capitalizing on the popularity of rustic nuptials and receptions that are often cheaper and more relaxed than church-and-hall affairs. Sometimes, wildlife provided comic relief during weddings in the field behind the barn.

“We had coyotes and deer to run across,” says Elaine.

About half the couples hired Crystal to provide the floral arrangements. Crystal bought the stems from wholesale growers and arranged them into essays of color and texture, each with bold statement flowers and soft fillers. She spiked them with fragrant lavender and basil.

“We thought it would have been nice to grow the flowers, but O.Henry 27

The Pleasures of Life Dept. there weren’t enough hours in the day,” says Crystal.

The Fryars still raised corn, wheat and soybeans, an enduring operation that today covers about 500 acres, half belonging to the family and half leased from other land owners.

They stopped doing weddings so Crystal could spend more time with her family, but her friends kept asking her to make bouquets for weddings and other events.

As 2020 approached, both Crystal, a preschool teacher, and her brother, Ricky, an electrical and mechanical engineer, wanted to figure out a way join their parents in farming full time.

“It was mostly about wanting to keep the farm going and giving them a chance to slow down if they choose to,” says Crystal.

Eager to ensure a fifth generation of farming Fryars, Elaine, a certified public accountant, jumped on the Internet.

“I spent all winter reading and learning and researching,” she says.

She narrowed the possibilities of lucrative new crops to microgreens and flowers.

“We started messing around with flowers, and flowers won out,” she says, noting that Gerald’s mother and grandmother had once raised and sold flowers as a sideline.

Elaine and Crystal resurrected the business, ordering seeds based on Crystal’s memory of what brides wanted in their bouquets. They culled advice from the Facebook page of “The Gardener’s Workshop,” a business run by flower farmer Lisa

Mason Ziegler of Newport News, Virginia.

Elaine rigged a walk-in cooler with grow lights, converting the space to a makeshift greenhouse where they started seeds.

Crystal holds out her phone to show a picture of her 11-year-old daughter London using a wet toothpick to pick up tiny snapdragon seeds and stick them into soil blocks the size of sugar cubes.

As soon as the fields were dry enough — which wasn’t until March — the Fryars transplanted the seedlings outdoors. There, they grew in long rows beside a field of corn, a natural windbreak.

The family hung houses to attract birds that would feed on bugs drawn to the flowers.

To ward off the deer, they raised an electric fence around the rainbow lanes. Elaine tells the story of a woman who ordered bouquets for a wedding shower.

“She said, ‘I want them to be lavender,’ and I said, ‘Well, you’re gonna have to tell me more, because I have about 15 shades of lavender.’ ” This summer, the family has started seeds in the greenhouse every week. Their goal is to have flowers blooming from April through frost.

Hobby gardeners would recognize some of their 30 varieties, such as cosmos, black-eyed Susans and zinnias. Their grandparents might know the rest, including feverfew, billy balls, strawflower, stock and amaranth, as well as their colorful cousins, which some-

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The Pleasures of Life Dept. times go by the Latin names denoting genus: Cerinthe, Scabiosa, Didiscus and Bupleurum.

Crystal’s son, Max, 8, ticks off the names with the assurance of an old farmer. He and his sister spend summer mornings cutting flowers and hauling them into the barn, which now serves as a design studio.

Crystal builds most of the bouquets, cinching them with a rubber band, wrapping them in brown craft paper, tucking in a packet of preservative, and slipping them into plastic bags with enough water to get them home.

Most arrangements leave the farm with walk-in customers and subscribers who pay $100 to pick up a fresh bunch of flowers every week for five weeks. Several Waseda customers have given subscriptions as gifts.

Crystal reads a message from a woman who received a gift subscription: “Girl, you are an artist, and I’m unbelievably impressed.”

Elaine quotes a text from another subscriber: “These are the prettiest sunflowers ever.”

The family provides wholesale stems to a couple of local florists, Garner’s on Church Street and Abba Design on North Eugene Street.

The Fryars are taking a break from selling bouquets at the Gibsonville Farmers Market during Covid-19, but eventually they’d like to attend more markets. They’d also like to make a flower truck out of a three-wheeled Italian vehicle called an Ape

(pronounced AH-pay), an adaptation of the Piaggio company’s popular Vespa scooters.

“We think there’s a market in neighborhoods,” says Elaine.

“Like with food trucks.”

Crystal is experimenting with another revenue generator: “Bubbles and Blooms,” a flower arranging class conducted in the barn’s hayloft at well-spaced tables. Electric fans and champagne provided.

Like most businesses, Waseda has made concessions to the coronavirus, but overall the pandemic has been good for sales, Elaine says. Outbreaks around the world have snipped flower imports into the United States “It opens up a lot of opportunities for local flower growers,” she says. “I saw pictures from Holland of them just dumping flowers.”

With Americans spending more time at home, many of them are willing to spend more money to beautify their surroundings.

Supplying them with sprigs of cheer is rewarding, says Elaine, who now thinks that retirement isn’t nearly as attractive as pushing out daisies. OH Waseda Farm Flowers, located at 6298 McLeansville Road, is open Tuesdays and Thursdays from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. Find them at waseda-farm-flowers.square.site or on Instagram @ wasedafarmflowers.

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O.Henry 29

Home by Design

Simply Irresistible Bitten by the design bug

By Cynthia Adams

Skimming the auto classifieds recently,

an ad set in a retro font called Courier New tripped the circuitry of my brain to a repressed memory. I froze, slopping my morning coffee as I recalled another ad entry from the past, under “Antique Cars” (with a nod to the Robert Palmer song).

SIMPLY IRRESISTIBLE. 1971 Volkswagen Convertible; electric blue. New paint, top and tires. Restored. Garaged. Winston-Salem.

The price, a gulper, reflected its merit.

My eyes raked over the thumbnail-sized picture. The unfurled soft top combined with its rounded wheelhouses made me nostalgic for the, well, freewheeling days of the counterculture era. Not to mention the near indestructible, classic four-cylinder air-cooled boxer engine — a tribute to German engineering for sure — strategically placed in the rear of the car. It was love at first bug bite!

As I dialed, hand trembling with excitement, I feared it was already gone.

The owner, who sounded elderly (ah, perfect!) said I could see it that afternoon.

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He had fielded several inquiries. If serious, “bring cash. Not many cars like this.”

“She’s anything but typical,” I heard Palmer singing in my head.

At that, I scurried off to withdraw the exact price (“nonnegotiable” the owner made clear), shivering with excitement.

I had long wanted a vintage VW convertible — what our architect friend, Greg Koester, jokingly tagged “a bitch bucket.” This was the one!

I hummed, “She’s a craze you’d endorse,” from Palmer’s song.

Leaving the bank, I called my husband. “I need for you to take me to Winston- Salem in a couple of hours.”

He agreed.

On the drive over, he negotiated. “Don’t do it,” he pleaded.

“Nonnegotiable,” I replied sassily, quoting the seller. Then I sang, “She’s a craze you’ll endorse, she’s a powerful force/You’re obliged to conform when there’s no other course.”

He gripped the wheel. “Look, it’s an old car. I think it’s a bad idea.”

Unfazed, I felt bubbling anticipation.

The owner’s hip bothered him, so he took a while ambling out when we arrived. He retreated to the garage, reappearing in the adorable blue car. Exiting stiffly, he patted the pristine white top.

“Cute, huh?”

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Home by Design He didn’t need to sell me, as I was silently singing, “She used to look good to me, but now I find her/Simply irresistible . . .”

As my knees weakened at the sight of her, the seller mentioned he was a Shriner.

“We take an oath; we cannot lie. Truth is, this car is worth a lot more than I’m asking.”

While I didn’t buy that line wholesale, I was still thinking of Palmer’s lyrics: “It’s simply unavoidable/The trend is irreversible.”

“Can you drive a straight?” he asked, interrupting my silent singing. “Wanna drive it?”

I grinned.

He handed me the key.

I slowly circled the drive, singing, “She’s all mine, there’s no other way to go.”

“Hasn’t been out much,” he observed when I rolled back, having never gone faster than a few miles per hour. “Needs the carbon blown out.”

Of course, I thought, the old guy probably hadn’t driven it since 1975.

With that, I shook his hand and we were off to handle the transaction. My husband, looking beyond perplexed, tried again.

“You need to check it out,” he pleaded.

“He’s a SHRINER,” I repeated. “He can’t lie.”

My husband glowered.

The bundle of cash, all hundreds, was exchanged, for the title.

Back at the Shriner’s, I climbed into the car and cranked open the window. (A crank! How deliciously retro!)

“See you in Greensboro!” I shouted gaily, fumbling to find first gear. It had been a while since I’d owned a straight shift.

As I advanced uphill toward the road, the driver’s seat shot backward. It was all I could do to keep control of the car.

My heart pumped. When the car crested and I headed downhill, the seat suddenly shot forward, giving the adrenaline rush of Disney’s ill-fated Rocket Rods. When I pulled over to examine how to lock the bucket seat into place, I discovered it was not anchored — nor could it be.

It slid freely to and fro.

(No big deal, I thought. Missing a screw.)

On the open road, I tried to familiarize myself with the clutch while also trying to keep the seat from rolling back so far on hills that I couldn’t reach the accelerator.

I held onto the door in order to steady my seat, like a captain on the high seas.

But only a few miles down the Interstate, the car spluttered.

My husband had long since left me behind, eager to leave me to my stupid fate.

I slowed and pulled over.

The car gasped and died.

I noted the fuel gauge registered full. Not out of gas, then. Flooded?

I managed to restart it after a while. (“She’s so fine, there’s no tellin’ where the money went,” I thought.)

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Somehow, I leapfrogged back to Greensboro, driving straight to our mechanic.

He was outside the garage chatting to a customer.

He grinned at the shiny blue Beetle, which choked as soon as I downshifted, hurtling me forward. I gasped and caught myself.

“Sure is cute!” he greeted, as I rubbed my wrist, which had banged against the dashboard.

Explaining my conundrum, I handed over the keys — as the mechanic kept repeating how great the car looked.

Reluctantly, I called home to ask for a ride. Palmer’s voice grew louder in my head. “She’s unavoidable, I’m backed against the wall.”

One of my husband’s finest qualities is his ability to repress the words, “I told you so.”

The mechanic phoned later that week with a report. “It’s real unusual, this car,” he prefaced.

The car had died because the fuel tank was all but empty. All the dashboard gauges worked BACKWARD. It was as if a mischievous chimp had restored the car. A Bonzo Beetle? “It’s not safe to drive,” he cautioned.

