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DEPARTMENTS 13 The Nature of Things By Ashley Wahl
15 Simple Life By Jim Dodson
19 Short Stories 20 Life’s Funny By Maria Johnson
22 The Creators of N.C. By Wiley Cash
24 The Omnivorous Reader
FEATURES
26 Scuppernong Bookshelf
43 Greyhound
By D.G. Martin
29 Home by Design By Cynthia Adams
32 Weekend Away
By Jason Oliver Nixon
35 The Pleasures of Life Dept. By David Claude Bailey
39 Birdwatch
By Susan Campbell
40 Wandering Billy By Billy Eye
70 Events Calendar 80 O.Henry Ending Cover photograph and
photograph this page by Amy Freeman
6 O.Henry
By Katherine Snow Smith
Poetry by Crystal Simone Smith
44 Cuckoo for Cocoa
By Maria Johnson Custom chocolates sweeten the deal in downtown Gibsonville
48 On the Border
Fiction by Mélina Mangal
52 Labor of Love
By Cynthia Adams The historic T. Austin Finch House blushes anew
60 Almanac
By Ashley Wahl The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Fine Eyewear by Appointment 327 South Elm | Greensboro 336.274.1278 | TheViewOnElm.com Becky Causey, Licensed Optician
409-A Parkway Avenue • Greensboro, NC 27401 Gary Jobe • 336-272-2772 • 336-549-1146
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M A G A Z I N E
Volume 11, No. 2 “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 Andie Rose, Creative Director andie@thepilot.com Ashley Wahl, Editor awahl@ohenrymag.com Lauren M. Coffey, Associate Art Director Alyssa Rocherolle, Graphic Designer DIGITAL CONTENT
Cassie Bustamante, cassie@ohenrymag.com CONTRIBUTING EDITORS
Jim Dodson, Founding Editor Cynthia Adams, David Claude Bailey, Harry Blair, Maria Johnson CONTRIBUTING PHOTOGRAPHERS
Mallory Cash, Lynn Donovan, Amy Freeman, John Gessner, Bert VanderVeen, Mark Wagoner CONTRIBUTORS
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The Nature of Things
The Wave
The god of wonder is among us
By Ashley Wahl
If Cupid is the god of love, then the god
of wonder must also be an impish child. Surely you’ve seen him. No, he doesn’t always strike with a golden bow.
Late last fall, driving somewhere between Greensboro and Raleigh on a busy stretch of 1-40, something caught my eye as I came upon a pedestrian bridge spanning the highway. A father was walking across the bridge with his two children. The smallest, a little boy, was waving at the world below as if he were his own parade, cars flashing by like meteors on the blacktop beneath him. It reminded me of how my brother and I used to pump our arms at truckers on the highway — the glee we felt when they blasted their horns; the disappointment when they didn’t. I gave the boy a quick wave back, sure he wouldn’t notice. What happened next surprised me. All those passing cars and yet, somehow, he did notice. And I noticed that he noticed. And within this simple and unexpected moment of acknowledgement — this silent “I see you” — the little boy jumped up and down as if he’d just made contact with an alien species. His joy struck me like an ocean wave. Whatever transpired in those three timeless seconds was somehow bigger than us. It felt like a quantum shift. Like a glimpse of an alternate reality where we weren’t so different, that child and this writer. Like we had both tapped into the same current of wonder. I shared this little story on social media and was further amazed by the comments that followed. “The people on passing ferries always wave,” one friend offered. Others shared childhood memories of waving at planes. Many noted similar experiences — mundane yet sacred — that had moved them to tears.
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Scrolling the thread, it occurred to me that this universal current of wonder had more to do with awareness than it did with age. Everyday miracles abound. Children are just better at noticing them. “Remind me to tell you about the deer I waved at,” was one friend’s response. “I know that feeling,” wrote another. “Every time I see a leaf fall, I remember a child becoming ecstatic over this simple act of a tree releasing a leaf.” Which brings me to a recent winter’s day and a leaf littered trail along the edge of Lake Brandt. On a crisp and sunny afternoon, my valentine and I walked among a quiet sea of bare-branched hardwoods, taking in sweeping views of vibrant blue skies and shimmering waters. We passed one hiker with an elderly dog. Otherwise, the trail was ours. That is, until we came upon a boardwalk where Horse Pen Creek feeds into the lake. There, a mother was standing in a patch of sunlight by the water’s edge. Although we didn’t yet see him, her son was quietly waiting beneath the boardwalk a few feet in front of us, his little fingers sticking out between the wooden planks. When I saw his tiny hand just below our feet, I gasped in surprise. It reminded me of E.T. peeking through the slats of the closet door. “Hello up there!” the god of wonder sang out, gently wiggling his fingers. His mother chided him for startling us, but we offered smiles. “Well, hello down there!” we sang back. And in that moment, his joy was our joy. And our joy was his joy. And, when it all boiled down, that joy was one and the same. All of this to say that, if children are our future, there is hope for us yet. They are watching us closely, ready to remind us that we aren’t so different, that wonder is always accessible, that our waves, too, create oceans. OH Contact editor Ashley Wahl at awahl@ohenrymag.com. O.Henry 13
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Simple Life
Let There Be Light
From planets, people and all that glitters in this clockwork universe
By Jim Dodson
Shortly before sunset on the
winter solstice, my wife and an old friend and I walked up a grassy hilltop west of town hoping to view a rare celestial event called the Great Conjunction, which last took place not long after the invention of the telescope in the 17th century.
I was sure I’d found the perfect hilltop for viewing what some think is the astronomical origin of the Star of Bethlehem — a summit far away from madding crowds and city lights. Silly me. A crowd of upwards of 30 turned out to bear witness as a pair of giant gassy planets — Saturn and Jupiter, the solar system’s twin heavyweights — verged so close they appeared to shine as one blazing star in the Southwest sky just after sunset, intensifying their light as the darkness deepened. Before this evening, their closest alignment was July 16, 1623. Before that, the last viewing was March 6, 1226, the year Saint Francis of Assisi died. The 2020 light show was a pretty brief one, lasting just over an hour before the planets slipped below the horizon. But the unexpected pleasure for this starwatcher was witnessing the lovely effect this phenomenon of rare light had upon the assembly of earthlings on the hill. As they patiently waited, couples young and old stood arm-inarm like star-crossed lovers, silently silhouetted by the afterglow of the sunset. Old timers sat on lawn chairs with binoculars.
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
A family with six kids spread out a large quilt on the hill and shared a thermos of hot chocolate, chattering like excited starlings in the grass. One wee girl wrapped in a plaid Scottish blanket kept asking her mother where, exactly, the baby Jesus was sleeping. Dogs and their owners mingled joyfully in the dusk, while neighbors greeted neighbors they hadn’t seen in a small eternity. An amateur astronomer set up a large electronic telescope and drew a crowd of kids and parents eager to get a rare glimpse of the rings of Saturn and the four moons of Jupiter. We humans, it hit me, are like the planets that shine above us. The closer we come to each other, the more light we project, the brighter our shared humanity grows, enriching our collective orbit through a clockwork universe. This was no small solstice revelation during a year of viral darkness and enforced isolation that won’t be forgotten anytime soon. In the crowd, an older lady swaddled in a red Wolf Pack sweatshirt and a ball cap that simply urged Love Thy Neighbor Y’all, wondered out loud if the shining object might not be an omen of good news to come for 2021. Murmurs of agreement erupted. Light and hope, of course, go hand in hand, and have since the very beginning, whenever that was — Big Bang or Garden of Eden. A thousand years before the Bible said as much, the Upanishads advised that consciousness is the light of the divine. The third verse of Genesis 1 agreed: “God said Let there be light and there was light. And God saw the light and it was good.” The Gospel of John called Jesus the light of the world. Matthew urged his followers to let their light shine before others and pointed out the folly of keeping our light beneath a basket. Scriptures of every faith tradition, in fact, bear lavish witness to the power of celestial light. Buddha advised human beings to become a O.Henry 15
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Simple Life light unto themselves, while Chapter 13 of the Bhagavad Gita notes that the Supreme Lord Krishna is the “light of all lights, the illuminator of even the sun and stars . . . By his light all creation is full of light.” In his captain’s log, Christopher Columbus wrote that he followed the light of the sun to leave the Old World behind — and thereby found a new one. In our darkest moments, Aristotle advised, we must focus to see the light — both outward and inward. With the dawning of the Age of Reason, science celebrated the power of light to illuminate vast unimagined worlds, to heal disease and grow the future. Light turned out to be the engine of photosynthesis and all life biological, confirming what gardeners and country folk have understood for millennia as they planted by the cycles of the seasons or danced by the light of the moon. A good idea is symbolized by a blazing light bulb — which only took Thomas Edison a thousand or so failed efforts to invent. To “lighten up” means to let things go. Whereas to “see the light” implies a sudden change in perception or awakened consciousness, to “enlighten” is to furnish knowledge and slowly deepen one’s spiritual insight, to see the truth of the matter and make one a fraction wiser. The rising sun may be a living metaphor for a new beginning, but however we find the light, it’s also bound to find us. There’s a crack in everything, reminds the late Leonard Cohen. That’s how the light gets in. Artists spend their lives chasing light for the simple reason that in light there is revelation, an unveiling and inspiration. Falling sunlight makes stained glass windows come alive, Hudson River landscapes unforgettable, fields of sunflowers explode, butterflies dance, afternoons utterly peaceful. It is the distinctive light of a Rembrandt — The Night Watch or The Return of the Prodigal Son come to mind — which makes the figures appear so fragile and real, humans cloaked by the mystery of darkness, the hidden unknown. In the meantime, it is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness — or so advised everyone from Confucius to Eleanor Roosevelt. Every morning of my life, almost without exception, I light a lone candle on my desk in the darkest hour of morning, a small act of respect for the darkness. This little ritual of desktop fire-making may be far more symbolic than I fathomed, an ancestral memory of awakening to the possibilities of daily rebirth, a fresh start, a friendly summons to any thoughtful angels or muses who happen to be passing through the neighborhood. After a year that no one will ever forget, news of COVID vaccines coming our way has been hailed as “light at the end of the tunnel.” We can only hope — and pray — this is true. For as those souls who gathered like ancient shepherds on a starry solstice hilltop intuited, we all need more light in the darkness and delight in our lives. Wherever it comes from. OH Jim Dodson is the founding editor of O.Henry magazine.
16 O.Henry
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
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18 O.Henry
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
BETYE SAAR, "TO THE MANOR BORN", 2011. WEATHERSPOON ART MUSEUM. PURCHASED WITH FUNDS FROM THE JEFFERSON-PILOT ENDOWMENT, THE ROBERT C. KETNER FAMILY ACQUISITION ENDOWMENT, THE CAROL AND SEYMOUR LEVIN ACQUISITION ENDOWMENT, THE LYNN RICHARDSON PRICKETT ACQUISITION ENDOWMENT, AND THE JUDY PROCTOR ACQUISITION ENDOWMENT, 2016.18. © BETYE SAAR, PHOTO COURTESY OF THE ARTIST AND ROBERTS PROJECTS, LOS ANGELES
Short Stories Paintings are Red, Paintings are Blue . . .
Winter is gray. But with yet another new exhibit opening at WAM this month, it’s feeling a bit brighter indeed. Vibrant: Artists Engage with Color, a kaleidoscopic array of dynamic works from the Weatherspoon’s collection, opens on Wednesday, January 27. Explore the drama, moods and meanings evoked by colors from the whole, glorious spectrum. Exhibit on display through August 14, when, once again, the world is a lush and wild tangle of green. Open Tuesday through Saturday from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. Free admission. Weatherspoon Art Museum is located at UNCG on the corner of Spring Garden and Tate. Info: weatherspoonart.org.