The Shriner may not have outright lied, but he was quite capable of omissions.

The bitch bucket held more surprises.

The mechanic called again. “I have a buyer if you’re selling.” A customer had seen it on the lift and had to have it.

“But the car isn’t safe!”

The mechanic replied slowly, “But she wants it.”

I spluttered. “It was overpriced to begin with and now there’s an additional garage bill.”

The next night, someone as smitten with the car as I had been phoned.

“Think it over,” I advised. “The car is simply irresistible.”

She thought briefly and called back. “We’ll pay your price and the garage bill. Consider it sold.”

The mechanic called too. “I could have sold that car several times.” The blue Beetle was the automotive equivalent of Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct.

As soon as I had the title back from the DMV, the potential owner was eagerly waiting at the garage. I allowed myself a last look; “‘She’s a craze you’ll endorse, she’s a powerful force,’” I hummed sadly.

A month later, the Beetle was in the Fresh Market parking lot, top down, sporting an adorable vanity plate: WEEKENDS. “Gosh, it’s cute,” I gushed in spite of everything. I had owned the car a few weeks and only driven it 35 miles. Now it became a sport to spot WEEKENDS around town. It presented as an electric flash of color, the top down, the driver’s blonde hair flying.

A few months later, we spied WEEKENDS being loaded onto a tow truck.

“Oh, no!” we both exclaimed passing it, then fell silent.

I struggled to not look back; then, in a low voice, I sang. “‘She’s a natural law, and she leaves me in awe/She deserves the applause, I surrender because/She used to look good to me but now I find her/Simply irresistible.’” OH Cynthia Adams is a Contributing Editor to O.Henry.

O.Henry 31

The Naturalist

The Road Home Well-traveled trails still hold surprises

Story and Photographs by Todd Pusser

Unlike much of the rest of Moore

County, State Road 1137 has changed very little since the days of my youth. Running north to south for just over 4 miles and through two different ZIP codes, the weathered two-lane blacktop is still bordered by open fields and pine forest. Interspersed here and there along its route is the occasional ranch-style house and doublewide trailer, all pretty much looking exactly the way they did in the early 1970s.

About the road’s midway point, in a sharp bend that cuts through a patch of turkey oak and longleaf, is my childhood home. It is a modest, single story, red brick house, with tall white columns extending up from the front porch, and a grey tin roof surrounded by a large well-manicured yard of centipede grass and

32 O.Henry

acres of forest. The property sits atop a gently sloping hill in the far western edge of the Carolina Sandhills, near where the sandy, xeric soils of the Coastal Plain meet the densely packed clay-based soils of the Piedmont.

The skies here are wide open and free of light pollution. At night, the stars shine thick and bright and the Milky Way feels so close you can almost reach out and touch it. By day, the sky is the most brilliant shade of blue. On summer afternoons, deep purple clouds mushroom up from the east, and the sound of thunder echoes through the pines. During mid-winter, on those rare days when snow falls from somber grey clouds, one can actually hear the flakes hitting the ground.

The road itself is not much to look at and is easily taken for granted. It is not an especially scenic drive and looks pretty much like any other rural strip of asphalt throughout the Sandhills. The fields and forests that line its border do not reveal their secrets easily. But rest assured, there are wonders here.

Drive its route often enough and pay attention, as I have for nearly 47 years, and you will learn its rhythms. On most winter evenings, as the sun dips over the horizon, herds of white-tailed deer feed in the The Art & Soul of Greensboro

The Naturalist open fields that border the north end of the road near its junction with Hwy. 211. By day, brightly colored kestrels, North America’s smallest falcons, perch on the power line that cuts through those same fields.

Early mornings in spring will find shiny black fox squirrels, the size of housecats, standing upright on the road’s shoulder near grandmother’s house with pine cones clasped tightly between their front paws. Blue flowers from Sandhills lupine brighten the roadside. Drive slowly on moonlit nights in May, with the windows rolled down, and you will be serenaded by the frenetic calls of whip-poor-wills. Come summer, abundant blackberries provide tasty treats for those who know how to spot their thorny shrubs growing beneath the power line cut. Heat lightning dances across the sky on most humid evenings, and fireflies blink on and off beneath the pines. The turkey oak leaves turn a deep burnt umber color in late October signaling the onset of fall. Eyeshine from grey foxes slinking across the road in front of the car late in the night is a common sight this time of year.

Yet, for all its familiarity, the road can still surprise. Just this past January, on an evening when torrential rains had supersaturated the ground for much of the day, the car headlights revealed a miniature marvel not far from the driveway to the house. Hopping out into the steady drizzle with flashlight in hand, I approached to find a 6-inch-long spotted salamander, so named for the brilliant dayglow yellow spots decorating its body, slowly walking across the road. Over all the years and thousands of times driving the road, I have never before observed this beautiful amphibian here.

Spotted salamanders need ephemeral ponds (temporary bodies of water that dry up for part of the year) to breed and lay their eggs.

After a few weeks, the eggs hatch into a larval form complete with long tails and a bouquet of gills. When the ponds dry up in the spring, the larvae transform, like frog tadpoles, into terrestrial adults. The adults leave their pond and migrate far away, sometimes up to 1 mile, and then bury themselves underground, where they will remain for a year until the next breeding season’s rains

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

begin and they start the cycle all over again. Considering the fact that spotted salamanders can live 30 years, I may well encounter the adult found near the edge of the yard once again.

My whole childhood was oriented toward animals and the outdoors. The natural curiosity was innate. And, like many kids in rural towns, I longed to get away. Eagle Springs just seemed too small. Magazines, such as Ranger Rick and National Geographic, as well as television shows like The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau, fueled my daydreams of exploring far-off lands in search of exotic beasts. I wanted to swim with the sharks and catch snakes in tropical jungles.

Fortunately, I have been able to live out most of those daydreams. My work has taken me around the world. I have dived with great white sharks off Mexico and caught snakes in the rainforests of Panama. After two decades of travel, I have developed a deeper appreciation for the natural world and all its wonders, from the exotic to the familiar.

Though I live far from the Sandhills today, I try to get back as often as I can. The last time I turned down the road home, it was just after sunset in late May and the sky was filled to the brim with stars. As I so often do here, I turned off the radio and rolled down the windows. About a half-mile or so from its junction with Hwy. 211, the bright beams of my headlights illuminated a herd of two dozen deer standing in the middle of the field, their eyes glowing a greenish yellow. Many lifted their heads with mouths full of grass calmly staring at the approaching vehicle. Another half-mile down the road and a grey fox dashed across the highway. Eagle Springs seemed anything but small.

Rounding the bend to the old brick house, a whip-poor-will called. OH Naturalist and photographer Todd Pusser will be a regular contributor to PineStraw. He works to document the extraordinary diversity of life both near and far. His images can be found at www.ToddPusser.com.

O.Henry 33

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34 O.Henry

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Birdwatch

Chip on Your Shoulder Listen for the machine-gun call of the feisty chipping sparrow

By Susan Campbell

Here in North Carolina,

we’re lucky to have so many species of sparrows.

As a group, sparrows can be a challenge to sort out.

But one, the chipping sparrow, stands out. Even though Chippings are the smallest in the group, do not let their stature fool you! They are tiny — but feisty. And they may be found just about anywhere at any time of the year.

Only slightly larger than a chickadee, chipping sparrows have a chestnut cap and a black eye line, set off against a pale face and white eyebrow. The pale gray breast is unmarked and the back is a mix of browns and blacks typical of most sparrows. Young of the year have a brown, streaky head and pale streaks on the chest and flanks. In winter, all “chippies” will have, more or less, this same muted plumage.

This bird gets its name from its frequent “chip” calls. The bird’s song, however, is a long, staccato trill that is said to have a machine gun–like quality. Males will sing throughout the day, even on the hottest afternoons. They are territorial little birds and so are constantly on the lookout for interlopers. Trespassing is not taken lightly with shoving matches typically followed by a dogfight that gives the unwanted guest a clear message.

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Chipping sparrows are found almost statewide and they tend to favor pine forests. However chippies are not fussy when it comes to neither the type of pine nor the abundance of trees. They do require clusters of needles toward the ends of branches as nesting substrate.

Come nesting season, a loose cup of stems and fine grasses will be constructed. They almost always incorporate some type of hair in the nest: In the Sandhills, this is often horsehair. But it is a flimsy affair and will barely last the few weeks it takes to raise a brood of three to five young. Energy is directed toward producing multiple sets of young quickly in this species. The approach surely is successful given how well the population is doing in our area.

Chipping sparrows are drawn to feeders if small seeds such as millet or chipped sunflower seed are available. Otherwise they can be found foraging at ground level for tiny grass and weed seeds. Like most of our breeding birds, adults also seek protein-rich insects in summer to feed their voracious youngsters.

So keep an eye and an ear out for these little birds. They are not shy — in summer they can be downright approachable when distracted by family rearing activities. And come winter, chippies will form large flocks. A congregation of 75 to a hundred individuals is not unusual.

They may be joined by migrant birds from further north, increasing the local population to astronomical proportions. OH Susan would love to hear from you. Feel free to send questions or wildlife observations to susan@ncaves.com O.Henry 35

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Wandering Billy

Old School

This year’s fall semester will be a far cry from what it used to be

SCHOoL BUS

SCHOoL BUS

By Billy Eye “What we need now is some new, fresh clichés.” — Samuel Goldwyn

When I was young, August

signaled the beginning of the end of summer, with school rapidly approaching, one chapter closing while another opened. That started me thinking of going-back-to-school rituals — a trip to Blumenthal’s (aka “the Store with a Heart”) for new jeans and Converse Chucks, Straughan’s bookstore downtown for notebooks and pens — and how young people today are liable to experience something drastically different from what any of us ever expected on the first day of school.

I thought it might be nice to reminisce with a couple of former schoolmates, like me Page High class of ’74 grads, about what school life was like in decades past before preapproved standardized lesson plans and teaching for mandatory testing.

Adelaide Fortune and I attended school together from first grade at Irving Park through middle school at Mendenhall, and on to graduating from Page. Today she owns a, whoops, corner-copia of classy kitsch on Spring Garden, Adelaide’s Vintage Home & Garden.

“My store tends to be more cottage-style furniture,” Adelaide tells me. “We specialize in painted pieces, mid-century and small goods that I recycle and repurpose.” While she sells one-of-a-kind furnishings for vacation homes and the like, “Mostly I sell to couples who are starting off their homes, accumulating dressers, dining room tables and chairs, they’re one of my biggest customers. A lot of our furniture is 1920s, 1930s,” Adelaide notes. “Furniture in need of an uplift that I paint. So I don’t always look for something that’s in pristine shape. I think by painting furniture, you give it a more contemporary feel.”

It’s one of the demands of her market, driven by yet more generational differences between our generation and those that came after.

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

SCHOoL

I remarked that the trend for young people today seems to be Rooms To Go, where customers can select an entire suite of furnishings at once. “Also, a lot of people have their passed-down parents’ furniture and they’re not really liking it,” Adelaide says. “It’s brown, boring, but when they see it painted they’re like, ‘Oh, maybe I should paint more of these pieces.’ Because it’s a whole new look.”

Her business acumen is an indication of Adelaide’s academic record. Besides being one of our brighter students, she was a member of the Homecoming Court at Page. “In high school there’s such a social structure,” she observes. “We had service clubs, you went to football games, homecoming, pep rallies, art classes, band practice . . . it’s such a shame if kids are not able to have that. At least there’s social media now so they can Skype and FaceTime one other.”

They’re also missing out on the community of teachers and administrators who keep the show running, and the group participation we enjoyed at Page, “We liked our principal, Mr. [Robert] Clendenin, very much. You could just casually walk into his office and talk with him,” Adelaide recalls. “Mrs. [Luvenia] Chavis, my chemistry teacher, I loved her. Mrs. Newman was an English teacher. She would dress up in some costume depending on what we were studying; we would stand up in class and recite The Canterbury Tales and Shakespeare. She was, by far, one of my favorite teachers. Those are the two that really stand out to me, they were so creative in the way they taught.”

Another aspect of student life for many of us was an after-school job. “My parents said, ‘If you want money to put in your car you gotta go get a job,’” Adelaide says, word for word what my father told me.

“So I worked at Mayberry one summer. We had to wear those ridiculous outfits, those pink and white striped dresses, then all your friends would show up and you had to face them. I also worked at Roy Rogers where we had to wear those little cowboy hats and greet customers with, ‘Howdy partner, can I take your order?’ Even when friends from school showed up, they expected you to say that.”

Senior year she worked at Brown-Gardiner. “Everyone bought everything on credit,” Adelaide says. “They’d say, ‘Charge this on my account’ and you’d fill out a form for them.” Instant credit checks weren’t possible back then, “How many drugstores do that anymore?”

Hard to believe but as long as you were at least 16 years old, male or O.Henry 37

Wandering Billy

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38 O.Henry

female, and you possessed a driver’s license, then passed written and driving tests, you were qualified to drive a school bus. All city school buses were piloted by students. Paid good money as I recall.

Page, Mendenhall and Claxton Elementary drivers were all “Road Runners,” a Junior Woodchucks version of Hells Angels, more Quisp than Crip. They wore jean jackets with the words “Puro Carajo” (Pure Fornicators in polite conversation) stitched around the shoulders in Old English font (all caps naturally, so as to be nearly unreadable), with similarly stitched “Road Runners” below, circling a crude rendition of the elusive bird harnessing a lightning bolt.

Road Runners were always out in force protecting the pirate ship from Whirlies sabotage on the week before the Page-Grimsley football games, often in vain.

Another Page alumna, Trisha Costello, owns Carriage House in the Golden Gate Shopping Center. “We are a home décor and accessories store,” Trisha says. “I’ve been in furniture sales for 20 years now after I met Wally Freemon who said, ‘I’m opening a store, do you want to run it for me?’ and I said, ‘OK’ and then ended up taking over the business.”

Carriage House specializes in unique items for beach houses, mountain homes, a little bit of everything for everybody’s domicile. “We love antiques and look for quality, scouring estate sales and stores all over the country. Chinoiserie items are always a big seller, it’s a Chinese look, very popular. Also English, Italian and some American pieces.”

Looking back on school days, “I was a Catholic girl so I went to St. Pius instead of Irving Park but I attended Mendenhall and Page,” Trisha says. “At Page there was an English teacher, African-American, Tony Bryant, I had him for homeroom, he was the greatest. I loved Mrs. [Margaret] Garrett, she taught English lit. And Mrs. Newman, she taught literature and creative writing, little short lady. She might have been my biggest influence. She taught me to think for myself.”

Not at all odd that Adelaide, Trisha and I were all profoundly affected by Mrs. [Jean Davis] Newman’s tutorage. She inspired me to pursue the goal of becoming a writer.

Before coming to Page in 1971, she was The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Wandering Billy frequently voted Teacher of the Year at Grimsley. One wonders how many hundreds, thousands, of others she inspired over her 30-plus-year career.

Just before our get-together, Trisha and I received the devastating news that Billy Owens, my cousin and her lifelong friend, had died of a heart attack. Just 65 years old and beginning his retirement after 45 years working at Ensco Supply, Billy received his first Social Security check days before passing.

“I met Billy when I was about 10 years old, out at Sherwood,” Trisha recalls. “He and my brother Kevin were good friends so he was at our house a lot. We always consider him to be our fifth brother.” Billy, known by the nickname ‘Brother’ in our family, “Always looked dapper,” Trisha says.

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A perpetually upbeat guy with an underlying sarcastic wit, I can’t remember any occasion when Billy Owens wasn’t smiling.

One friend of his noted that the only time he ever saw Billy lose his cool was in defense of the Tar Heels’ basketball team. Upon hearing the news of his death I was, for once, glad my mother wasn’t alive. It would have been too devastating.

For the rest of us, at future gatherings, reunions and over holidays, comes the painful reminder that there’s one less Brother in all of our lives. OH Billy Eye wonders if you would allow a random 16-year-old to drive your first grader to school.

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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O.Henry 39

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The Art & Soul of Greensboro

August 2020 Ritual Revived She grows impatient waiting for gallons of water to boil in the massive vessel.

Finally, back burner’s roiling ocean receives a steel rack of jars packed with marmalade — zesty orange, piquant cranberry.

Ten minutes in water boiling inches above metal lids. A rest, and she lifts each glass carefully — straight up from scalding bath.

A day to cool; labels affixed, and the ’lades are now gifts: holiday, birthday, any day . . .

Sweet memories led to this labor: her parents on hot August nights, peeling, slicing crops green, yellow, red, filling Mason jars, hovering over the steaming kettle, putting up peaches, beans, tomatoes, from their small Victory garden, enough to feed their children, for yet another wartime winter.

— Barbara Baillet Moran

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

O.Henry 41

Great Beginnings Hooked on summer reading

Let’s be honest, who among us sails on through the master class on whale anatomy if Herman Melville doesn’t write “Call me Ishmael” right out of the blocks in Moby Dick? At the top of every writer’s job description is the ability to kidnap the reader’s imagination and keep it, at least for a while. Since everything in the Year of the Pandemic is cloaked in a bit of the unknown, our Summer Reading Issue of 2020 is all about capturing imaginations. Who better to learn from than seven of the best writers North Carolina has to offer? And who better to help them then seven terrific artists and photographers? Some of these great beginnings were written specifically for this issue, some are the first few words of books appearing in stores near you soon, and others were just kind of kicking around on laptops. Each one is designed to grab your attention and hold it. Feel free to fill in the rest of the story yourself. — Jim Moriarty

42 O.Henry

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Why I Love Pool Halls

By Bland Simpson

From the open upstairs windows of a plain two-story commercial building overlooking a bricked side street, Colonial Avenue in Elizabeth City, as a boy I used to hear the pouring out of loud jolly talk and laughter but most of all the hard clicks of cue balls breaking the racks, and spoken and sometimes shouted encouragements and disappointments, and the lighter clicks of wooden scoring beads, as men I could not see slid them along strung wires above the green felt-covered slate pool tables in that magic room above. A small sign hung by the streetside door, stating simply: City Billiards, Home of Luther “Wimpy” Lassiter, World Champion, 9-Ball.

In the nearby corner movie theater, the Center, my friends and I often sat, enthralled and forgetting we were only a hundred yards from a swamp river on its way from the Great Dismal Swamp to the sound and the sea, believing instead that we were riding along on horseback as we wove with the cowboys through some saguaro range or that we were stomping or swinging along with Tarzan of the Jungle through mamba-snake-ridden equatorial brakes. We even saw Zsa Zsa Gabor there, in Forbidden Planet, and knew this short interlude of imaginary space travel had brought us to our worshipful knees before the most beautiful and powerful woman in the Universe.

Yet when we emerged from these diversions, our riverport reality fell heavily upon us, and the sounds of smack and click kept spilling out from the pool hall on high, and we somehow knew that was where the real men, not boys, went to have their adventures, though all we could do, our ages still in single digits, was to stand on the sidewalk below and listen hard and try and make out what the hoots and hollers and howls, and the cussing, were all about, and what they all really meant.

Bland Simpson is the Kenan Distinguished Professor of English and Creative Writing at the University of North CarolinaChapel Hill, the author of nine books, and a longtime pianist and composer/lyricist for the Tony Award–winning North Carolina string band The Red Clay Ramblers. In 2005 he received the North Carolina Award for Fine Arts.

Photograph by Mark Wagoner The Art & Soul of Greensboro

O.Henry 43

The Pressing Spirit

By David Payne

And Jacob was left alone; and there wrestled a man with him until the breaking of the day. — Genesis, 32:24 One minute I’m asleep, the next it’s as if the roof’s collapsed and pinned me under tons of rubble. Except it’s not the roof. The weight isn’t external; it’s inside me somehow. I’m paralyzed and pinioned. The greatest effort I can muster sets one eyelid aflutter, lets me crook — just barely — the digit of my index finger. And it isn’t dead, this weight, it’s living. There’s something with me in the bed, and not just with me, on me, and not just on me, in me.

I fight and strain, and suddenly like someone with his shoulder to a door when the door flies open, I’m bolt upright in bed. What happened? What the fuck just happened? Sweat pours off me. Silver in the silver moonlight through the shutter, steam rises from my shoulders in 40-degree air of the unheated bedroom. Boom! says the surf outside my window. Boom! and Boom! again like the percussion section of an orchestra. And I’m alone here, alone in this unheated, flimsy summer house that thrums and trembles like a spaceship on the launch pad as the January gale blows off the ocean. The roof’s intact, there’s no intruder. The bedroom door I closed when I retired is still latched the way I latched it, from the inside. Yet for a moment, several, staring at that door, I have the sense that it, It, whatever pinned me, is still here, just beyond, listening as I listen, breathing as I breathe, aware of me, as I’m aware of It. Who’s there? I call.

No answer.