Age of Aquarius
Is it really coming? This mystical era of peace, love and liberation? Because we’re ready for it. And those born under the sign of Aquarius are already living it. Take Oprah, for example, benevolent queen of good vibes and grand gestures. Or Shakira, whose hypnotic dance moves must surely echo her inner freedom. (The hips don’t lie.) One thing all water bearers have in common is their complete and utter inability to fit any kind of mold. They’re rebellious. Fiercely independent. Sometimes resistant to a fault. But don’t mistake their cold, distant stare for aloofness. They’re just thinking about the future, mumbling a little tune about sunshine and crystal revelations. This month, our favorite eccentrics are hurling logic to the wind and letting their emotions (yes, they’ve got them) make the calls. It’s going to be a wild ride. Over the top. You just might get a car.
Branches and (Jewish) Roots
Bust out the Whirley Pop. Triad Jewish Film Festival’s Global Diversity of Judaism is coming to a screen near you. Your own screen, as a matter of fact. This virtual festival runs February 25 through March 14 and includes seven powerful films that collectively showcase the “diverse fabric that makes up the global Jewish people.” Hence the festival’s name. Check out the extraordinary lineup online (mytjff.com), where the trailers alone will take you on a sensory-rich journey sure to hit you with all the feels. One such film, the award-winning documentary Breaking Bread, follows a group of Arab and Jewish chefs bridging worlds together through the art of food. Unlike the other six films, which you can stream at your convenience, Breaking Bread is only available March 11–13 and is exclusive to North Carolina viewers. Tickets are $5–8 per film. Reel Deal passes ($25–50) allow access to all seven films. Or snag a Friend of the Festival membership as a way of giving back to the Triad Jewish Film Festival. Prepare to get lifted.
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
KRISTAN FIVE, YESTERDAY, 2020, OIL AND COLD WAX WITH GOLD LEAF, 48X72 INCHES
Last Call!
If you haven’t seen GreenHill’s extended WINTER SHOW (and sale), time’s ticking. But you can safely view it from the comfort of your own home — or at the gallery — through February 7. Featuring over 400 works from emerging and established artists across the state, the digital catalog boasts an exquisite collection of paintings, drawings, soda-fired stoneware, blown glass, fiber arts, mixed media, photography, relief prints, cooking spoons and coffee mugs and everything but a forged steel kitchen sink. Show is free and open to the public. GreenHill Gallery and Shop, 200 N. Davie St., are open Wednesday through Saturday from 12–5 p.m. or by appointment. Info: (336) 937-3051 or greenhillnc.org. O.Henry 19
Life's Funny
Streaming Consciousness When a little TV wisdom comes in handy
By Maria Johnson
Like many people
coping with COVID restrictions, I’ve been watching more TV — especially series with episodes that you can stream back-to-back-to-oh-look-it’snext-month-already — on platforms such as Netflix, Prime Video and HBO.
My husband and I have snickered our way through The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel; been thoroughly freaked out by the all-too-timely The Plot Against America; cast a suspicious eye on just about every character in the detective show Endeavour (“Did you see the way that passerby pedaled his bicycle? Wasn’t it just a little too quickly?”); and been mesmerized by The Queen’s Gambit, in which the hauntingly beautiful actress Anya Taylor-Joy plays an addicted genius. The show has sparked renewed interest in the game of chess (see last month’s O.Henry magazine). It also has prompted armies of tippling women to look deep into their souls and ask themselves the hardest question: “Should I be wearing my hair in bangs like she does?” I was so enchanted by the show that when my younger son offered to teach me to play chess during a recent visit, I agreed. He explained the rules. I knew that I needed to make a clever opening move. So I did. I put my hand on a piece, stared at my son, and said with all the gravity I could muster, “Is this the piece that can hop like a bunny?” He gave a barely perceptible nod. I moved my piece to a square, held it there, looked at him intensely, and lifted one eyebrow. “Are you sure you want to do that?” he asked.
20 O.Henry
In this fashion, I touched all of the pieces and moved them to every conceivable spot — not unlike a primitive computer pondering all the possibilities — until he finally said, “OK, whatever, that’s a good move.” I’m happy to report that this worked great. The game was close — long, but close — and he won only by moving a pawn to my back row, at which point the pawn became a queen who could do whatever the hell she wanted. Which brings me to another show we’ve been watching, The Crown, which is about Britain’s royal family and the issues they confront — or, more accurately, don’t confront — in their personal and political lives. Before I watched this show, I never knew much about the royals other than what I read in an occasional email digest from Quora, a question-and-answer website that deals in a fair amount of palace intrigue. For example, a reader will ask a question like “What’s Prince Harry really like?” and a plumber from Gloucester will answer with great authority because a union buddy of his once fixed a loo in Kensington Palace, two floors away from Harry’s apartment. That was good enough for me — until I started watching The Crown. Since then, I’ve been diving into royal history, customs and etiquette, just in case the queen and I ever meet up. It could happen. Let’s say I’m in London, and I’m walking around Hyde Park, which is right next to Buckingham Palace and is slap full of dogs running loose. Maybe I notice a corgi that looks lost and more than a little irritated with other dogs sniffing its butt. I check its collar, hoping to see the owner’s contact information, and — whaddya know — there’s a tag that says “QE II, B. Palace.” So I call the number, and this little voice says, “Yesss?” And I’m like, “Um, yeah, I found your dog, and I’m pretty sure I saved its life, so . . . ” She tells me to come right over. When I hand over the dog, The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Life's Funny
the queen is overcome with emotion. “Thankew,” she says. You know how she runs those words together. And I’m like, “No problemo, Your Majesty.” I know from watching the show that I’m supposed to call her “Your Majesty” on first reference and “ma’am” from then on. Also, I curtsy to her, which goes against my grain, but in my head I think of it as a tiny reverse lunge. So I do a quick set of tiny reverse lunges, just to prove my good intentions and general fitness, and I wait. Unless the queen makes the first move, you never touch her. This won’t be easy. I’m a toucher. If she doesn’t offer me her hand to shake or fist bump, I’ll probably just give her a thumbs up, and say something like, “Cool purse. Ma’am.” If it’s the middle of the afternoon, she’ll probably invite me in for tea to show her gratitude. Again, from studying up, I know that no one eats until the queen eats, and if the queen stops eating, you stop eating. I know I can handle the first part, waiting for her to start, but if they’re serving something delicious, like macarons — which are basically MoonPies — or little pimiento cheese sandwiches with the crusts cut off . . . I can’t make any promises. But I’ll definitely let her lead the conversation. When she makes a point, I’ll agree by saying, “One would think so.” This is a very royal way of talking — saying “one” instead of “I.” Given a chance to speak, I would try to find common ground, probably by talking about dogs because dog people love to talk about their pups. I might say something like, “One is curious, ma’am: Has Her Majesty’s dogs ever pulled her underwear out of the royal laundry basket?” She could find this kind of familiarity refreshing. Or she could use the royal accessory that I envy the most, the bye-bye button, a buzzer that summons her assistants to whisk away visitors when she’s heard enough. Either way, I would be instantly qualified to answer a question on Quora. OH Maria Johnson is a contributing editor of O.Henry. She can be reached at ohenrymaria@gmail.com. The Art & Soul of Greensboro
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O.Henry 21
The Creators of N.C.
A Walk in the Woods
In writing and in life, Belle Boggs explores a sense of place and belonging
By Wiley Cash • Photographs by Mallory Cash
As they do most days, espe-
cially since the coronavirus pandemic began, writer Belle Boggs and her 7-year-old daughter, Bea, are walking through the woods near their home in Pittsboro to the banks of the Eno River. Boggs, whose most recent novel, The Gulf (2019), tells the humorous yet complicated story of a struggling writer and teacher, is a teacher herself. Her inclination to educate is evident as she pauses now and then to point out varieties of mushrooms, species of birds and the best places to ford the various creeks that criss-cross the landscape on the way to the river. While Boggs is clearly not in the classroom at North Carolina State University, where she has taught Creative Writing since 2014, the classroom never seems very far from her mind. The names and stories of her students — both past and present — find their way into conversa-
22 O.Henry
tion easily, as does her interest in the broader implications of education in rural North Carolina, especially Alamance County, where she is at work on a book-length study of the public schools there. Boggs and her husband, Richard, settled in North Carolina after a stint in New York City, where Boggs taught first grade in Brooklyn while simultaneously earning an education degree from Pace University. Before that, she lived in California, where she earned an M.F.A. from UC Irvine. She knew she wanted to come back to the South, and she and her husband chose North Carolina because they had friends here from his years as an undergraduate in Chapel Hill. But there was something else that brought her back: the sense of place and the benefits and challenges that come along with it. “I’m interested in the challenge of being an artist when you’re from the South,” she says. But while Belle Boggs has lived in North Carolina since 2005, one of the greatest challenges she faced was that of focusing her literary eye on her adopted state. “It took a long time for me to identify as a North Carolinian because I’d always identified as someone from a very particular place in Virginia,” she says. Her first book, the story collection Mattaponi Queen (2010), is set on the Mattaponi River in the tidewater region of Boggs’ youth and reflects her deep appreciation for place, which must have rung true to native Virginians as the book won the Library of Virginia Literary Award. It was also a finalist for The Art & Soul of Greensboro
The Creators of N.C.
the 2010 Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award, proving that the most powerful regional writing often resonates far outside the region of its birth. Although Tidewater Virginia certainly informed Boggs’ earlier writing, rural Chatham County is clearly full of marvels for her, and she talks about them with an infectious sense of wonder. Across the river, she points to the spot where eagles are nesting in an impossibly tall tree; in the summer, she says that the waters of the Eno are often low enough that one can sit in a beach chair midstream and read a book; and she follows a path to an oak tree with a hole in its trunk that is large enough for young Bea to climb inside of and nearly disappear. But, for Belle Boggs, life outside of the woods is approached with these same investigatory powers. Along with the environment, other themes that have long held her interest — specifically race, class, education and motherhood — are rendered with the same precise detail that she uses to describe the world that she chronicles on these daily walks. The issues of race, class, education and motherhood — instead of competing — have found a way of intertwining in Boggs’ recent work, especially once she became a mother. Her 2016 essay collection, The Art of Waiting: On Fertility, Motherhood, and Medicine, chronicles her use of in vitro fertilization after years of confronting the possibility of being childless. And while IVF led to the birth to her daughter, Bea, followed a few years later with the surprise birth of her daughter, Harriet, the process was not without its financial burdens. “As I was waiting for the medication for my IVF cycle, which is like $3,000, our well failed,” she says, “and we had to drill a new one. Both of those things were big stretches for us to pay for, and there was so much uncertainty behind them both. They became a natural metaphor for one another.” This radical honesty, both the struggle to conceive a life and the struggle to keep her own afloat, is the kind of honesty that readers appreciate in Boggs’ writing, something which she finds surprising. “I think in general I’m a pretty reserved writer,” she says, “and I try to let the facts and the details speak for what I’m describing.” The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Never were the facts and details more important to undergirding the radical honesty of an experience than when Boggs recently published an essay about her and Bea and a group of people being peppersprayed during a peaceful march to the polls in Graham, on the last day of early voting. Boggs had taken her daughter to the march to give her an education in democracy, but what she got instead was a lesson in power: who has it, who does not and how it is used. These same issues of power are what led her to undertake her current project on public education in Alamance County, especially as it pertains to race, class and the issues of regional segregation. It is clear that Boggs’ time some years ago in the first grade classroom fuels both her current work and her deep emotional connection to primary education. “I’m lucky to be teaching in a program like the one at N.C. State,” she says. “But sometimes I feel guilty that I’m not still a first grade teacher, because I think that may be some of the most good you can do in the world.” But while Boggs teaches undergraduates and graduate students, she has found a way to keep one foot in primary education. Over the course of the pandemic, she and Bea created a Zoom-based writing club for children in kindergarten through second grade, and, perhaps following Boggs’ lead, several of her graduate students have begun working on writing projects with school-age children. The day is ending. The woods are growing dark. Boggs and her daughter walk back uphill away from the river toward home, where 3-year-old Harriet and Boggs’ husband are waiting. Bea walks ahead of her mother on a trail toward the house, but Boggs stops, calls her daughter back. Boggs has spotted a mushroom, and while she cannot remember the name of it, she believes her daughter may know. The two of them kneel on the forest floor to get a better look. The light is fading, but there is still enough light to see, and there is still so much to learn. OH Wiley Cash is the writer-in-residence at the University of North Carolina-Asheville. His new novel, When Ghosts Come Home, will be released this year. O.Henry 23
Omnivorous Reader
Waiting for Gurganus And savoring his short fiction
By D.G. Martin
Like two other
important North Carolina authors’ debut novels, Thomas Wolfe’s Look Homeward, Angel in 1929 and Charles Frazier’s Cold Mountain in 1997, Allan Gurganus’ Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All in 1989 caught the nation’s attention and stayed at the top of the bestseller lists for months. It has sold over 4 million copies and become an American classic.