David Payne is the author of five novels and the 2015 memoir Barefoot to Avalon: A Brother’s Story, which The New York Times called “a brave book with beautiful sentences on every page.” A founding member of the Queens University of Charlotte Master of Fine Arts program, Payne also taught at Bennington College, Duke University and Hollins University. He recently completed a screenplay of Barefoot to Avalon for the Oscar-nominated director Giulio Ricciarelli.

44 O.Henry

Photograph by Laura Gingerich The Art & Soul of Greensboro

The Last Wedding

By Frances Mayes

The wine spilled. As I reached across the table, my sleeve grazed Austin’s glass. The big Brunello globe fell over in a quick crash. Dark, that carmine red spreading on the embroidered linen tablecloth. Austin stood up so fast his chair tipped backward. He found two napkins on the sideboard and helped spread them over the stain. Instinctively, I glanced at Annesley as her mouth fell open. She knew I’d spent the afternoon lavishing my attention over every place card and dessert spoon. I moved the flowers and water carafe over the napkins. “Doesn’t matter, Kate, good as new,” Austin said. He has unusual eyes. Hazel, I guess, but it’s the way he looks at you rather than their color, as if he’s surprised to see you.

But glad. I had the odd thought that he might say I see you. Do you see me? I rinsed his glass in the kitchen and refilled. All solved, except not.

Frances Mayes is the celebrated author of the No. 1 New York Times bestseller Under the Tuscan Sun: At Home in Italy. A poet, essayist, author and professor, her recent works include Always Italy from National Geographic Books and See You in the Piazza: New Places to Discover in Italy. Her excerpt is the opening of a new book, The Last Wedding.

Illustration by Laurel Holden The Art & Soul of Greensboro

O.Henry 45

Being the Record of Hannah King, born April 14, 1681, Salem Village

By Lee Zacharias

I was a girl, you understand.

I had a girl’s sins.

I wanted to know whom I would marry. We all did. Would our husbands be rich, would they have land? What would be their trade?

Though Reverend Parris preached against magic as a trick of Satan, we knew ways to tell the future. And if we were predestined, what could be the harm?

I was 11 that year, two years older than the Reverend’s daughter Betty, the same age as her cousin Abigail, who lived with them.

Abigail was an orphan. Many of the girls who would be afflicted were living as maidservants with relatives or others who might take them in, Mary Warren with the Proctors, Elizabeth Hubbard with Dr. Griggs, Mercy Lewis with the Thomas Putnams and their daughter Ann. Only Mercy knew who her parents were. They had been killed by Indians at Casco Bay, and for a brief time she stayed with the Reverend George Burroughs, who survived. How she came to Salem and the Putnams no one knew, but we could guess. Reverend Burroughs had once been pastor of the Salem Village Church, but he had left for Casco Bay in dispute over his salary, forced to borrow money from Thomas Putnam, who was known to hold a grudge.

Mercy was older, as were Mary and Elizabeth, 17 or 18, old enough to marry, but orphaned girls had no dowries, and the question of the future was of much urgency to them, for if they failed to marry or displeased their masters, they would have nowhere to go.

The salary for Reverend Parris was also in dispute. The church in Salem Town accepted the Half-Way Covenant, but in the Village, Reverend Parris feared the Devil was among us and refused to baptize any child whose parents had not testified to how God had shown Himself to them. Only the converted could be members of the church.

It was brutal cold that winter, with much snow, but the villagers refused to supply the Meeting House or Parsonage with firewood, and they argued with church members whether their tax revenues should be used to pay his wages. Betty was a sensitive girl, and though she was but 9, perhaps she too feared for her future.

I was drawn by curiosity alone, for I lived with my parents, brothers, and one sister. Surely my dowry was secure. And though I was marked, for underneath my shift there was a small brown mole near my hip, not so different from the marks of Satan that the Court

46 O.Henry

of Oyer and Terminer would soon look for on the accused, that small spot was my secret, and I kept my secrets well, just as I kept Betty’s.

It was Abigail persuaded her. First they tried the scissors and the sieve, but when Goody Parris opened her basket, she did not find her scissors as they were, and she blamed their servant Tituba, the strange, dark-skinned woman Reverend had purchased in Barbados when he was a sugar merchant there. Nor were the girls discovered after they tried the Bible and a key, but neither sieve nor Bible yielded answers, and so they turned to the Venus glass. It is known that the shape an egg white takes when it is dropped into a glass of water will reveal your future husband’s trade. A plough foretells a farmer, a ship a man who sails the seas. Instead, Abigail saw a coffin, which caused her to faint dead away. In her fright, Betty became forgetful of her chores, her mind apt to wander during prayer, and when Reverend rebuked her, she fell into fits. They say she barked like a dog, crawled about the floor, and writhed most hideously.

Abigail too took fits, but Reverend’s prayers failed to cure them, and he summoned Dr. Griggs, who could find no disease and concluded that they had been bewitched. When Reverend forced them to reveal who had possessed them, they named Tituba, the beggar woman Sarah Good, and the outcast Sarah Osborne, who was feuding with the Putnams over an inheritance.

Tituba was examined first, and she confirmed the spectres of both Sarahs. Despite the faults in her English, the confession she delivered to the court held such power that many of those present trembled as if stricken or fell to the floor. She did not will to hurt the children, she insisted. A tall, white-haired man in a black coat had forced her to torment them lest she die. She had looked upon the Devil, who took many shapes, a big black dog, a hog, black and yellow rats, a yellow bird. Again she said that she had seen the spectres of Sarah Good and Sarah Osborne, and over the next weeks the afflicted girls, especially Thomas Putnam’s daughter Ann, would name many more. Once a month all that summer we gathered upon Gallows Hill to watch the witches hang, including Reverend Burroughs, whom Mercy had accused. When he recited the Lord’s Prayer upon the gallows, some protested he must be innocent, but he was not spared. All of the hanged pled innocence, though Giles Corey refused to plead and was pressed to death instead, which is more grievous to endure.

But I have not yet told my part. I was a strong girl. I did not swoon or fall into fits. Neither accuser nor accused, I kept my secrets, that hidden mark, and this: for I too had gazed into the Venus cup, where I saw not ship, not plough, nor coffin. What I saw was a book. But I could not tell from the shape of it whether it was a Bible or that other book where the Devil made his minions sign their names in blood.

I knew not whether I would marry a man of the cloth or pledge my troth to Satan.

Lee Zacharias is the author of three novels, a collection of short stories and a collection of essays. Her most recent novel, Across the Great Lake, was named a 2019 Notable Michigan Book, took a silver medal in literary fiction from the Independent Publishers Awards, and won both the 2019 North Carolina Sir Walter Raleigh Award and the 2020 Phillip H. McMath Book Award. Her fourth novel, What a Wonderful World This Could Be, will be released in June 2021 by Madville Publishing.

Photograph by Andrew Sherman The Art & Soul of Greensboro

What the Cat Knew

By Ruth Moose

Under her feet the black cat lay curled. Occasionally he twitched his tail and half opened one eye, let the green of it shine meanly. The cat knew the girl in the chair was asleep; her breathing was slow and even. Sometimes she jerked her legs or let out a small, soft snore.

The cat knew the noise he had heard was not a normal one for this house. It was not a clock tick, nor chime, not the rackety dump of the icemaker, nor hum of the furnace.

The cat knew the footsteps that followed that small squeak when the front door opened did not belong to anyone he’d ever heard before.

The cat raised his ears.

The footsteps stopped, but there was the dull thud and a metal click of something heavy dropped in the hall.

A recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship, three Pushcart nominations and the Sam Ragan Fine Arts Award, Ruth Moose taught creative writing at the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill for 15 years, tacking on 10 more at Chatham County Community College. Her fifth collection of short stories, Going to Graceland, was published by St. Andrews Press in 2020. She is the author of six collections of poetry and two novels, Doing It at the Dixie Dew and Wedding Bell Blues.

Illustration by Emery Tiptoe

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

O.Henry 47

Rosalie Goodbody

By Celia Rivenbark

Rosalie Goodbody had been thinking lately when she woke up and felt every awful second of her 83 years that her last name was God’s ironic joke. But then she remembered, as she brushed her own teeth, stooped over the idiotic glass sink her son in Colorado had decided she needed on one of his rare visits home . . . God didn’t give her the name “Goodbody.”

No, that honor belonged to her dead husband, Raymond, whose own body had been slowly twisted and tortured with a combo platter of arthritis and being “bad to drink.” Dead at 66. Goodbody indeed.

So here she stood in her pink Walmart mules and a bright aqua housecoat she’d paid too much for just so she could talk to the nice lady at QVC, Rona something, spitting toothpaste with a pink tint of blood in it into this stupid sink. Damn this sink and damn Carl, who had flown in for just a couple of days.

Rosalie had thought they’d talk, at last, about Cliff. What were we all going to do about Cliff? But Carl had had other ideas, ideas involving ridiculous glass sinks from Lowe’s that sit on top of the vanity instead of down in it like God intended.

God. There was that name again. Rosalie realized that she was thinking a lot more about Him these days and whenever she did, she thought of Him in capital letters because to do otherwise might risk some kind of backlash. God. Him. Where was He, anyway? Didn’t He see how tired she was?

It was almost time to wake up Cliff, a chore she dreaded every single morning. She lingered for a moment, thinking that if she flossed, she could put it off for a few more minutes. But she’d seen the blood in the sink, so it was probably better not to stir up anything else.

Cliff was her big, retarded grown-up son. There was no nice way to put it so, for more years than she liked to think, if Rosalie saw someone eyeing them oddly in the Piggly Wiggly or wherever, she would just smile big and false and say, “Yes, that’s right. He’s my big grown-up retarded son and I love him!”

Cliff would just grin, of course, when Rosalie made this pronouncement to a total stranger whose only sin had been to stare a half second too long. Cliff was much more interested in the way a shipment of beach balls was contained in this elasticized box on the end of the canned meats aisle. Looking around first, Cliff pulled on the elastic, pinching it good, making all the balls jump a little inside their rubber corral. He did it a few more times until Rosalie reminded him that they still had a few more things on their list and didn’t he want her to get those nice Duncan Hines frozen brownies?

Good Christ, Rosalie thought to herself while running the same wide-toothed Goody comb she had used for more than two decades, through her sturdy gray hair. Good Christ but those brownies were

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her salvation some nights.

If Rosalie was being honest, and she really was most of the time except when she was talking to the cable company and said she only had one month to live and didn’t want to spend it watching a snowy picture of The Young and the Restless (you shoulda seen ’em move; everyone should try it), she loved Cliff more than Carl.

Celia Rivenbark is a New York Times bestselling author of seven humor collections, including You Don’t Sweat Much for a Fat Girl and We’re Just Like You, Only Prettier. Rivenbark writes a weekly political humor column syndicated

by Tribune Media Services and is an award-winning playwright. Her next play, High Voter Turnout, will be staged in Wilmington in the fall of 2020, pandemic permitting.

Illustration by Harry Blair The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Die Trying

By Michael Parker

Carthage, Texas, 1973 At home, his family treated him like a second cousin much removed. “Oh, look, Earl,” they’d say after he’d been sitting quietly in a room for a half hour. He knew he was creek mud to them, too. And so he refused celery filled with peanut butter and dotted with raisins, because, seriously? Ants on a log?

Into the smoke from neighbors burning their trash in rusty barrels slipped Earl, on the lookout for someone to whom he might define himself. But he always ended up in the woods, listening to the transistor radio his father had given him, or reading aloud from the biography of Leadbelly he carried with him always.

His people were proud Louisianans transplanted across the border to Carthage, Texas. His father was vaguely around. His mother talked all the time to her sisters in Bossier City, installing a 20-foot cord on the telephone so she could sit outside on the front stoop and smoke and ask her sisters about the fates of various men she might have married instead.

Prison, preacherman, gay, career military, meth-head, Port Arthur were the answers Earl imagined coming across the line. “Shoo now, Earl,” said his mother when she caught him snooping.

His father, when he worked, laid pipe. He claimed to be Acadian but his mother said he was out of Lawton, Oklahoma. Wherever he was from, his brothers and cousins soon arrived in Carthage and a compound of trailers and vehicles sanded down to primer or missing bumpers or outright wrecked beyond repair sprung up in the piney woods on the outskirts of town. Earl’s father once took him on a walk through the woods to a pond, where he taught him the words to “I’m so Lonesome I Could Cry.” Even when he disappeared for weeks, Earl had his transistor radio, on which his father claimed to have listened to stations out of Fort Wayne, Indiana, and Matamoras, Mexico, when he was a boy in his bed at night. Is there anything in the world more romantic than listening to radio stations from other countries illicitly after lights out?

Michael Parker was born in Siler City, North Carolina, and grew up in Clinton. He is the author of 10 books of fiction and taught in the Creative Writing Program at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro for 27 years. He currently lives in Austin, Texas. His excerpt is the beginning of his new book, Die Trying.

Photograph by John Gessner The Art & Soul of Greensboro

O.Henry 49

A Passage to India and Beyond Todd Nabors’ global décor

By Cynthia Adams • Photographs by Amy Freeman

O

range!

Whether in a slushie, sherbet or sunset, it’s the hue of summer. And Triad designer Todd Nabors loves all things orange. In the mix of favorite colors, orange plays a subtle, supportive role inside his new home.

In moving to a Greensboro townhouse this year, Nabors made important gains: 600 square feet of interior space, a brand new canvas to decorate and proximity to a lushly green park.

After leaving behind a quaint 1920s house in High Point’s Emerywood, he has had a fresh opportunity to reimagine his interiors, colors and appointments.

Wearing an orange Lacoste polo shirt, Nabors walks into the living room and launches into explaining how his new home took shape.

Taking “pride of place” is a framed Asian wallpaper panel he’s owned for 25 years. “It was the first thing that I knew exactly where it would go,” he says. He also knew the old favorite would set the tone for all things to follow.

The French hand-blocked panel contains all his favorites: orange, its more subtle cousin, salmon, and ice blue, a favored accent. These are now encapsulated throughout.

“It’s the color scheme for the house,” says Nabors.

It’s hard not to quip like a school child, “orange you glad I noticed?”

No, he didn’t paint his new pad Hermès orange, but happily used it to punch up the interior.

The décor’s accents are often art and textiles from Asia, India and the Mediterranean. He has redeployed European pieces, but more than ever favors global influences from the Far and Middle East.

A trip to Japan last summer intensified Nabors’ admiration of Eastern interiors and gardens, and their spare design sense. He found the Japanese aesthetic “was disciplined and beautiful.”

“When I was in Japan, I visited Tokyo, Kyoto, Hakone, Naoshima art island and numerous small towns over a three-week period. I loved it all!”

Again, something he admired wound up consciously incorporated into his new home. Nabors collects Japanese Imari, the popular, brightly colored export porcelain. Imari’s trademark colors — rust, coral, various shades of blue and turquoise — became another unifying

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

design thread. The color scheme lightened or intensified depending upon the room.

“It’s the one connect between my prior house and now,” he says.

“Especially in the keeping room, but not in the living room. The living room is much more Palm Beach in flavor.”

Nabors has, however, furnished his home with many more Chinese pieces of art and accessories than Japanese.

As for the prized panel in the living room, it is one of six installed by designer Otto Zenke in the Greensboro Country Club’s ballroom during a refurbishment in the 1960s.

The panel is likely an iconic Zuber paper, a favorite design element used by Zenke who had previously installed panels of the French wallpaper in Chapel Hill’s iconic Carolina Inn in the late 1940s.

It would inform the overall design for Nabors, who buys and sells antique furnishings, but would never part with this particular favorite.

The panel has traveled with him to each of his homes.

Here in a larger space, Nabors was free to use much more art. His love affair with art goes back to his youth when he studied art; visuals still exert a powerful influence. “I’m a visual learner,” he explains.

Throughout the house, he has used art to dramatic effect. Among his unusual collections are antique watercolors called “pith” paintings.

Small, often botanical or bird illustrations, they are named for the plant-based paper they were painted upon.

“They are on paper that looks like rice paper, but is a unique style,” Nabors explains. Pith paintings grew popular in the early 19th century, as easily transportable, colorful souvenirs.

The pieces are “a way to get that exotic look without a commitment to hand-painted wallpaper,” he adds.

To unify the whole is Benjamin Moore’s “Cumulus Cloud,” a paint chosen during a remodel a few years ago. Nabors liked the smoky neutrality of the color and kept it. It was the perfect contrast for other decorative elements, blanc de chine (white porcelain) objects d’art and alabaster lamps. A single wall and trim color now extend throughout most of the downstairs, a visual trick that adds height.

Although he recreated certain elements from his former home, it’s quite different. As friend Sharon James says, “It’s lighter and more open.”

A mirror brightening a corner of the living room is one which he O.Henry 51

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The Art & Soul of Greensboro

insists he has used for years — but it’s transformed in its new home.

“Same flavor, different house,” Nabors smiles.

The original townhouse floor plan was deliberately made more open when remodeled on the first level apart from the master bath.

The prior owner expanded doorways between the living room, dining room and kitchen. The kitchen was also opened and upgraded in a more modern and dark-hued style of cabinetry, flooring and surfaces than his previous all-white kitchen.

While the kitchen was more modern than Nabors might have chosen, he has warmed up to it.

In fact, it won praise from friends. The room was beautifully done, he concedes, and Nabors came to concede that it’s not only livable but pleasant.

After a period of painting and refurbishment, he spent weeks trying to curate his new home. Although he was not able to choose the floor tile that had been installed throughout, nor the kitchen refurbishment, he pronounces it tasteful and fresh.

The kitchen opens onto what Nabors calls his “keeping room,” or den, which has a generously sized fireplace and raised hearth. Here is where Nabors spends downtime — he explains much of the time in quarantine earlier this year was spent in that room. Quarantine time also allowed him to feather his nest.

That sanctuary was made deliberately cozy. Nabors tossed an Indian quilt on the back of the neutral sofa and “the big turquoise pillow in the center is Turkish.”

The layered, collected look is one especially favored by British designers. It also spoke to comfort.

Over the tiled flooring he laid a colorful rug for warmth, another The Art & Soul of Greensboro

possession which he says he’s “had since my 20s.”

There are “new” acquisitions scattered about. An English pine chest from a Greensboro antiques importer was originally chosen for his parents, who passed it to him. A William and Mary—style sofa, one generously sized and neutrally upholstered, is also a piece from his parents. Made by Southwood and upholstered in a custom fabric, it is one of a matched pair. He inherited the larger of the two thanks to his parents downsizing move.

In the keeping room is yet another long-loved piece in front of the bar, a reproduction French cherry game table where Nabors frequently has meals.

He has become adroit at “using favorite pieces in new ways.”

“Reinventing and renovating are good for the times,” Nabors observes. “Everybody’s got a budget, rationalizing the money they’re spending. A good designer can show how to refresh what you have.”

Nabors’s favorite designers are masters of reinvention.

“Mark Sikes, a designer whose work I appreciate, has photographed his wonderful Mediterranean house, redecorated with the same elements in at least three different looks,” he says. “I find that inspiring for those of us who want (or need) to work with the design elements we have.”

Nabors’ reuse and repurposing of favorite finds is something he hones. He was well ahead of the trend.

Only a few new things — although still vintage — have appeared here. A handsome pair of demi lune tables from Carriage House Antiques flank a Dutch table now positioned in the bay window, a place where he likes to serve hors d’oeuvres or drinks in the living room.

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Nabors’ talents are surprisingly complementary: He is as pragmatic as he is creative. He currently works for the furniture industry. Prior to that, he was a banker working as a freelance stylist and designer in his free time. Banking made him particularly strong at conserving design clients’ money — he says he understands budgets and appreciates practicalities.

After his banking days, he was hired by Thayer Coggin, a renowned legacy company in High Point that manufactures midcentury modern furniture. During the company’s annual midyear shutdown, Nabors normally satisfies his travel itch. Travel is something that refreshes his creative eye and spirit.

This year, of course, all plans were off. Rather than traveling, Nabors was ensconced in his new home.

“Unfortunately, a summer trip to India had to be cancelled due to Covid-19,” he explains. So, India has been much on his mind, Nabors says. He instead “brought India home.”

He placed an Indian screen, painted white, between the kitchen and dining room. “I decided to move it down for the summer,” he says.

Again, it’s a keepsake: “I’ve owned that piece since my 20s. It was black when I found it.”

Indian influences are now more prevalent than anything else in the new décor, Nabors says, most especially when he sets a table.

He points out that on the dining room a teal-colored Indian sari serves as the tablecloth. A whimsical Chinese export parrot adds a touch of humor.

For added color impact, Nabors layered orange napkins and colorful vintage Asian porcelain bowls.

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They look pricy. But no.

“The bowls were inexpensive,” he assures, “so I can put them in the dishwasher.” While many of the things he has collected appear costly, he mixes high and low cost textiles and objects.