Set in the 1980s, the book is narrated by 99-year-old Lucy Marsden, who married 50-year-old Col. William Marsden when she was 15. She tells of her marriage to the Confederate veteran, his wartime experiences and the entertaining and poignant routine of her daily life in the fictional town of Falls, located somewhere near Rocky Mount. Widow was followed in 1997 by Plays Well with Others. Sandwiched between the two novels are a couple of collections of short fiction, White People and The Practical Heart, the last published in 1993. So, what had he been doing in the years afterward? “Writing, every day,” he says, “and getting up at 6 a.m. to do it.” Finally, in 2013 Gurganus published Local Souls, taking us back to Falls, where Widow and many of his short stories are set. Local Souls is neither a novel nor a collection of short stories, but three separate novellas. All are set in Falls, but the characters and stories are independent and quite different. Susan, the main character in the first novella, “Fear Not,” is a 14-year-old all-Ameri-
24 O.Henry
can girl growing up in Falls when her father dies in a boating accident. Seduced and made pregnant by her godfather, she gives up her baby, pulls her life together, later marries, has two children, and leads a normal life until she is reunited with the child she gave up. Then her life is transformed in a surprising and puzzling way, one that only Gurganus could conjure up. In the second novella, “Saints Have Mothers,” a divorced woman, smart and ambitious enough to have published a poem in The Atlantic magazine, has two sons and a 17-year-old daughter. The daughter is more committed to serving those in need than she is to her mother, whose life is wrapped up in hopes for her daughter’s future. When the daughter announces that she plans to go to Africa on a service project, the mother objects. But the daughter still goes. Communication with her daughter is spotty until a middle-of-the-night phone call brings word of the daughter’s death. As the mother and the Falls community prepare for a memorial service, Gurganus brings the story to a shocking and touching conclusion. The third novella, “Decoy,” is the history of a relationship between two men. One is a beloved family doctor, part of an established Falls family. The other is a newcomer, who came from the poverty of struggling farm life, but has achieved modest financial success and near acceptance by Falls’ elite. When the doctor retires, their friendship is disturbed and then swept away by a “Franlike” flood that destroys both men’s homes and much of Falls. With its complex characters and plot, “Decoy” deserved to be a separate book. In 2015 that happened, and it sold well as a stand-alone. In his latest book, The Uncollected Stories of Allan Gurganus (January 2021), several stories take readers back to Falls. In one story, “The Deluxe $19.95 Walking Tour of Historic Falls (NC),” a tour guide narrates and takes a hard look at the The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Omnivorous Reader town. She begins: “Moving along nicely. No stragglers, please. Incorporated in 1824, almost immediately made the county seat, Falls still boasts five thousand local souls. We’re down from our peak seven thousand during the commercial boom of ’98, 18 – 98. See that arched bridge? Some say that yonder River Lithium accounts for both our citizens’ soothed temperaments and for how hard we find leaving home. Few local students, matriculating up north, last long there.” Longtime fans of Gurganus will appreciate the inside look at his favorite town. Newcomers will find that the tour of Falls forms the basis for another engaging Gurganus tale. The new book includes one of my favorites. In “A Fool for Christmas,” Vernon Ricketts, a pet store manager in a mall near Falls, is the lead character and narrator. He is the fool for Christmas who cannot resist a call to take care of a homeless teenager, keep her warm, and help her hide from the security officer, who is dedicated to getting such undesirables out of the mall. The teenager is pregnant, and Gurganus’ story draws on the Biblical account of Christ’s birth in a way that brings out the same sort of deep feelings. Gurganus wrote this story for NPR’s All Things Considered in 2004 and read it on the program. He has rewritten it regularly. Last year it made its way into print in a limited edition that sold out quickly. The story’s inclusion assures that the new book will be a family treasure. Perhaps the book’s most timely story is “The Wish for a Good
Young Country Doctor,” which was published first in The New Yorker in April last year. It is set in a rural village in the Midwest during a cholera epidemic in 1850, where a young doctor does his best to save its citizens. But when many die, the doctor is blamed. How did Gurganus manage to time his story to coincide with the current pandemic? He says he finished the story early in 2020, “on the day that coronavirus appeared for the first time in The New York Times. And the context was completely changed. I sent it to my agent, who sent it to The New Yorker, which bought it in a day, and it appeared two weeks later.” These stories and six more in the new book will remind us of the talented North Carolinian’s ability to make us laugh painfully at ourselves and our neighbors while we wait for his long-promised, long-delayed opus, An Erotic History of a Southern Baptist Church. When I pushed him to tell us when it would be finished, Gurganus smiled and said, “I’ve got a lot of material. Every time I think I’ve finished the book, somebody tells me another story about a corrupt preacher and the choir director. And I add another chapter. So I think it might be a trilogy instead of a single volume.” I am waiting hopefully. But I am not holding my breath. OH D.G. Martin hosts North Carolina Bookwatch Sunday at 3:30 p.m. and Tuesday at 5 p.m. on UNC-TV.
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O.Henry 25
Scuppernong Bookshelf
Apropos
A bevy of February releases fit for any month of the year
Compiled by Brian Lampkin
A good argument can be made
that when you designate a month as belonging to someone or some group (Women’s History Month, Poetry Month, etc.), you thereby diminish the importance of women’s history or poetry in the other eleven months. It’s not likely the intended effect, but perhaps it plays out that way on occasion. The better use of, say, Black History Month, is to highlight (in this case) books that will inform your reading for the entire year. And I don’t really think that the fact that we celebrate my birthday but once a year diminishes my personhood for the other 364 days. In any case, publishers recognize Black History Month and use it to put out a bevy of related books. Let’s take advantage of the largesse and talk about the best of these new releases for February. Feb 2: The Three Mothers: How the Mothers of Martin Luther King, Jr., Malcolm X, and James Baldwin Shaped a Nation, by Anna Malaika Tubbs (Flatiron Books, $28.99). Berdis Baldwin, Alberta King and Louise Little were all born at the beginning of the 20th century and forced to contend with the prejudices of Jim Crow as Black women. These three extraordinary women passed their knowledge to their children with the hope of helping them survive in a society that would deny their humanity from the very beginning. They each taught resistance and a fundamental belief in the worth of Black people to their sons, even when these beliefs flew in the face of America’s racist practices and led to ramifications for all three families’ safety.
26 O.Henry
Feb. 2: The Rebellious Life of Mrs. Rosa Parks (Young Readers Edition), by Jeanne Theoharis (Beacon Press, $18.95). Because Rosa Parks was active for 60 years, in the North as well as the South, her story provides a broader and more accurate view of the Black freedom struggle across the 20th century. Theoharis shows young readers how the national fable of Parks and the civil rights movement — celebrated in schools during Black History Month — has warped what we know about Parks and stripped away the power and substance of the movement. This book illustrates how the movement radically sought to expose and eradicate racism in jobs, housing, schools and public services. It also highlights police brutality and the over-incarceration of Black people — and how Rosa Parks was a key player throughout. Rosa Parks placed her greatest hope in young people — in their vision, resolve and boldness to take the struggle forward. As a young adult, she discovered Black history, and it sustained her across her life. The Rebellious Life of Mrs. Rosa Parks will help do that for a new generation. Feb. 2: Blood Grove (Easy Rawlins, 15), by Walter Mosley. Let’s not leave history to the historians! Mosley has always been a sly chronicler of Black life and history in his fiction, and this new mystery puts private detective Rawlins in the heart of the social upheaval of 1969, California. No need to have read the other 14 Easy Rawlins books — you can jump in here without missing a beat. Feb. 9: Crossing the Line: A Fearless Team of Brothers and the Sport That Changed Their Lives Forever, by Kareem Rosser (St. Martin’s Press, $28.99). Born and raised in West Philadelphia, Kareem thought he and his siblings would always be stuck in “The Bottom,” a community and neighborhood devastated by poverty and violence. Riding their bicycles through Philly’s Fairmount Park, Kareem’s brothers discover a barn full of horses. What starts as an accidental discovery turns into a love for horseback riding that leads the Rossers to discovering their passion for polo. Pursuing the sport with determination and discipline, Kareem earns his place among the typically exclusive players in college, becoming part of the first all-Black national interscholastic polo championship team. Feb. 16: No More Lies: The Myth and Reality of American History, The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Scuppernong Bookshelf by Dick Gregory (Amistad Press, $17.99). This republishing of No More Lies offers an incomparable satirist’s intellectual, conspiratorial and humorous spin on the facts. The late Dick Gregory examines numerous aspects of culture and history, from the slave trade, police brutality, the wretchedness of working-class life and labor unions to the 1968 Civil Rights Act, the Founding Fathers, “happy slaves” and entrepreneurs. No subject is off limits to his critical eye. Gregory was a comedian, civil rights activist and cultural icon who first performed in public in the 1950s. And it will come as no surprise to learn that he was on Comedy Central’s list of “100 Greatest Stand-Ups.” Feb. 16: The Black Church: This Is Our Story, This Is Our Song, by Henry Louis Gates, Jr. (Penguin Press, $30). For the young Henry Louis Gates Jr., growing up in a small, segregated West Virginia town, the church was his family and his community’s true center of gravity. Within those walls, voices were lifted up in song to call forth the best in each other, and to comfort each other when times were at their worst. In this book — his reckoning with the meaning of the Black church in American history — Gates takes us from his own experience onto a journey across more than 400 years and spanning the entire country. At road’s end, we emerge with a new understanding of the centrality of the Black church to the American story — as a cultural and political force, as the center of resistance to slavery and White supremacy, as an unparalleled incubator of talent and as a crucible for working through the community’s most important issues. This is the companion book to the upcoming PBS series. Public Service Announcement: In response to the ongoing COVID crisis in Guilford County, Scuppernong Books has returned to appointment-only browsing with an emphasis on curbside pickup. We continue to encourage everyone to keep the health of our friends, families and community in mind as we mask up, stay home when possible and keep social distance. With our freedom, we choose care, compassion and community well-being. OH Brian Lampkin is one of the proprietors of Scuppernong Books The Art & Soul of Greensboro
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O.Henry 27
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28 O.Henry
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Home by Design
Between Worlds What’s in an entry hall? See for yourself
By Cynthia Adams
Consider the
entry hall. Really.
The entry hall actually is a pretty big deal. Two hundred years ago, nobody would have had an entry — nor a hall, for that matter — unless they were living in a grand residence. Entry halls only entered into our vocabulary around the 1840s. According to Benjamin Briggs, executive director of Preservation Greensboro, the entry hall was formerly regarded as something solely for the affluent; that added square footage required wealth. And more. “The hallway is a filter. Meant to be a filter for your true self,” says Briggs. “So, a presentation out front. If people were admitted deeper into your soul or existence, you allow them into the formal room — that would have awed them. Levels of entry — it’s about control.” Those sophisticated French view the entry hall to the home as a preview of the owner’s private world — a tantalizing glimpse of what they prize most. (And historians say we Americans were once of the same mind.) If that were the case in my family home, it might have misled visitors to imagine my folks were the Andrew Lloyd Webber’s of Hell’s Half-Acre. When my parents purchased a ranchburger with a foyer, they installed their newest acquisition there: an enormous “Mediterranean style” stereo from Tucker’s furniture store. It left room for little else, including one’s feet. It was even larger than the hulking “Early American” television in the adjacent den. (Question: Did all early Americans have a special weakness for enormous cabinetry? Or for spice cabinets, faux coffee grinders, wood salad bowls, spindles and chuck wagon lamps?) Our stereo was so ungainly that when the house was burgled, the burglars cleaned out nearly everything but it. Nowadays, foyers are so ubiquitous they are beneath mention in Triad real estate listings. “If you go back to the Medieval period you would enter into a large multipurpose room . . . with cooking happening, and sewing in the The Art & Soul of Greensboro
corner,” says Briggs. Upon entry, you were inside the very life of the family. “You’re plunging into the deep end of the swimming pool,” he says with a laugh. “No privacy. All of life is happening in this one, big, hall room.” Nowadays, nothing much is happenBlandwood entry hall ing in the entry hall other than arrivals and departures. Here we take off jackets, shuck off shoes, stash umbrellas, hang our hats. It scarcely gets a notice. Bill Bryson described the hallway as the most “demoted room in the house” in At Home, his fascinating study of domesticity. Early Triad settlers built single-room log cabins. Sometimes with a second room or loft. The historic houses on view behind the Greensboro History Museum demonstrate how ordinary folk lived — and there was certainly no entry hall, as Briggs says. There was the “big square room with cooking fireplace and wonderful mayhem.” But if you were somewhat middling to wealthy, adds Briggs, you built a floor plan — the Quaker plan — which became the subject of his graduate thesis. Space evolved. “If you catalog the floor plan,” he explains, it is thus. “First a one-room house. Then, a parlor popped onto the side.” He says the parlor is where the owners not only slept but entertained visitors. “The bed would have been one of the most expensive things anyone owned. When the minister made his rounds, he would be brought into the parlor and they would have tea. The consideration of privacy — that you would never bring anyone into your bedroom — would never have happened.” Briggs pauses thoughtfully. “As you can imagine, this is almost coming back (with open floor plans).” Over time, a center hall appeared in homes. “Then, in the Victorian period, the organic plan [with rooms branching off].” He continues to discuss the Craftsman-style plan, whereas, once again, “you open into the living room.” This no-entry hall trend continued in mid-century modern design. But in the 1800s, a Georgian-period trend toward hallways found its way here into the Triad. Notably, at Blandwood, O.Henry 29
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Governor John Motley and Eliza Morehead’s mansion in downtown Greensboro. In 1845, Morehead returned to Blandwood at the end of his term. At the time, it featured an entry hall designed five years earlier by A. J. Davis. The Governor and Eliza could now order visitors to wait in the hall. And housekeeping got a boon. “You kept the mud and dung from the streets of Greensboro out and it was easier to clean,” Briggs adds. The entry achieved something even more important: a way of presenting yourself to the wider world. A screen. “As the French described, a controlled presentation of your life,” observes Briggs. “Maybe not allowing people to come into your life, but to make a judgement of your life based upon your ‘controlled’ goods.” Controlled goods, meaning, displays of wealth and status. These varied. “Perhaps an expensive wall paint color, a carpet, a piece of furniture.” Blandwood’s decor, including the new entry hall, grew worldlier, more classical. Those Morehead portraits bespoke social standing. British designers still insist that one should consider the entry hall as more than a passage from one space to another. (First impressions, and all that.) British magazines and Pinterest devote much editorial to hallway inspirations. The British entry hall has a theme, often poshly appointed with rugs, mirrors, table, bench, portraits. Even the tiniest Notting Hill entry hall. Beloved Farrow & Ball paint (especially the vivid green color “Folly”, which evokes that playful yet classical sense of well-heeled European aristos) jollies up what could otherwise be a purely functional, even glum, place. Personally speaking, I’m clinging to the idea of an entry hall. It may not live up to the French or British standard, but it keeps the dogs from rushing the UPS driver. And mud and dung outside. This year, I vow to show ours more love. OH Cynthia Adams is a contributing editor of O.Henry magazine. The Art & Soul of Greensboro
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O.Henry 31
Weekend Away
Georgia on Our Minds The Madcap Cottage gents scamper off to Savannah
By Jason Oliver Nixon
I hadn’t been to Savannah in years, and
John had never visited.
Pre-pandemic, Savannah was often bandied about as a possible Madcap weekend away destination, but somehow we always wound up in places like London or, closer to home, Charleston instead. And we do love Charleston, but sometimes the Holy City can be a tad too polished. “Savannah is like Charleston’s wild child,” noted a friend with deep ties to the Georgia coast. “We aren’t as uptight and formal, and we really like to kick up our heels and throw a good party. After all, our nickname is the ‘Hostess City.’ And remember that we are an open-container city, so always get your cocktail to go!” Meanwhile, our next-door neighbors in High Point spend most of their time in Savannah, where they have a second home and run a ghost tour company, Savannah History & Haunts. The pair has been urging us to visit for years. “You will love it,” said Bridgette, one half of the powerhouse behind the couple’s multi-city tour company. “There are great hotels and restaurants, and the history is off the charts. Plus, you can take one of our tours!” John and I re-read Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil and,
32 O.Henry
yes, screened Forrest Gump late one night to get into a Savannah state of mind. Weekend away, here we come! We decided to take George, our pound-rescue Boston terrier, along for the adventure and left the pug posse back home in the capable hands of the dog sitter. For the five-hour drive from the Triad, John and I meandered through Cheraw and Florence, S.C., instead of facing — or more like being smoked by — Charlotte’s notorious speed demons. Still, after a few hours on the I-95 leg, John and I were ready for a strong libation as we pulled up at our weekend roost: the recently opened and absolutely stunning, dog-friendly Drayton Hotel. George trotted in like he owned the place, and we all settled into The Drayton’s colorful Living Room, aka the lobby, where masterfully crafted, medicinal martinis were quickly rustled up. George perched happily atop a poof and preened. Housed within the historic American Trust Drayton Hotel and Bank, The Drayton calls to mind an intimate, London-style hotel that mixes colors and patterns, giving a nod to the past with modern flourishes and understated — but beautifully presented — service. Smack on the corner of busy East Bay and Drayton streets, The Drayton offers the perfect location but feels worlds away from nearby River Street with its tourist hustlebustle. The five-story hostelry boasts a terrific restaurant, St. Neo’s Brasserie, a chic, high-ceilinged dining room and first-rate service (our The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Weekend Away server, Libbie, was a gem). The rooftop bar wasn’t open for the season, but there is a slick, tucked-away bar in the basement and a coffee outpost just off the lobby that didn’t disappoint. Our intimate suite was equally cool with knockout views of the container ships plying the Savannah River (Savannah is the third largest container port in the nation) and a truly inspired bathroom with a wet room that paired a shower and clawfoot soaking tub. With refreshed to-go cocktails in hand and George happily tucked away, we decided it was time to hit the town. Savannah is the perfect walking city. Of course, the city celebrates its 22 signature squares, verdant and dripping with Spanish moss, which span one squaremile of its downtown. You will probably pick a favorite over the course of your visit. For us, it was Lafayette, but be sure to visit Chippewa, the site of Forrest’s iconic bench (his actual bench was a prop, now found at the Savannah History Museum). The squares are surrounded by historic residences with gated gardens, many of which you can tour, including the Davenport House and the MercerWilliams home, site of the murder detailed in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. There’s also dreamy Forsyth Park and museums aplenty. “SCAD seems to be gobbling up the city,” noted John as we found our Savannah sea legs and looked around for more gin to accompany lonely olives. SCAD, of course, refers to the Savannah College of Art and Design, and the institution does, indeed, seem to have kudzued here, there and everywhere in between. We passed the famed Olde Pink House eatery (too crowded!) and questioned whether we had to wear masks outdoors — you’re supposed to. Geographically and pandemically situated, John and I decided to follow our friend’s lead, and we truly kicked up our slip-on Converse-clad heels. We dined at The Fat Radish (bliss!), the farm-to-table Cha Bella, The Collins Quarter and The Fitzroy. We sipped cocktails on the roof of the glamorous Perry Lane Hotel and brunched at Clary’s Cafe, the Little Duck Diner and B. Matthews Eatery. And then, we shopped. Savannah boasts a glorious assortment of design outposts such as Courtland & Co., PW Short General Store (incredible!), Alex Raskin Antiques (the crumbling building alone is worth the visit) and minimalist favorite Asher + Rye (too Scandi spare for Madcap maximalists!). We were in home design heaven. Our neighbors’ 90-minute 9 p.m. candlelit ghost tour was an especial highlight of the weekend. Throughout, we explored dark byways and atmospheric squares and learned about the ghosts and cemeteries that haunt and dot Savannah. Dan, our High Point neighbor, guided the tour. Decked in historic-styled garb, he was a font of knowledge paired with heaps of charisma and a true spirit of fun. John and I trotted George out for long walks (Savannah is super dog friendly), sampled ice cream at fabled Leopold’s, sipped more potent potables at Artillery and the Lone Wolf Lounge, nibbled treats from Byrd Cookie Company and explored the refurbished Plant Riverside District with its power-station-meets-pure-glitz JW Marriott Hotel and river-facing sushi and biergarten eateries. And, whew, there went the weekend . . . But there is so much more to see and experience in Savannah. We will most certainly be back — with cool Chatham Artillery Punch cocktails in hand, of course. OH
Drayton Lobby The Fat Radish
For more information about The Drayton Hotel, visit thedraytonhotel.com. The Madcap Cottage gents, John Loecke and Jason Oliver Nixon, embrace the new reality of COVID-friendly travel — heaps of road trips. The Art & Soul of Greensboro
O.Henry 33
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The Pleasures of Life Dept.
Good Gravy
The hot and heavy love affair that keeps me coming back for more
By David Claude Bailey
My father said he couldn’t wait to go
to heaven. He’d heard that everything there came with gravy on top of it.