As pandemic restrictions eased, Nabors satisfied his love of vintage finds, continuing to collect and resell antiques and collectibles in the Triad at Carriage House Antiques and the Antique Marketplace, although they operate on a restricted schedule.

He also became his own customer, Nabors laughs. “I shopped from my own space.” Sometimes he brought finds home rather than part with them — as was the case with the porcelain bowls.

Now 50, he has been buying and reselling since he was a college kid interested in art and history.

While earning a graduate degree in English at the University of Florida in Gainesville, Nabors roamed historically rich northern Florida. He visited resort and retirement areas where antiques were plentiful and cheap. “There is no better place to shop for antiques than where the wealthy choose to retire.”

Nabors acquired “great old pieces at low prices.”

After graduate school, Nabors returned to the Triad with a haul from antiquing junkets.

He first began reselling in the former Carolina Collection in the old Pomona cotton mill, rehabbed in the 1970s as an outlet mall called Cotton Mill Square. It was “among the nicest venues for antiques in the area at that time.”

He made important friendships and connections that endure today. When the Carolina Collection closed 20 years ago, Nabors The Art & Soul of Greensboro

moved to the Red Collection that followed, and, later, to the Antique Market Place. His style caught the attention of blogger Jason Oliver Nixon, then a New York–based designer, who featured Nabors’ space in his writing. (Nixon has a studio in Thomasville.)

Meanwhile, customers frequently requested Nabors’ help with design edits, a skill that Nabors has polished.

Sharon James became one such client after meeting him at the original Red Collection on Merritt Drive.

She admired Nabors’ spatial abilities and curatorial eye.

“I think I met Todd in 2002 since I moved here in 2000. He has helped me two or three times with rearranging various rooms.”

Nabors expended energies doing the very same thing for himself.

Within his new home, he had more wall space and could use more art than ever before.

He displays a range of types of artwork, including a series of four sketches by Triad artist David Bass that were given to him by a dear friend.

Long fascinated with the French artwork known as vue d’optique, which means perspective view, Nabors collects etchings of elaborate European gardens and architecture. Among the dozen or so that he owns is a view of the Palais du Luxembourg.

These images, although now framed, were originally viewed through a “zograscope,” also called an “optical diagonal machine” — a sophisticated version of the popular View-Master toy. The images offered a sense of depth.

“You could go into a pavilion and be shown these pieces; and the wealthy had them in their drawing rooms.” Nabors has also resold The Art & Soul of Greensboro

them on occasion when he amasses too many.

“I’m fascinated that you can buy something from the 18th century that’s not expensive,” he marvels. The images are from various countries, but the style and colors are consistent. “I also love the color of blue — Prussian or cerulean blue — in the skies, which relates all the subjects.”

Cerulean, a difficult shade to describe, was pulled from the vue d’optique prints for another interior accent color.

Chinese reverse paintings on glass are displayed throughout the downstairs.

While Nabors tries to edit with Japanese discipline, he admits it’s difficult. “I like stuff,” the designer jokes — but lightly.

He has begun to try things out, first living with collectibles, which were formerly packed away or occasionally resold.

At first, he envisioned changes for the upstairs, which was not yet remodeled. Paint and new carpet had to be chosen, and bathrooms on both floors were in his sights. “I wanted to be cognizant of the budget,” he adds.

Paint is one of the most dramatic and inexpensive ways to create change. In his former home (featured in O.Henry and Seasons magazines) Nabors worked within the constraint of much smaller rooms.

There, he kept the color palette narrow and consistent in order to enhance the space, choosing Benjamin Moore’s lighter gray “Soft Chamois.” The master bedroom, now the “summer bedroom,” is on the first floor. It features a Gothic black screen he made while a college student. A handsome vintage brass thermometer acquired “years ago” hangs on the screen.

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For the master bath, Nabors chose a variation of orange.

“A friend calls my master bath color Duchess of Windsor coral,” Nabors says. He likes the color. “It’s called ‘Apricot’ at Sherwin-Williams.”

He moved a bedroom wall and closet, gutting the bathroom to allow for a better layout. Nabors installed a handsomely patterned tile floor, topping a gray faux bamboo vanity with Carrara marble, choosing a glass shower door and chrome fixtures. The bath appeared to double in size.

Upstairs is Nabors’ “winter bedroom” as it is seasonally warmer.

The upstairs bath was painted “almost a periwinkle color. I love it in that bathroom,” Nabors says. “It would be a bit much for a larger room. But my art looks great in there.”

Back downstairs again, the kitchen opens onto a walled brick courtyard enclosed with a custom wrought iron gate. The rectangular courtyard is more structured and English, furnished with two conversation and eating areas allowing for social distancing when entertaining.

As an end townhouse unit, Nabors’ dwelling not only gained more windows than the interior units, but also has the added bonus of a side yard. There was room for a rustic bench at the front.

Here he opens mail or reads in morning shade, when the rear terrace is still bathed in sun.

“The morning sun, around 9 o’clock, makes the terrace glow,” he observes.

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

As the sun makes its exit, the terrace becomes a tranquil, shaded place for an afternoon drink. Accented with greenery, a metal garden bench scored at the Red Collection, and potted plants, Nabors slowly furnished the outdoor room.

When neighbors came for “socially distant” drinks, he dressed the table with blue-and-white cotton textiles imported from India, and mixed vintage glassware with blue-and-white china. For a centerpiece Nabors placed a large Mottahedeh bowl mounded with carved stone fruit, something which he has collected for ages. Small cachepots with boxwood topiaries serve as accents.

As the sun moved, cleomes, tall pink flowers rimming the terrace, grew radiant.

Nabors had been envisioning this outdoor dining scene during the long months of quarantine. Like everyone, he wanted to have guests over — even if only outside at a safe remove.

He admittedly dreamed of travel, too. He quotes Mark Twain, saying “travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry and narrow-mindedness.”

And then he muses, “I’ve traveled enough to want to travel a lot more.

I didn’t get to take that Indian trip, but hope I will one day.” In the meantime, he says, “I’m very much under the spell.” Surrounded by art and lovely Indian textiles that he has purchased, Nabors will armchair travel from his serene home. OH Cynthia Adams is a contributing editor at O.Henry.

O.Henry 57

Jan Lukens, Early Morning Run, oil on canvas, 20 x 16 inches

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The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Rachel Rees, Brothers, oil on canvas, 9 x 12 inches

Summer’s Lease Though short, it’s just a brushstroke away

“W

here has the summer gone?” It’s a question that often arises as the white heat of August casts its lingering rays on the waning season whose fullness we eagerly greeted mere months ago. As the last of the bounty that fills our tables fades and once-lush lawns wither and brown, the specter of crisp autumn days looms on the horizon, though admittedly blurred in relentless, steamy waves rising from the earth.

This year, perhaps more than any other, summer has been lost; its traditions, from the roar of baseball diamonds to the crackle and fizz of fireworks, abruptly halted. Where has the summer gone, indeed? And will we ever recapture what was lost to us?

In the eyes of poet Richard Wilbur, the answer is a definitive “Yes!” Setting his poem “My Father Paints the Summer” in a seaside hotel on a rainy day, Wilbur evokes the disappointment among guests relegated to monotonous games of ping-pong, while elsewhere the season’s splendor thrives: But up in his room by artificial light My father paints the summer, and his brush The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Tricks into sight The prosperous sleep, the girdling stir and clear steep hush Of a summer never seen, A granted green.

Taking a cue from Wilbur, we too have turned to artists, who, like the poem’s paternal protagonist, have captured the brilliance, folly and sheer joy of the season. If you feel as though summer has eluded you, celebrate it here, among colorful garden blooms, quiet fields, windswept seascapes, twilight gatherings and noisy streets. For as Wilbur reminds us: Caught Summer is always an imagined time.

Time gave it, yes, but time out of any mind.

There must be prime In the heart to beget that season, to reach past rain and find Riding the palest days Its perfect blaze.

And take heart: There’s always next year. OH — Nancy Oakley O.Henry 59

Alexis Lavine, Catch the Breeze, transparent watercolor on cold-pressed paper, 15 x 11 inches

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The Art & Soul of Greensboro

John Beerman, Man in Orange Trunks, oil on linen, 36 x 36 inches

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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Laura Pollak, Cherry Picking, Soft pastel on UArt Sanded archival paper, 12 x 16 inches

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The Art & Soul of Greensboro

David Wasserboehr, Ready for a Coast Ride, mixed media (digital and chalk), 12 x 18 inches

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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Agnes Preston-Brame, New Suit, acrylic on paper, 11 x 8 inches

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The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Pickle Me This

A L M A N A C

August n

A

By Ash Alder

lways, always everything at once, and in August you can see it.

Blackberry and bramble.

Rose and thorn.

Honey and hive.

The sweetness and the sting.

You cannot have one without the other.

August is carefree. Bare feet. Soft grass and ant bites. Sandspurs and sweet peas. Long days and hot nights. Sweet corn and crickets.

Sunburn and bee balm. Picnics and rope swings and cool, flowing water.

Cool, flowing water . . . the one true remedy for the sweltering heat of summer.

Ankle, shin, then knee-deep in the swollen creek, where the dog fetches driftwood and the snake rests coiled on the sunny bank, time slows down. If it’s true that water retains memory, then you are standing in a pool of ancient musings — an endless, ever-flowing cycle of beginnings and endings, life and death, sweetness and sorrow.

The dog interrupts your own introspection with a playful shake — water spraying in all directions — and you admire the fullness and purity of his presence. Amid the sweetness and the sting, he’s just here, joyfully and without a care. And in this moment, so are you.

You watch as a dragonfly kisses the water’s surface, wings glittering as it circles about this summer dreamscape. Even the dragonfly bites.

We forget. And yet the sting is part of it, inseparable from the beauty of the bigger picture.

Lose yourself in the bramble and remember: The sting makes the berries all the sweeter.

Thank you, beloved August. Thank you for your thorns and fruits and wild honey. Thank you for all of it.

In August, the large masses of berries, which, when in flower, had attracted many wild bees, gradually assumed their bright velvety crimson hue, and by their weight again bent down and broke their tender limbs.

— Henry David Thoreau The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Want to savor the summer bounty while keeping things simple? Quickpickle it. Refrigerator pickles will keep in the fridge for several weeks. And all you’ll need is your harvest, white distilled or apple cider vinegar, canning or pickling salt (read: not table salt!), water, and any glass or plastic container with a lid.

A “Simple Pickling Recipe” from The Old Farmer’s Almanac recommends 1 1/2 pounds of homegrown cucumbers, 1 cup of vinegar, 1 1/2 tablespoons of salt, 1 cup of water, and — if you’re feeling spicy — dill or mustard seeds, peppercorns, garlic cloves (peeled and smashed), or fresh dill, mint, or basil.