I’m my father’s son, and please consider this a Valentine to the elixir of life, to mother’s milk (with a little pan juices, flour and fat thrown in), to no less than my favorite food group — gravy. Oh good gravy, how I love thee. And I’m not alone. My idol, Dolly Parton, once admitted, “Every time I fell off a diet was because of potatoes and gravy of some sort.” And the late American humorist Erma Bombeck once quipped, “I come from a family where gravy is considered a beverage.” (By the way, Dad, how’s chocolate ice cream topped with sawmill gravy?) Speaking of sawmill gravy, it was my father’s favorite — and mine too, though red-eye gravy and chicken-fried milk gravy are close contenders. At any rate, on the rare occasion Dad couldn’t jet home from work for a half-hour lunch because he was covering for another employee (which he inevitably did as manager of the Belk store in Reidsville), he’d go to Miller’s Cafe, put a napkin in his lap and, presto, a plate of biscuits, carpeted with sawmill gravy would appear, along with a cup of black coffee and a bottle of Texas Pete. Maybe you think sawmill gravy with biscuits isn’t exactly a well-balanced meal, but con-
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
sider this: at the base of this Southern food pyramid are the biscuits, made from wholesome Midwestern-raised grain, bleached to perfection. Your dairy requirement? Isn’t gravy loaded with milk? Protein? The sausage bits swimming around the plate. And vegetables? Isn’t that why they put sage in Southern sausage? My wife, Anne, makes superb gravy when she will. (Why would anyone leave a frying pan on the stove in which meat has been cooked without making gravy?) Anne’s finest is the milk gravy she makes after frying venison cutlets in bacon fat. Serve it on rice and you have to be careful not to swallow your tongue. When she heard I was writing about gravy, she wrinkled her nose the way she does and said, “OK, Mr. Smarty Chef Pants, what is gravy? And what’s the difference between a gravy and a sauce?” “Good question,” I answered, which is what people on NPR say when they’re put on the spot. I spent several months as a backline chef in a French restaurant, so I know what gravy is. Besides, I grew up eating gallons of it, made by the finest Pennsylvania-Dutch cook in the South, my mother. Her hallowed gravy boat buoyed mahogany potroast gravy, silky gravy made from roast chicken, potent and peppery au jus from roast beef and the milk gravy I learned how to make from watching her. She’d sprinkle a heaping tablespoon of flour and lots of pepper into her midnight-black, cast-iron skillet that was still sizzling with fat and pan drippings from frying fatback. She’d scrape up any crunchies sticking to the pan as the flour browned, then add milk slowly as she whisked the flour in and let it thicken. What could be simpler? But when does a gravy become a sauce and vice versa? O.Henry 35
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The Pleasures of Life I decided to consult Monsieur Larousse, as in Larousse Gastronomique. “You must understand, my American friend, we cook sauces, not gravy.” That’s what was channeled into my mind’s ear as I read the 15 pages devoted solely to sauces in Larousse. The closest thing to gravy, my Gastronomical friend said, is a demi-glaze, aka brown sauce, which has as its base dark and classic Espagnole sauce. “This has nothing to do with Spain,” Monsieur Larousse interjected from his massive tome. “We call it Espagnole sauce because Spaniards are dark. And because Germans are blonde, we refer to the much lighter sauce made from veal or poultry as sauce Allemande.” To make Espagnole sauce, I learned from Larousse, be prepared to boil bones, meat, carrots, onion, thyme, bay leaf and bacon for hours, draining and straining and skimming and recooking it multiple times. I remember how at Print Works Bistro I’d be tasked with pouring off the broth that had been cooking for hours in a 20-gallon steam jacket. The result was wonderful. But not gravy. Miss Fannie, as in Miss Fannie Farmer, calls pan drippings “the simplest, purest gravy imaginable.” Amen, sister. Keep it simple. Scrape the browned bits from the pan in which the meat has been cooked, she says, along with two tablespoons of fat. Add salt, pepper and a half cup of water or broth and stir. Want a thick gravy? Make a roux as my momma did with the pan fat or thicken the mixture with flour or corn starch stirred into cold water and then added to the pan. Easy, peasy, but stir, stir, stir to prevent lumping. But what if a cook chooses to enhance a gravy with cream, eggs,
wine or spices other than salt and pepper? Surely it then becomes a sauce. Both of my daughters say that their favorite gravy is their own dad’s proprietary red-eye gravy. I fry country ham only long enough to create something to scrape. Then I add enough coffee (espresso because that’s what I drink) to deglaze the pan. Lots of pepper, NOT salt, a dash of Worcestershire and Texas Pete, and, finally, I add, yes, Coca-Cola to sweeten it just a tad, not more than a tablespoon. Then, top it off with water until it’s the right strength. If you don’t put it on grits, you weren’t raised right. The question is, with those fancy ingredients, is it a sauce or gravy? Miss Joy (as in Joy of Cooking), for instance, classifies “pan gravy” as just another sauce. As does the authoritative John Mariani. Gravy, he says, is “a sauce, usually flour-based, served with meat, poultry and other foods.” But I’m pretty sure that neither of them are from the South. Confused, I finally decided to ask Noah Webster: “A sauce made from the thickened and seasoned juice of cooked meat.” Why didn’t I look in the dictionary in the first place? Now that you know all that, why don’t you get up early February 14, fry up some Neese’s Extra Sage Country Sausage, pop a can of refrigerator biscuits if you don’t enjoy making them from scratch, and see if your significant other doesn’t love you once, love you twice, love you better than gravy and rice. OH As a dinner guest, O.Henry’s Contributing Editor David Claude Bailey has been known to jump up from the table after volunteering to make gravy. And he insists no one has ever been disappointed because he did.
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38 O.Henry
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Birdwatch
Unexpected Guests
The red crossbill makes an appearance
By Susan Campbell
This winter has been quite a season
for birders across the Eastern United States. Here in North Carolina, it has been incredible with a variety of unexpected species scattered across the state. A few of them, like the snowy owl on the Outer Banks, were only around for a day. But others have been surprisingly widespread, are persisting and are being found in numbers. One such species is the red crossbill.
This feisty little seedeater with the oddly crisscrossed bill is native to the boreal forest, where conifers are abundant. They are uniquely adapted to pry open the sizable cones of spruces, firs, pines and even the small, compact cones of hemlocks. Crossbills are after the oily, nutrient-rich seeds found within. With short legs and strong feet, they cling easily to not only the bark and branches of the trees they forage on, but to the needles and cones as well. The challenge for these birds of the North is that the cone crop that they depend on, especially during the colder months, is not predictable. Some years there is more than enough food to sustain them. But in seasons such as this one, red crossbills are forced
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
to migrate much farther south than usual to find enough seed to make it through the winter. They may appear at feeders, especially those with hulled sunflower (referred to as “hearts” or “meats”) that the birds can easily consume. Red crossbills often give themselves away, since they travel in noisy flocks. Their distinctive “jip” calls are unlike any other vocalization you might hear in the winter in central North Carolina. Although the adult males are a bright red-orange color, the females and immature birds are more muted. They may get overlooked as one of our more common finches or sparrows. The streaky brown plumage of a female crossbill might cause confusion: They look very much like our familiar female house finches. So, be sure to look very closely at the bills of all the “little brown jobs” that show up at your feeder. And if you get lucky and spot a crossbill or two, I would love to hear about it. Interestingly, we do have a small population of red crossbills that breed in the northwestern corner of our state. The habitat on Mount Mitchell is the equivalent of the boreal forests of Canada and northern New England. So, if you don’t happen upon any in the coming weeks, should you find yourself at elevation in the mountains this summer, you may, nonetheless, catch a glimpse of one of these unusual birds. OH Susan would love to receive your wildlife observations and/or photos at susan@ncaves.com. O.Henry 39
Wandering Billy
Remembering Marion She never missed a beat. And I sure miss her
By Billy Eye Sweet is the memory of distant friends! Like the mellow rays of the departing sun, it falls tenderly, yet sadly, on the heart. – Washington Irving
Marion Hubbard, a dear friend and
remarkable woman, passed away a few weeks ago. Marion and her husband, A.P. (Ainslie Perrow), were two of my parents’ closest friends. I’d known them all my life and grew to love them like they were my own family. The Hubbards lived in a lovely home on Sunset Drive, where they raised their two daughters, Libby and Ada. A.P. was a businessman. For many years, his wholesale lumber company was a prime resource for the city’s leading contractors, supplying wood for homes being built in Kirkwood, Sunset Hills and Starmount Forest. Eventually, A.P. Hubbard Wholesale Lumber blossomed into an international, multimillion-dollar enterprise. Marion, on the other hand, led the life of a fairly typical Atomic Age housewife. She golfed and dined at the Greensboro Country Club, volunteered with the Junior League, served as a Rotarian, rode horses with the kids, taught Great Books in public schools, attended Holy Trinity Church and traveled the world. She was also a voracious reader, a veritable one-woman lending library filling life’s blank pages with verve, warmth, laughter, love and a keen sense of purpose. A.P. died suddenly in 1997, when Marion was 68. I interviewed Marion Hubbard in 2016 for an article that was never published. It’s the untold story, in her words, of how she stepped up as CEO of A.P. Hubbard Wholesale Lumber in the wake of her husband’s death. If a movie is ever made of Marion’s life, they’ll have to resurrect Barbara Stanwyck for the lead. Marion started the tale by saying that just before A.P.’s funeral, someone from the company approached her. “Marion, you really have to be in the office on Monday,” they told the newly widowed homemaker.
40 O.Henry
That, she said, got her attention. After all, she knew enough about the current state of the business to know that she could lose a lot of money if she didn’t immediately take charge. “When I went in,” Marion recalled, “one salesperson that works for A.P. came up and said, ‘Well, do you know about my bonus?’” “Yes, I do know about that,” replied Marion. “Well, do you know about that job we’re doing down in Charleston?” he retorted. “I know about that too, yes,” she said. “Well, do you know about . . .” This went on and on, she said, always with the same response: “Yes, I know.” The salesman became so furious his face went red. “Well, A.P. lied to us,” Marion recalled him blurting out. “Your husband said he never talked about business after 5 o’clock.” “He didn’t,” quipped Marion. “But he came home for lunch!” As it turned out, that salesperson had assumed — and even told everyone — that he would be in charge in the event that A.P. passed. This gave me a glimpse into the kind of relationship that A.P. and Marion must have had. Although she was a housewife, Marion had been aware for many years of the inner workings of her husband’s company. For instance, she said they would go into the office together on weekends and A.P. would look over the books and discuss upcoming jobs. “So he really did give me some insight,” she said. “It wasn’t just completely cold turkey.” She felt she had no choice but to take the reins of the business when she did. “I would be left with all the obligations but none of the benefits if I didn’t,” she told me. “A couple of people in my family told me, ‘Well, you can’t do this.’ And by that, meaning, ‘You’re probably not capable of it.’ Of course, that did not sit well with me.” There were, she recalled, some immediate, unexpected hurdles. A competitor, who was also a friend, attempted to lure away her most productive salesmen. Also, the bank initially refused to lend her any capital as they normally would have done for the company. “I suggested to the bank that maybe they were treating me that way because I was a woman,” Marion told me. “They were genuinely The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Wandering Billy shocked. They said, ‘Oh no, it’s because you’re inexperienced.’ Which I thought . . . that’s reasonable.” Fortunately, A.P.’s life insurance benefit provided the temporary finances to keep commerce, and timber, flowing. But one challenge followed another, as will happen in business. Embezzlement? Yep. That, too. The good news was that sales were “huge, in the millions, but our profit margin was so tiny, I’d be embarrassed to tell you what it was,” Marion said. Because they sold truckloads of product, any mistake was a big, expensive mistake. If a truckload of lumber disappeared, your bottom line could go from black to red overnight. In fact, that actually happened. “A truck driver called and said he didn’t have time to make a delivery,” Marion told me. “So he parked the truck outside his house, and it was gone the next morning.” Here’s where luck came into play: One of the salespeople was returning to Greensboro from a sales call when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something odd. “He makes a U-turn, drives back into the woods and there’s the tractor trailer with the lumber on it!” Beating a hasty retreat, he called the cops who recovered the stolen goods. She proved to be a tough businesswoman who steered the company successfully through the worst recession since the 1930s. But Marion was always generous, attributing the success to having a low overhead and a dedicated workforce. “We really did have some really good people. We had one of the buyers come in and say, ‘We can’t believe you did this much business out of this little office.’”
The company had its best year in 2015 — so good, Marion said, “it nearly killed us.” Collecting what was owed her at times presented a challenge. “I talked with this guy in Alabama who had declared bankruptcy. I felt sorry for him, of course, but I said, ‘Oh, you can start over.’” She was in her late 80s at the time. “Oh no, Miss Marion,” he told her, “I’m too old to do that.’” And she said, “How old are you?” The man was 35. “My goodness,” said Marion, “You know J.C. Penney started his ten-cent store when he was 75? You are not too old.” Can you believe he had the nerve to ask how old she was? He gasped when she told him . When Marion retired in 2017, A.P. Lumber was one of just a handful of lumber brokers remaining in Greensboro. I feel extremely fortunate that my sister and I had the opportunity to visit Marion last October. We enjoyed a lovely afternoon talking about times past and folks passed. She certainly didn’t seem like someone who would no longer be with us in just a couple of months. A true Southern doyenne, I deeply regret that the unsinkable Marion Hubbard isn’t here to read this now. Thankfully her warmth and zest for life live on in memory. OH Mr. O.G — Original Greensboro — aka Billy Eye would love to hear from you. Email tvparty@bellsouth.net.
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O.Henry 41
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Greyhound
February 2021
Every year for one summer week we fled city concrete, our skinned and scarred bony legs climbing steel bus steps. Our mother shaking her head at the zoomorphic use of a racing dog she believed was grossly falsified, sighing: Why they would put a fast dog on this slow-ass bus is beyond me! The driver collecting tickets always shook his head back, not for the misleading hound, but the long night ahead — a sundown that commenced crying fights, the lap feast of cold fried chicken and bread slices, head balancing acts of sleep upright. All to get down home, a foothill in the blue ridge mountains where we stepped off into a morning and the arms of our grandmother who’d say: My you’ve grown. How was the ride? Who’d boast she rode the mule-pulled tractor to the schoolhouse in snow. — Crystal Simone Smith (From the book All the Songs We Sing, celebrating the 25th Anniversary of the Carolina African American Writers’ Collective published by the Blair/Carolina Wren Press.)
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
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The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Cuckoo for Cocoa Custom chocolates sweeten the deal in downtown Gibsonville
By Maria Johnson • Photographs by Amy Freeman
R
elax, last-minute lovers. Debbie Stephens, the owner of Once Upon a Chocolate in Gibsonville, has your back at Valentine’s Day. After nearly 30 years in the chocolate business, she knows what to expect. You’ll saunter into her corner store on V-Day — or the day before, if you’re the plan-ahead sort — looking for confections to express your affection. Some of you will appear to be rather desperate.
You might ask Stephens what kind of chocolate she thinks your beloved would like — an indication that you might have issues that chocolate alone can’t fix. But, being an experienced businesswoman, the type with a soft-centered heart, Stephens will be kind. She’ll ask what sorts of sweets your sweetie savors, then she’ll guide you through a vast selection of velvety truffles and crunchy nut clusters arranged, in regimented rows, inside a gleaming glass case. If you’re looking for a more direct statement of purpose, she can show you hearts, Cupids, roses and lips wrapped in bright foil skins and glossy cellophane bags. She will have stocked up for the holiday, having hand-poured more candies than usual. Her small-batch method — along with her ability to mold custom chocolates in almost any shape you can The Art & Soul of Greensboro
O.Henry 45
imagine — sets her apart from most retail chocolatiers, who buy their wares from wholesalers. “It’s what enables my website to thrive,” she says. Her success embodies a sort of Forrest Gump Paradox. Gump, the movie character, famously quoted his mother as saying, “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get.” Stephens didn’t realize, until she was in her 30s, that she could make a second career of allowing people to know exactly what kind of chocolate they were going to get. Back in the 1990s, she was living in Florida, working as an office manager for a home improvement chain, and looking for an exit ramp from corporate life. Her mother, a small business expert with the state of Mississippi, suggested that she buy a chocolate shop franchise. Stephens had no experience making candy, but she liked crafting, and she figured she could learn to get creative with cocoa. Debbie’s Chocolate Delights opened in Tampa in 1992 and quickly became popular with people who wanted edible favors for weddings, bar mitzvahs, bat mitzvahs, bridal showers, baby showers and business gatherings. Custom candy bars — done in dark chocolate, milk chocolate or white chocolate — also were a hit. Debbie Boggs, the wife of All-Star baseball player Wade Boggs, used to order hundreds of candy bars, with a family photo printed on the wrapper, for a Christmas party they hosted every year. Within a couple of years, Stephens bought the store from the franchiser. Personalized chocolate was a good fit for her. Local customers kept her busy, and as online shopping took off in the early 2000s, people started locating the hard-to-find shapes on her website. One year, a helicopter-related company in the Netherlands ordered a fleet of chocolate choppers.
46 O.Henry
“I was thinking, ‘Is there no one closer to you that has chocolates? You’re in a candy country,’” says Stephens, who happily obliged the company nevertheless. Another memorable order came from a mall management company in the U.S. For a grand opening, they wanted custom-wrapped chocolate bars, some containing golden tickets for prizes, like the candy bars in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. The biggest order ever — 2,000 boxes, each containing five custom chocolates — came from a marketing company that was handling swag for a funeral home company headed to an industry convention in Las Vegas. The boxes — which included a chocolate bar with the company logo, a chocolate golf ball and a grand truffle with a money sign on top — went into the hotel rooms of company guests. In 2010, Stephens sold the Tampa business — including the name and molds — and she and her husband moved to Burlington to be closer to family. “I started over from scratch,” says Stephens. “I didn’t have anything but a little bit of knowledge about things that worked and things that didn’t work.” She set up shop in Gibsonville at the corner of Piedmont and Burlington avenues, a short hop from Main Street. “The small downtown setting appealed to me,” she says. “We have a wonderful merchants’ association, and the town is always striving to be better. There’s a sense of community that isn’t found in a big city.” The railroad-flavored business district, with its signature red caboose and garden train, draws a steady trickle of visitors, many with children. For them and other youngsters, Stephens keeps a ready supply of chocolates resembling the superhero Falcon, the folksy Thomas the Tank Engine and the robotic Transformers. The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Area businesses — including The Inn at Elon, Cone Health and Duke University — count on her for candies bearing their logos. But the majority of her business — in non-COVID times anyway — comes from out-of-staters who find her shop online and call in their orders. Stephens handles the details by phone to ensure accuracy. “I have customers telling me all the time that it is refreshing to talk directly to an owner,” she says. Her top seller is the gold foil-wrapped figure that’s billed on her website as a “chocolate Oscar-style statue.” The stand-up figure is a winner with people who host Hollywoodthemed gatherings and watch parties for the annual Academy Awards show, which has been moved to April 25 this year because of COVID. Six years ago, Parade magazine mentioned Stephens’ chocolate statues in a story about Oscar parties. She was inundated with calls the next day. “It was so bad that Monday morning, we had to take the phone off the hook,” she says. “That was a case where too much publicity was a bad thing.” Stephens has shipped the statues as far away as Paris, France and Azerbaijan. She also helps customers who want to celebrate specific films. “I enjoyed an order the year the movie Titanic came out,” she says. “The client was having a party, and I made cruise ships for each person, as well as a large block of white chocolate that looked like an iceberg. She placed it on a mirror on her table.” Stephens’ bank of about 5,000 molds made from food-safe plastic makes it highly likely that she can turn out whatever shape her customers might want: Dinosaurs. The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Butterflies. Cell phones. Pipe wrenches. Slot machines. “I have an artillery regiment in Kansas City that orders chocolate cannons for their event every year,” she says. “The (chocolate) handguns have been ordered by a group in Atlanta who holds a concealedcarry convention every year.” Business gatherings have plunged in the past year because of COVID, and that has taken a huge bite out of Stephens’ sales. Her business is down 75 percent, but the remaining 25 percent is enough to keep her melting and pouring. The raw material is a chocolate base that comes from a supplier in 50-pound cases. She liquifies the tear-shaped, chocolate discs in melters that hold the molten mixture at a steady temperature while she dips and pours. The chocolate takes 10 to 20 minutes to set up, and it keeps for three to four months. Stephens uses no preservatives. There’s not much need; her creations disappear quickly, though not by her own hand, which answers one of the most common questions she hears: Aren’t you tempted to eat your work? Stephens says no. “At work, I’m thinking of food like chicken, burgers; nothing sweet,” she says. “I have a tendency to want chocolate at home, but I just don’t take it home. It’s rich, and you can’t eat tons, plus if I’m sitting around eating it, I just have to make more.” OH Maria Johnson is a contributing editor of O.Henry. She can be reached at ohenrymaria@gmail.com. O.Henry 47
48 O.Henry
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
On the Border By Mélina Mangal Illustrations by Harry Blair
F
irst time I saw it, I knew right away it was hurt. Else it would’ve flown away like any other sensible bird when it seen me coming with the hoe. It fluttered and cowered in the corner of the garden, in between the rows of pole beans. Probably fell out of the tree, like so many baby birds come springtime. But I didn’t see a nest in the sweetgum behind the fence. I would’ve noticed it. The bird was squat and black, like a lump of furry fat. It looked like some kind of duck, but I couldn’t tell for sure. Its tiny tail feathers was caked with mud. Dark marble eyes stared at me. Could it smell the chicken fat, liver parts, bone bits and blood sunk into my skin from years coating my smock? It had been so bad when I’d started at the Royal Poultry Emporium, couldn’t nothing take the smell away. No matter what I tried — Jovan Musk, coconut oil, even Frank’s aftershave — I still smelled that raw, bloody chicken as I drove back across the border to South Carolina every night with Aunt Della and Sheryl Caldwell. After a few years, couldn’t notice the difference no more. But everyone outside the plant could. It tore me apart to see my own baby girl shrivel and cry whenever I came near ’cause of the smell. Seemed like she only let Frank hold her and give her the bottle. Maybe if I had just fed her my own milk, she’d be alive today. Preemies better off on formula, they’d said. But maybe she could’ve gotten used to my smell. After all, Frank did. Wasn’t the smell drove him away. It was the operation. After they cut my baby girl out, they cut out my womb. To save my life, they said. I raised the hoe, wondering if there would be a sound as it came down across that feathery skull. I didn’t need no bird getting into my vegetables, ’specially since I had to live off them now. The company had barely paid my medical bills, and the court said the state didn’t need to pay nothing, even though they had never inspected that poultry pit. Not once. I needed
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
O.Henry 49
the money, but Lucifer’s serpents couldn’t drag me back to a place like that again. Didn’t never want to touch no more meat, no matter how it was cooked. Couldn’t stand to think about it — that frying in hot oil, boiling, barbecuing. Hellish flames burning and tearing at flesh, burning screams and dreams right off the bone. Fire trapping and slapping bodies into a smoldering ooze. I looked down at the dirty lump staring at me. Was it a haint come from the bloody ashes to get me? Had to get rid of that bird, that nasty smelly bird. I could still smell it, like it was just yesterday, stinking up my hair, my skin, my air. From where I’d stood near the front entrance, I’d heard the rush of gas as it lit a wall of fire all around us. Heard the fire killing screams. Pushed and ran and ran. Hot, hot, black smoke, frying flesh, screaming screaming screaming. Donna Basnight Sheryl Caldwell Vonda Truelove Laquita Fearington Annie Gibbs burning at the door marked Fire Exit Only. I saw them pounding, faces twisted and trapped from where I crawled outside. Smoky mess, couldn’t open the door for them — blocked — my arms still on fire as I looked down. That bird stared up at me, glassy black eyes accusing. “Why me?” I steadied the hoe between my shaking arms and raised it again, like a pickax. Had to get rid of that stinky bird. No more fowl. No more feathers. No more flesh. The bird inched away, toward the fence, toward the ashes of the Royal Poultry Emporium. “Fly you, damn it! Why can’t you fly, you devil bird?” I closed my eyes and with all my strength brought the hoe down. The sound of screaming filled my ears. Stop. Stop the screaming. I brought the hoe down again and again, my eyes closed tighter to block out the cries. All I saw was black smoke. Run. Run. Keep running. Stop. Stop the screaming. Stop. I’d run clear across the field and was next to the highway. I leaned on the signpost to steady myself and catch my breath. Then I read the sign. Adopt-a-Highway. This portion of 177 adopted by Mason Hog Farms. The oatmeal I’d eaten for breakfast lurched up and out. I stood there until a horn honked at me. My sister’s brown Dodge pickup stopped in the middle of the road. “Marilyn, what are you doing here?” Sandra’s soft voice coated me as she touched my arm. “Just taking a walk. That’s all.” I knew what she was thinking. You never go nowhere. You’re afraid to leave the yard. But I couldn’t tell her what I was really afraid of.
I
got in the truck with her and she drove me back home. After they released me from that burn center in Charlotte, Sandra let me stay in Michael’s room since he’d gone to the Marines. But my nephew’s room was right next to the kitchen. I couldn’t live that close to those smells. So Sandra’s husband had fixed up their old shed for me. I went right there and stayed the rest of the day, reading my Burpee’s seed catalog. Next morning I went back out to the garden. The hoe lay in the dirt, next to five deep gashes where the blade had landed. I stopped to pick it up, so I could get back to my work. Felt like Grandpa Chaney, the way he used to bend to pick the beans and
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potatoes he’d planted earlier. That’s all I want to do. Dig, plant, grow. Like Grandma Chaney too. Used to snap beans as fast as she knit. Snap plink snap plink as she dropped the beans in a bucket in summer. Click click clack when her needles connected in winter. And every so often she’d grab a chicken from the yard and twist and snap — I heard a rustling in the dirt. I looked over and those hard wet eyes looked back up at me. Birds don’t blink but I thought it was dead. Should’ve been. The bird looked the same as I left it, a muddly black blob. Could’ve been a lump of dirt. Maybe it was. I closed my eyes tight and counted to 10. When I opened them, the lump was still there. And it moved. I backed away. And kept walking, until I reached my little house. I was shaking when I lay down on my cot. That damn bird. Fixin’ to eat up my seedlings. Sent here to scare me. I sat straight up again. No. No haint or bird or nothing was going to ruin my garden. I went back out to the far side and worked on my flower beds. Tulips, daffodils and iris about to bloom. This was my garden, no matter whose land it was on. I worked it, watered it, cared for it. I lay down in it next morning before the sun come up. I felt all misty and cool and new, like the morning glories before they open up to the day. Like the deep purple pansies shiny with dew. I pretend to be one of them, with fresh new skin. Velvety soft and smooth, so smooth you want to lay your face next to one and breathe pure sweetness. After the sun come up I got my tools and returned to the vegetable side of the garden. I inched closer to the bean patch. But I was going to work on the peas first. My fingers sunk into the damp black dirt. It felt good to not feel pain no more. I saw a flutter in the corner of my eye but didn’t want to turn. I kept playing with the dirt, letting it sift through my fingers.