Got everything? OK, here we go: If you’re flavoring your fridge pickles with herbs or spices, add that to your glass or plastic containers first.

Next, wash produce, slice into spears or coins, then add them to the containers, leaving at least 1/2 inch of headspace up top.

Time for the brine. Combine vinegar, water, and salt in a saucepan over high heat. Bring to a rolling boil, then pour hot brine over the veggies (cover vegetables completely with liquid but leave about 1/2 inch of headspace) and cover. Allow the jars to cool on the countertop for about an hour, then add your lids and pop those future pickles into the fridge. In three days to one week (the longer you wait the better they’ll taste), give them a try.

Natural Remedies

One of the highlights of porch-sitting in the summer is hearing the sweet, unmistakable buzz of hummingbird wings moments before it swoops in for a long drink from the feeder. One of the low points: mosquitoes. They also arrive with a buzz — arguably unsweet — and the only long drink they’re coming for is you.

If you’re into natural mosquito repellents, you’ve likely tried citronella candles or added its oil to homemade sprays. But did you know that planting certain herbs and flowers in your garden might also help keep them at bay? Try lemon balm, marigolds, peppermint, catnip, lavender, rosemary, eucalyptus, neem, basil and thyme. Either way, you really can’t go wrong. OH

What dreadful hot weather we have!

It keeps me in a continual state of inelegance.

— Jane Austen

O.Henry 65

B’nai Shalom Day School

Bishop McGuiness Catholic High School

Caldwell Academy

804-A Winview Drive, Greensboro, NC 27410, (336) 855-5091, www.bnai-shalom.org

1725 NC Highway 66 South, Kernersville, NC 27284, (336) 564-1010, www.bmhs.us

2900 Horse Pen Creek Road, Greensboro, NC 27410, (336) 665-1161, www.caldwellacademy.org

Focus: B’nai Shalom Day School is the Triad’s only infant – 8th grade Jewish independent school. We foster academic excellence, maximize individual student’s potential, and develop leadership skills in a dual curriculum (English and Hebrew). Aftercare and full day option available (7:30 am to 6:00 pm) as well as generous financial aid opportunities.

Grades: 8 wks - 8th grade • Enrollment: 150 • Student/Faculty: 8/1 Admission Requirement: On a rolling basis. Meet with Director of Admissions, classroom visit, academic assessment (Pre-K and older), transcripts from current school.

Tuition: $4,040-$12,000 (preschool), $2,388-$16,990 (K-8)

Focus: The largest private high school in the Triad.

Outstanding high school experience with exceptional academics, extracurricular activities and athletic opportunities.

Leadership Initiative partnership with the Center for Creative Leadership.Only school in the Triad awarded the College Board AP Honor Roll Distinction. Nationally recognized music program. Minutes from Greensboro and all faiths welcome. Transportation Available.

Grades: 9-12th • Enrollment: 400 • Student/Faculty: 8/1 Admission Requirement: Admission is on a rolling basis.

Tuition: $11,000-$14,950

Focus: Educational excellence using time-tested Classical methods to make full use of students’ developmental stages.

Classical themes of Truth, Goodness, and Beauty complement the Christian worldview presented in all instruction. Students learn how to think, not what to think, equipping them to be lifelong learners with a solid foundation in our rapidly changing world.

Grades: Transitional Kindergarten – 12th Grade Enrollment: 540 • Student/Faculty: 9/1 Admission Requirement: Upon approval for admission, students will be placed as space is available.

We cannot enroll students after the second quarter. Families who apply for tuition assistance will be provided tuition information once the family has submitted a student application.

Tuition: $6,007 - $12,666

Canterbury School

Greensboro Day School

Greensboro Montessori School

5400 Old Lake Jeanette Road, Greensboro, NC 27455, (336) 288-2007, www.canterburygso.org

5401 Lawndale Drive, Greensboro, NC 27455, (336) 288-8590, www.greensboroday.org

2856 Horse Pen Creek Road, Greensboro, NC 27410, (336) 668-0119, www.gms.org

Focus: With Canterbury School, education happens everywhere. While we plan to open our spacious campus full time for all students in 2020-21, our exciting new “blended learning” model will offer families a more seamless transition between oncampus and distance learning, if necessary. Canterbury also will reduce tuition by 3350% during any required distance learning in 2020-21. Preschool classes, including our new Cubs class for 3-year-olds, will remain open during distance learning.

Focus: Engaged children • Passionate & Caring adults • Academic Excellence • Lower School garden • Global Online Academy • 40 athletic teams • 85% of students participate in athletics annually • 29 theatre and musical performances • Ecological learning at campus pond • 21 AP Courses • 89% score 3 or better on AP • MakerSpaces • 3 Counselors & Full-Time School Nurse • Social-Emotional curriculum in all grades • Learning Resources Specialists • College Counseling Team •After-School Enrichment programs • 34 art and music offerings • Student-led Honor Code • 37 clubs in grades 5-12 • Student Government in elementary, middle, & high • 5% of the Class of 2020 National Merit Recognized • 2800 Alumni changing the world Grades: Age 2- Grade 12 • Enrollment: 764 • Student/Faculty: 8/1 You are Welcome Here.

Admission Requirement: Admission on a rolling basis.

Tuition: $8,500 -$24,475

Focus: Greensboro’s only accredited Montessori school where toddlers to teens achieve academic excellence through project-based, experiential learning. Students organically develop real-world skills in creativity, leadership, problem solving, and social responsibility, so they’re empowered to positively impact the world.

Grades: Preschool - 8th grade • Enrollment: 300 Student/Faculty: 8/1 Admission Requirement: Rolling admissions; contact Caroline Walker, walkerca@canterburygso.org, to learn more.

Tuition: $6,000-$8,400 (Preschool), $3,443 - $17,715 (K-8)

Lancaster Preschool

369 Air Harbor Road, Greensboro, NC 27455, 336-288-6434, www.lancasterps.org Focus: The mission of Lancaster Preschool is to love, nurture and educate its students. Grounded in the belief that each of our students is a unique, beloved child of God, we seek to help students discover their many gifts and talents and foster a sense of wonder in God’s creation, as well as an appreciation for others while preparing them for kindergarten and the life-long adventure of learning.

Grades: Ages 15 months-6 years • Enrollment: 125 Student/Faculty: 8/1 Admission Requirement: Students accepted on a rolling basis. Families are encouraged to visit and learn more. To apply parents may visit our website or call our office to schedule a tour.

Tuition: $2,475 - $3,870

The Piedmont School /John Yowell Academy

815 Old Mill Road, High Point, NC 27265, (336) 883-0992, www.thepiedmontschool.com Focus: A wonderful K-12 independent school dedicated to providing an outstanding educational environment for students with an ADHD/LD diagnosis. Strong academics enhanced by music, art, drama, and athletics.

Grades: K - 12th grade • Enrollment: 80 Student/Faculty: 6:1 word study, language arts, math.

12:1 all other subjects.

Admission Requirement: Enrollment is on a rolling basis.

Requirements include an average to above average IQ, and either an ADHD diagnosis or another diagnosed learning disorder.

Tuition: K-2 $18,565 • 3-8 $19,710 • 9-12 $20,346 NC grants available.

New Garden Friends School

Preschool & Lower School: 1128 New Garden Rd. Middle & Upper School: 2015 Pleasant Ridge Rd. Greensboro, NC 27410 (336) 299-0964, www.ngfs.org

Focus: The Triad’s only independent preschool-12th grade offering a relevant, challenging curriculum and built upon the long-held standards of extraordinary Friends schools. Inclusion, respect, collaboration, and the peaceful resolution of conflict are modeled by teachers and experienced as fundamental pieces of an NGFS education.

Grades: PK-12 • Enrollment: 270 • Student/Faculty: 8/1 Admission Requirement: Families are encouraged to visit. Rolling admissions.

Application, report cards and/or transcripts, student visit, and essays for older students are required. For details please see www.ngfs.org/admissions Tuition: $7,400-$21,550

Wesleyan Christian Academy

1917 North Centennial Street, High Point, NC 27262, (336) 884-3333, www.wesed.org

Focus: Programming designed to engage students at every academic level in a culture of exceptional academics, Christian community, and a life of servant leadership, all undergirded by a biblical worldview. Award-winning athletics (35 teams) & fine arts (15 groups), state-of-the-art technology, college-prep curriculum.

19 Dual Enrollment Classes; 12 AP Classes. Class of 2020 awarded $5.8MM merit-based scholarships, with 16 college commits.

Grades: 6 wks - 12th grade • Enrollment: 1200 Student/Faculty: 20:1 Admission Requirement: Rolling basis.

Families encouraged to tour school.

Tuition: $9,795 - $12,200

Grades: Toddler (18 mo) - 9th grade • Enrollment: 230 Student/Faculty: Under 3 years, 6:1; 4 years and above, 12:1 Admission Requirement: Requirements vary per grade level but include meeting with the director of admission, completing an application, submitting teacher recommendation forms, and visiting a classroom.

Tuition: $9,792-$18,792

Noble Academy

3310 Horse Pen Creek Road, Greensboro, NC 27410, (336) 282-7044, www.nobleknights.org Focus: An independent school that specializes in empowering students with learning differences to pursue their highest potential within a comprehensive, supportive educational environment. Strong academics along with athletics, music, performance and visual arts, and IDEApath are offered. Remote learning option available.

Grades: 2 - 12 • Enrollment: 150 Student/Faculty: 8/1 Admission Requirement: Students need to have an average to above average IQ score and a diagnosis of ADHD and/or experiences a learning difference.

Admission on a rolling basis.

Tuition: $22,500 - $22,900

Westchester Country Day School

2045 N. Old Greensboro Road, High Point, NC 27265, (336) 869-2128, www.westchestercds.org Focus: Westchester Country Day is a college preparatory school teaching and guiding students in grades PK-12 to strive for excellence in moral and ethical conduct, academics, the arts, and athletics.

Grades: PK - 12th grade • Enrollment: 420 Student/Faculty: 18:1 Admission Requirement: Admissions is on a rolling basis. Please visit www.westchestercds.org for more details or call the admissions office at (336) 822-4005 to schedule a tour.

Tuition: $2,910 - $19,650

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O.Henry 67

shops • service • food • farms

support locally owned businesses

Support Local Businesses during Covid-19 and beyond Buy gift cards from your favorite local businesses to help support our local economy during these uncertain times. Many businesses are suffering due to the pandemic. We’ve created a special website to help community members be able to buy gift cards from their favorite businesses from the convenience of your phone or computer!

“I couldn’t be happier with my renters, or my rental income” Brantley White Burkely Rental Homes client

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.

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68 O.Henry

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Join the effort. Visit www.triadlocalfirst.com.

shops • service • food • farms

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support locally owned businesses

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We are committed to providing you the best value for your insurance dollar. Built on integrity with personal service and sound advice you can trust, we partner with experienced carriers like Central Insurance for your auto, home, and business insurance needs. Our combination of quality products and prompt, professional service will provide you the value of peace of mind.

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The Central Insurance Companies are comprised of Central Mutual Insurance Company and All America Insurance Company.

O.Henry 69

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Join the effort. Visit www.triadlocalfirst.com.

shops • service • food • farms

support locally owned businesses

Carriage House Antiques & Home Decor Your Source For Fine Antiques • Lamps & Shades Collectibles • Vintage Treasures Gifts for all occasions

336.373.6200 2214 Golden Gate Drive Greensboro, NC Monday-Friday 10-5:30 • Saturday • 10-5 Sunday 1-5

Crutchfield Farms

Master and guest bedroom on the main level. Great room with fireplace open to the kitchen area and breakfast room. 4 bedrooms with 4 baths and a bonus room. SS appliances, granite kitchen counters, washer/dryer.

Yvonne Stockard Willard Realtor™, Broker, GRI

yvonne.stockard@allentate.com www.allentate.com/YvonneStockard

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online @ www.ohenrymag.com 70 O.Henry

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Join the effort. Visit www.triadlocalfirst.com.

ASHMORE RARE COINS & METALS Since 1987

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Over 30 years experience buying & selling the Triad Make the right move!

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Located at Friendly Center next door to Barnes and Noble Mon-Fri 10-8 | Sat 10-6 | Sun 1-6 • 336-294-3223 Visit our new website… shereesinatural.com for special discounts on SkinCeuticals and brow waxing.

Business & Services

Bobbie Maynard

Broker, Realtor ® , GRI, CRS, CSP, Green

Comprehensive and Attentive Care

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Gill Family Dentistry

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We Service What We Sell & Offer Personal Attention 336-854-9222 • www.HartApplianceCenter.com

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

Now Open with New Precautions for COVID-19

2201 Patterson Street, Greensboro, NC (2 Blocks from the Coliseum) Mon. - Fri.: 9:30am - 5:30 pm Sat. 10 am - 2 pm • Closed Sunday

306 Muirs Chapel Rd., STE C | Greensboro, NC 27410

336.299.1379 | GillDentistryTriad.com

O.Henry 71

Needlepoint.

Business & Services

Practicing Commercial Real Estate by the Golden Rule

Bill Strickland, CCIM

Commercial Real Estate Broker/REALTOR

336.369.5974 bstrickland@bipinc.com

Cool

The best way to stay

1614-C WEST FRIENDLY AVENUE GREENSBORO, NC 27403 336-272-2032 stitchpoint@att.net

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TIA2 KELLYS 5703 ANSON ROAD GREENSBORO NC 27407 Beautiful 1.55 Acre estate located within walking distance of Sedgefield Country Club. One of a kind features and Southern architecture accentuates the traditional elements throughout the home. Hardwood floors, 3 fireplaces, 4 bedrooms, 3 baths, 3 car garage and huge bonus room.

Spacious and secluded backyard perfect for entertaining with covered veranda. Truly a must see!

$685,000 72 O.Henry

R E A L T Y Kelly Creed 336.339.0646 Broker/Realtor

G R O U P Kelley Schaefer 336.471.6298 Broker/Realtor

Tia Elizabeth Crouch 336.210.7822 Broker/Realtor

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

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O.Henry 73

1813 HUNTINGTON ROAD

M A R ION Tile & Flooring

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Arts & Culture

C.P. LOGAN “CRUISING” • 30”X40” • ORIGINAL OIL CONNIE P. LOGAN - ARTIST/TEACHER

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74 O.Henry

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

As seen in: Biltmore House, Asheville Greensboro News & Record

Resinate Art The Original Representational Epoxy Artist ARTIST Carol Kaminski • HOURS by appointment only 4912 Hackamore Rd, Greensboro, 27410 704-608-9664 • www.ResinateArt.com

Arts

& CULTURE The Art & Soul of Greensboro

O.Henry 75

Irving

PARK LADIES CLOTHING, GIFTS, BABY, JEWELRY, GIFTS FOR THE HOME, TABLEWARE, DELICIOUS FOOD

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76 O.Henry

Shopping is the best therapy To advertise here call 336-617-0090 The Art & Soul of Greensboro

GIFTS ACCESSORIES HOME DECOR Website coming soon!

404 State Street, Greensboro, NC 27405 | 336-944-6580

NCShenanigans

Shenanigans_llc

Unique Shoes! Beautiful Clothes!! Artisan Jewelry!!!

Shoes Sizes 6 - 11 • Clothes Sizes S - XXL

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501 State Street Greensboro, NC 27205 336.274.4533 • YamamoriLtd.com The Art & Soul of Greensboro

10:00-5:30 Monday-Friday Saturday 10:00 - 3:00 and by Appointment

O.Henry 77

GreenScene Art That Heals Downtown Greensboro

Thursday & Friday, June 4 & 5, 2020 Photographs by Lynn Donovan

Todd & Henry Zimmer, Emily Clancy, Liz Zimmer, Ana Clancy Laurie Foster

Bernard Baker, Madelyn Greco Kelsey Butler

Royal Expressions School of Dance Students

Marshall Lakes

Kidd Graves

Carly Mensch

Taylor Ridge

Gregg ‘Grip’ McDuffe

78 O.Henry

Sidney Pagan

Emily Tosco

Scott Hicks

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

GreenScene Art That Heals Downtown Greensboro

Thursday & Friday, June 4 & 5, 2020

Abstract Dissent

Photographs by Lynn Donovan

Lauryn Lewis

Gina Franco

Mike Wirth

Michael Harris

Emma Walters, May Greene, Riley McClanahan

Karter & Knolbi Whitaker

1101 SUNSET DRIVE, GREENSBORO NC 27408 A magnificent setting! The architectural elements of this Old Irving Park home overlooking the 5th fairway of Greensboro Country Club was designed for comfort and fun. Spacious, open floor plan, high ceilings, oversized moldings, hardwood floors (covered and screen porch). Master Bedroom on main, 4 additional bedroom with private baths, Bonus room, 2 fireplaces. 2-car garage/storage. New roof 2020, sealed crawl space by PMI. A home for all seasons.

Chesnutt - Tisdale Team

Xan Tisdale Kay Chesnutt 336-601-2337 336-202-9687 Xan.Tisdale@bhhsyostandlittle.com Kay.Chesnutt@bhhsyostandlittle.com

www.kaychesnutt.bhhscarolinas.com

Š2019 BHH Affiliates, LLC. An independently operated subsidiary of HomeServices of America, Inc., a Berkshire Hathaway affiliate, and a franchisee of BHH Affiliates, LLC. Berkshire Hathaway HomeServices and the Berkshire Hathaway HomeServices symbol are registered service marks of HomeServices of America, Inc.Ž Equal Housing Opportunity.

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

O.Henry 79

O.Henry Ending

Half-Hearted

By Cynthia Adams

The Southside

Running Club was ready for my resistance. Especially, the de facto leader of the pack, Beth Deloria.

Beth does marathons just for the swag and the snacks.

“Just try a half,” she encouraged me.

She convinced me to join runs . . . runs that concluded at Manny’s Universal Cafe with hot coffee and convo.

Most of the club members loved running. Not me. I got deeply in touch with my inner bitch. That ran nonstop: My ACL was probably tearing. My stomach roiled.

Grumpy. Sleepy. Hungry. Thirsty. I was multiple personalities running from running: The Seven Dwarfs of Excuses.

“Too cold to train for a half,” I protested as Deloria’s face curved into a grin. “Easier than heat,” she replied. “Too hilly,” I countered.

As fellow runners collected medals from marathons, I shuffled along. I developed runner’s Tourette, earning the moniker “Cussin’ Cindy.”

Then, Nike announced a virtual Women’s Only half-marathon coinciding with the original one in San Francisco (where tuxedoed firemen drape a Tiffany’s necklace over the neck of each finisher!).

If ever I was going to run a half, this was it! I could design my own (flat) course at my own pace! And, there was the promise of Tiffany swag, which would be mailed after uploading my qualifying miles from a Nike device.

Carefully I mapped the flattest possible 13.1 miles to be found.

Beth asked a lot of nosy questions: Where was I starting? And ending? I resented this. My miles were on my terms.

At 5 a.m. on the appointed date, she showed up at my door with Jim Austin in tow. The two were lugging a starting gate they had built.

Another Southsider, Joy Savage, showed up to run part of the course with me.

80 O.Henry

No escape.

Along my route, signs appeared: “Sweat is just pain leaving the body” . . . and more.

At mile No. 6, more Southsiders appeared, including Emily, a Triad weather gal. She kindly forecasted I would make it. Cindy, Heath, Buck, Carolyn, Billy and a pal nicknamed Skittles joined in.

At mile 13, Beth and Jim stood near the Latham Park tennis courts, the starting gate reversed to “FINISH.” A grinning Jim began running backwards with it as I approached.

Tourette syndrome erupted.

As we filed into Dunkin’ Donuts for coffee, they produced an improvised medal, a “13.1” decal and flowers.

Weeks later the Nike package arrived. It contained a “finisher” shirt and a Tiffany box. Our dog was nearly as excited as I was.

I ripped the box open and out fell a flimsy metal key ring. If I squinted, I could see “Tiffany & Co.” inscribed on it. My dog raised his ears as I used an s-word that rhymes with “duck” to express my disappointment. The box, I decided, was a lot nicer than the key ring. The dog agreed, grabbing it, running faster than I ever had for the dog door.

“Tasteful,” he seemed to growl, his mouth filled with Tiffany blue cardboard.

In a few months, a new blue box would appear at Manny’s just after a run that had ended there. Beth and Jim watched as I opened it.

“Not sucky,” was engraved on the gleaming silver, bona fide Tiffany key ring. And just like that, a lot of pain did, in fact, leave the body! OH Cynthia Adams is a contributing editor to O.Henry. She still cusses while running.

The Art & Soul of Greensboro

ILLUSTRATION BY HARRY BLAIR

Pounding the pavement leaves one writer in a Tiff

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