I
heard a tiny sound from the bean patch. I didn’t want to see nothing ’cept dirt and seedlings. But I saw the bird. It was still a dirty black lump. Its head lurched forward and grabbed a thick graybrown worm. It snapped its beak and swallowed. The bird’s skinny throat bulged where the worm got sucked down. My hands were shaking. This bird wouldn’t die. I backed up and ran to Sandra’s house. Had to do something, clean. Had to do laundry. I threw all their clothes from the basket into the washing machine, then ran across the yard to get all of my clothes. I did four loads and hung each batch to dry outside. The next day I went to weed near the turnips and collards. The ground was still wet from rain and the plants looked all clean and green. I smiled at them. Then I stole a peek at the bean patch. The bird was still there but farther away this time. And it looked different. I walked over to the bird and saw its shiny tail feathers. The rain must have washed all the dirt off. I moved in and looked at it even closer. It shivered. I saw myself in its mirror eyes. A hulking creature with stained and stretched skin holding a hoe in her hands.
W
ater leaked in through the door when it stormed that night. I cut out the light and stuck my toes in the cool puddle. I watched out the window as thousands of The Art & Soul of Greensboro
droplets fell from the sky. A rain parade showered my flowers and vegetables, like confetti in those New York parades on TV. A flash of lightning lit up a corner of the garden, and I smiled at how pretty and silver it looked. But I jumped when a clap of thunder struck real close. I couldn’t stop shaking after that. Why couldn’t it have rained the day of the fire? Water would have poured over the flames, dousing them quick. Another bolt of lightning flashed and thunder crashed again, even closer. Why’d it have to happen? Lightning lit the bean patch before me, and I strained to see from behind my window. That bird would be pelted out there, if it was still alive. Seconds later, I was out in the garden, sloshing around in the mud, looking for the bird. Rain washed over me, soaked through me, seeped into me. I nearly stepped on it as the bird tried to hide under new tomato plants. I scooped it up and it pecked at me, but I ran all the way back to my little house with it. I dried it with my towel and set it down on the braided rug next to my cot. It set there, still shaking, looking all around. After I dried myself and changed, I stepped over it to my bed. I lay there looking down at that shiny black mess of feathers. It smelled just like me, wet and muddy.
I
didn’t get up for my morning walk in the flowers like usual. I was too afraid of stepping on the bird in the darkness. So I lay there until the sun poked in through the windows. The bird didn’t move when I stepped over it to get breakfast. I bent down and touched it, thinking it might be dead. Its eyes opened, but this time it didn’t shake or flutter away from me. Or try to peck. I stroked the back of its neck and was surprised at how soft it felt. Like a kitten. After making toast for myself, I crumbled up another piece and put it outside my door for the bird. If I just fed it a little and looked after it for a while, it would fly off on its own when it could. I went to the bean patch right away after that and worked all the rows of vegetables.
A
week passed before Pansy walked without looking like she’d topple over. I’d started feeding her corn and cereal and other scraps. She loved them. And her feathers looked silkier and shiner than I ever guessed they could. I still hadn’t figured out what kind of a bird she was. She had to be some special kind of duck. When the mailman came around to my little house, I was holding Pansy in my lap, stroking her sleek feathers. He held out the white envelope and I took it with my left hand. “Got yourself a new bird there, Ms. Marilyn?” “Just nursing it till it can fly again.” “You know chickens don’t fly much. That’s a Bantam. My brother raises ’em.” He ticked me off when he started laughing. So I didn’t answer. I looked at the envelope. It was from Cameron, Tate & Howell, lawyers for the plant. I knew from the size it couldn’t be a check. So I set it down and stroked Pansy with both hands. I heard a cheer-cheer-cheer and saw a red bird land in the sweetgum. I blew it a kiss. OH
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
(From the book All the Songs We Sing, celebrating the 25th Anniversary of the Carolina African American Writers’ Collective published by the Blair/Carolina Wren Press.) Working at the intersection of nature, literature and culture, Mélina Mangal highlights those whose voices are rarely heard, and the people and places that inspire them to explore their world. A graduate of UNC-Chapel Hill’s School of Information and Library Science, Mangal opened up the first joint Public/School Library in Carrboro at McDougle Middle School. She has authored short stories and biographies for youth, including The Vast Wonder of the World: Biologist Ernest Everett Just, winner of the Carter G. Woodson Award. Her latest book is Jayden’s Impossible Garden. O.Henry 51
PHOTOGRAPH COURTESY OF BRITTANY BUTTERWORTH
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The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Labor
of Love
The historic T. Austin Finch House blushes anew By Cynthia Adams
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54 O.Henry
That’s when another young couple, Hilary and Andrew Clement, entered the story. They knew it wouldn’t be easy, but with an infusion of love and cash — not to mention strong backs and helping hands — the Clements vowed to restore the T. Austin Finch House to its former glory. How that transpired is quite a saga. The Clements were living in Greensboro when, in 2016, Andrew took a teaching job in Thomasville, which was close enough to commute. It wasn’t long before he learned about the historic Finch house, which had been on the market for several years. No one wanted the house to be lost, including Thomasville’s city leaders, recalls Andrew. It was a valuable piece of the town’s story, and over time, it became a siren call to a man itching to see the old beauty saved. The story of the house’s revival began in the summer of 2017, when Andrew began making repeated visits to the 1.5-acre property. He peered through the windows, admiring the architectural details and sensing the mansion’s former grandeur. Then he began wondering The Art & Soul of Greensboro
PHOTOGRAPH BY AMY FREEMAN
T
oday, Thomasville’s Renaissance Revival mansion of the T. Austin Finch house is a favorite photo location for blushing brides, who smile radiantly for the camera from the Juliet balcony. Exactly one century ago, the elegant home was built for another blushing bride, Ernestine Lambeth, the newly-wed wife of T. Austin Finch. Although the house was built as a symbol of their union, it also represented the fusion of two families’ successful companies: Lambeth Furniture and Thomasville Chair Company. According to Winston-Salem historian Heather Fearnbach, the Finch-Lambeth wedding unified “two major North Carolina furniture-manufacturing dynasties.” And it firmly solidified Thomasville Furniture as a furniture megabrand. But that was in another era. In succeeding years, the North Carolina furniture industry became a shadow of its former self. T. Austin Finch House languished, and then sat empty, serving as a poignant reminder of the decline of manufacturing in the state and in the Triad.
PHOTOGRAPHS BY AMY FREEMAN
what a little love — or, more like a lot of love — could do for this vacant old house. Basically, Andrew Clement had fallen irrevocably in love with the Finch House. To get some perspective on his infatuation, Andrew decided to call Jim Howard, a Realtor and longtime friend, to walk through the mansion with him. “It was an incredible deal,” says Howard. But what would Hilary think? Howard recognized it just might be a perfect match for the Clements, who were no newbies to restoration projects. In fact, buying and flipping houses was more than a mutual passion and avocation. “In 20 years as a remodeling contractor, I have repaired and renovated over 500 homes,” says Andrew. And together, Andrew and Hilary had renovated 17 properties — all distressed and most in foreclosure — including a 1938 bungalow in Glenwood, which they documented online. The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Between Andrew’s experience and Hilary’s artistic eye, Howard became convinced that the couple could work some real magic on a property that certainly needed a lot of love. Hilary is a rare bird: equal parts scientist and artist. She is a skilled Realist painter by night and manages a high-pressured DNA lab by day. Andrew is a third-generation craftsman who says he “was born” to become a renovator. Together, they complement one another’s strengths. Which, as it happens, is a good thing when undertaking something as daunting as a well-known mansion languishing in a sad state of neglect and disrepair in plain view on Thomasville’s main street. Indeed, this was no small undertaking. It was enormous — scary big even for someone with the Clements’ track record. Six bedrooms, nine bathrooms and 7,000 square feet of all sorts of issues, including rot and moisture. And that’s not counting the carriage house, former servants’ quarters or garage, which would add another 1,300 square feet of space to the project. “There was some caution and a lot of due diligence,” says Andrew. They decided that the only way they could make things work financially would be to revitalize the house as an event center. But they would have to battle mold and decay before the first new couple could stand inside its once lovely plaster walls and murmur “I do.” Perhaps the resident ghost might have whispered in their ear that if they loved the house, a home would one day love them back. Who can explain love? In any case, the Clements ultimately responded with a yes — they would love the house back to life. They purchased the Finch property on October 20, 2017. Andrew had renovated his first old property when he was only 22-years-old — a house even older than the Finch house — a 1902 Queen Anne McLeansville farmhouse. The work inspired him to earn his general contractor’s license, and Andrew has focused upon renovations since. Now 42, he had 20 years of experience to his credit as proven by scars, scrapes and bruises. Yet nothing compared to such a grand mansion. And, it seemed karmic. Inside the Finch mansion’s plastered and paneled walls was a century of history and the physical remnants of its former grandeur. For instance, original wormy cypress was used in a magnificent, intact library, part of an addition made in the late 30s. Fireplaces and surrounds had survived, thanks in part to the fact that there had been few owners and renovations. A delightful and mysterious star motif O.Henry 55
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The Art & Soul of Greensboro
PHOTOGRAPH COURTESY OF BRITTANY BUTTERWORTH
repeated in the public room. The home’s charming pastel-tiled bathrooms were in surprisingly good condition. Leaded glass windows and rare Jefferson windows were intact, too. As Andrew grew more convinced it was viable to take on, Hilary was unnerved. “Hilary had a lot of reservations about the property,” admits Andrew. “She didn’t want the renovation to sink us financially, which it almost did. She was also concerned about me stretching myself too thin, which I did also,” Andrew admits. Ultimately, Hilary became persuaded that with their combined talents and determination, they could pull the project off. “Hilary is our secret weapon,” confesses Andrew. “She has driven and controlled ‘the look.’ We agree on most design decisions, but I defer to her insight. Hilary built our website and runs our social media. This is so helpful in an image-driven business.” In 2018, the couple hired historian Heather Fearnbach, whose professional assistance furthered the process of getting the home listed on the National Register of Historic Places. The listing was a crucial step in terms of securing important tax credits, which would make the project more feasible. The application was aided by the fact that the Renaissance Revival home and its occupants were well-documented. Given the Finches role within Thomasville’s history — Thomas Finch having even served as mayor — the provenance of the restored house was almost synonymous with the town itself. “It’s really overwhelming at times when you think about who has been in the building and what it has meant to the community,” Andrew told the Lexington in an interview. It took the couple a full year to make the house habitable again. Was there a moment when they thought, “what have we done?” Oh, yes. Two-thirds of the way through the project, Andrew admits he “hit a wall,” so to speak. “I had some serious health issues, and we started to run out of money to complete the work,” he says. “It was at this point that I believed buying this property was the worst decision I had ever made.” The Art & Soul of Greensboro
But this love story was written in the stars. Thankfully, at the perfect time and in the perfect way, the Clements were able to complete the renovation. With the encouragement of family and friends, they hosted the first event in October of 2018. No longer the private address for the Finches, a powerful couple who entertained North Carolina’s affluent and influential, the historic home is now open as a public venue. The beauty of the home and carriage house, with an enormous reception tent out back, has attracted a flock of lovebirds, hosting more than 50 weddings over the last two years. The property is thriving, accommodating as many guests as can be safely organized with the constraints of a pandemic. Given that the story of this house is a tale of two couples, it is so fitting that the property has become a venue where other couples make vows that will determine the course of their lives. And it is uncanny how many parallels exist between the original owners and the couple that brought their home back to life. Whereas the Finches were instrumental in modernizing and growing the furniture business, they were also deeply civic-minded, like the Lambeth family. The Finches lent considerable money and support to public projects, ambitious ones ranging from schools and hospitals to libraries. Like the Finches, Andrew had also had a long commitment to public service. Howard notes, “He’s always chosen his career by the contribution to society.” Andrew balances work as a project manager for Community Housing Solutions, a nonprofit that provides home repairs and new houses for low-income homeowners in Guilford County. “Community Housing Solutions (CHS) began in 2002 under the name Housing Greensboro,” he says. “CHS was formed in partnership with the Center to Create Housing Opportunities, Greensboro Housing Coalition, Habitat for Humanity of Greater Greensboro and the City of Greensboro.” O.Henry 57
TOP PHOTOGRAPH COURTESY OF BRITTANY BUTTERWORTH BOTTOM RIGHT PHOTOGRAPH COURTESY OF SERENA ADAMS
The house was formally listed on The National Registry of Historic Places on August 26, 2018. “Grandson David Finch has visited to see the restoration. Great grandson Justin Finch has also visited with his wife. Both have been appreciative,” says Andrew. Former Thomasville Furniture employees have also come to see the house, which was occasionally open to them long ago for special Finchfamily events. Hilary keeps an art studio upstairs where she paints on weekends. She also chooses treasures for the house. Ones that “feel right,” says Andrew. Would the house’s resident ghost approve of them? The rugged Andrew pauses, smiles, then admits something as long shadows fall across the dining room, which retains its triplehung sash windows. “We have never spent the night and have no intention of ever living in the house.” After being pressed, he merely grins — or grimaces — enigmatically. “Some of the local police and other residents swear the house is haunted. I do have to admit I’ve been weirded out a few times being in the house all alone when it’s dark.” With darkness falling, Andrew flicks on a flashlight, gives a little shrug, and we both make a hasty exit. OH For more information about the T. Austin Finch House, visit www. the-finch-house.com. To see Hilary’s artwork, visit www.hilarypaints. com. And to view the Clements’ renovation of their Glenwood bungalow, visit bungalowandbackyard.blogspot.com.
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The Art & Soul of Greensboro
PHOTOGRAPH COURTESY OF AURA MARZOUK
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
O.Henry 59
A L M A N A C
February n By Ashley Wahl
F
ebruary is the space between the darkest hour and the earliest light. A paper-thin sliver of silver moon. A sensuous world of deep silence. High in the towering pine, a pair of great horned owls sit with their clutch in the black of night, yellow eyes like ancient, swirling galaxies. In this realm of shadow and mystery — this wintry temple of stillness — they are the wisdom keepers. And they are always listening. Warm beneath the great horned mother, three white spheres hold tiny, secret worlds. Days from now, the brood will hatch. But in this moment, all is quiet. Until it isn’t. On the forest floor, movement flickers like a light in the dark. There’s a faint rustling of leaves. The stealthy owl king twists his head until he targets the source, seeing with his ears before his eyes. Hare? Mouse? We’ll never know. Nature holds her secrets close. February heightens the senses. Silence cradles every sound, and you can feel it — the charged nothingness before the rhythmic hoots of the great horned beasts. The charged nothingness that follows. Mystery flirts with your mind like wind dancing through metal chimes. Just before the earliest light, you hear what sounds for all the world like the piercing, primal scream of a banshee. You are half frightened, half delighted, which speaks to your own primal nature. Next, you hear a sequence of yips and yups. A shriek and more yups. Then, silence. You suspect what you’ve heard is a pair of foxes, but only the owl knows for sure. And in this sacred window between darkness and light — this thin crescent moon of a month — nature holds her secrets close.
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When you listen with your soul, you come into rhythm and unity with the music of the universe. —John O’Donohue Year of the Ox
Friday, February 12, marks the celebration of the Chinese New Year — day after the new moon. Cue the paper lanterns for the Year of the Ox, a year of hard work and, let’s hope, positive change. According to ancient myth, twelve animals raced to the Jade Emperor’s party to determine which order they would appear in the zodiac. The ox is the second because, well, the rat tricked it. All of this to say, trust your gut — and get ready for a good year in your garden.
Winter Bloomers
What is that spicy, glorious aroma, you ask? That would be paperbush (Edgeworthia chrysantha), which gets its name from its bark, not its fragrant yellow flowers. Paperbush is a deciduous shrub that blossoms in late winter. Native to the Himalayas, China and Japan, this winter bloomer prefers moist, rich soil and a shaded landscape. And with its elegant silhouette and bluish, almost silvery foliage, it dazzles all year. Speaking of bluish . . . let’s talk about violets. Blue violet, purple violet, hooded violet, wood violet, meadow violet, woolly blue violet. Whatever you call it, the birth flower of February is an herbaceous perennial celebrated for carpeting the winter landscape. They’re edible, too. Although the common violet grows wild along our East Coast, there are hundreds of species of violet (genus Viola), first cultivated by the Greeks circa 500 B.C. According to Greek myth, hunter-goddess Artemis transformed one of her nymphs into a violet — not, say, a red rose — when the huntress’s twin, Apollo, tried to pursue her. Thus, the violet is said to represent modesty and humility. It’s also been known as the “lesbian flower,” and in 1927, a play called The Captive featured a female character sending violets to another female character. The production stirred the pot, so to speak, with its conspicuous theme of lesbianism and was eventually shut down. But in 1978, the color violet made its way into the rainbow flag for San Francisco’s Gay Freedom Celebration. Violets are for everyone. OH
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Spring
HOME MAKEOVER Find inspiration for your next home makeover project in the following pages. Whether you’re looking to beautify the inside your home or add a touch of luxury to your outdoor living, O.Henry’s portfolio of resources will help you enjoy the place you call home.
Your North Carolina Furniture, Art and Mattress Source
210 Stage Coach Trail Greensboro | 336.855.9034 | www.pribafurniture.com
Shop our online store for all your gardening needs. Plants, Flowers, Fruit Trees, Garden Supplies, Planters, Gifts.
We specialize in unique, native, and specimen plants.
We specialize in unique, native, and specimen plants. 701 Milner Dr. Greensboro | 336-299-1535 | guilfordgardencenter.com
Get the Kitchen of Your Dreams with the Quality and Customer Service that you Deserve
Kitchen and Bath Cabinetry, Entertainment Centers, Built Ins, Bookcases, Handmade Detailed Trim. Whether it is to design the kitchen of your dreams or build a bathroom vanity, every project is custom built to suit your individual needs and design ideas. We are there for you from layout and design through installation and beyond.
639 South Scales St. • Reidsville NC 27320 | 336-616-1300 • 336-342-0908 | alcornswoodworking.com
Creating Designs for your Lifestyle‌. Beautiful, Functional‌.Timeless!
Beautiful and inviting spaces custom designed for your lifestyle with professional planning and comfortable furnishings for any size home Call for your appointment or stop by our beautiful showroom! Eric C Lackey, IDS | Diane D Lackey, IDS 509 Randolph Street, Thomasville | 336-476-3223 | www.decoratorsedge.com
LET MORE LIGHT INTO YOUR LIFE
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400 West Mountain Street Kernersville, NC 27284 | salemwindowsanddoors.com | 336-497-5429
M A R ION Tile & Flooring
CERAMIC TILE • MARBLE • VINYL • CARPET • HARDWOOD
Bath Remodeling and Modifications 4719 Pleasant Garden Road, Pleasant Garden | www.mariontile.com | 336-674-8839
Adding new life to your furniture
1027 Huffman Street, Greensboro | www.seaboltupholstery.com | 336-382-0506
Refresh, Renew, Reimagine New Garden Landscaping & Nursery has brought our client’s landscaping visions to life for over 40 years with quality work and attention to detail. Whatever you can imagine, we’ll let it take root.
(336) 665-0291 | newgarden.com
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The Sazerac, a weekly newsletter offers fun bits to keep you entertained. Each Friday afternoon, you’ll find past columns from O.Henry editor Jim Dodson, Simple gardening advice, a cocktail recipe and more.
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The Art & Soul of Greensboro
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February 2021
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Although conscientious effort is made to provide accurate and up-to-date information, all events are subject to change and errors can occur! Please call to verify times, costs, status and location before planning or attending an event.
February 1–7
NOT OVER THE HILL. Paintings, sculpture, photography, ceramics, jewelry, wood and fiber works by emerging and established artists from across the state. WINTER SHOW remains on display for its final week. Free to the public; tickets required. GreenHill Center for NC Art, 200 N. Davie St., Greensboro.Info: (336) 937-3051 or greenhillnc.org.
February 1–4 & 17–20
TO THE THEATRE! 7:30 p.m. The Greensboro College Theatre Department kicks off the second half of its 2020–2021 season with two productions: Actually (February 1–4) and It’s Only Life, a musical revue by John Buccino (February 17–20). Face masks required. Dates subject to change. Free; tickets required. Greensboro College, 815 W Market St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 272-7102, ext. 52422 or greensboro.edu/theatre.
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Fresh Out of the Box
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Get Moving
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February 3
February 13
February 4
February 15–26
DISHIN’ OUT ART. Noon until 12:20 p.m. Noon @ the ’Spoon continues. Explore a new exhibit each month at WAM during one third of your lunch hour. First Wednesday of each month. Free; reservations required. Weatherspoon Art Museum, 500 Tate St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 334-5770 or weatherspoonart.org. PERFORMATIVE INTERACTIONS. 5:30 p.m. Stacey L. Kirby discusses her art installation, The Bureau of Personal Belonging, which aims to encourage conversation surrounding citizenship, identity and human rights through performances activated by viewer interaction. Free virtual event; registration required. Info: (336) 334-5770 or weatherspoonart.org.
February 9
ART IN SCIENCE. Noon. Dr. Jennifer Landin of NCSU shares her approach to teaching biological illustration and discusses how knowledge, observation and drawing impact each other. Free virtual event; registration required. Info: (336) 334-5770 or weatherspoonart.org.
FORE! 1–3 p.m. If you’re trying to switch up your golf game, why not try FootGolf? Kick a soccer ball into a series of large goals using the fewest possible shots in this up-and-coming sport. No golf clubs required. Admission: $7/ person. Gillespie Golf Course, 206 E. Florida St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 373-5850. THE BUREAU OF PERSONAL BELONGING. A socially engaging art installation by Stacey L. Kirby will be on display as a part of UNCG’s “She Can, We Can: Beyond the Women’s Suffrage Centennial.” Free. Reservations required for “immersive performances” on February 17, 20, 23 and 26. UNCG’s Greensboro Project Space, 111 E. February One Place, Greensboro. Info: (845) 405-9159 or greensboroprojectspace.com.
February 16
SNAPSHOTS OF WISDOM. 7:30 p.m. Worldrenowned photographer Paul Nicklen is part of the popular Guilford College Bryan Series, now hosted virtually. Info: thebryanseries@guilford. The Art & Soul of Greensboro
FIRST ART IMAGE, TINA VINCENT, YOUNG BOY, 2020, MIXED MEDIA, 36X24 INCHES
Not Over the Hill
Calendar February 18
SOUND ESCAPES CONCERT. 7:30—10 p.m. Featuring Aaron Larget-Caplan, an international recording and touring guitarist. In-person and streaming options available; tickets required. The University of North Carolina at Greensboro, Tew Recital Hall, 100 McIver St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 334-5789 or vpa.uncg.edu.
February 19
LOOKING SMART. Noon. Experts in the sciences, arts and humanities host “How Do I Look: Seeing with Expert Eyes,” a series of conversations surrounding artworks in the Weatherspoon’s collection. Free virtual event; registration required. Info: (336) 334-5770 or weatherspoonart.org. FRESH OUT OF THE BOX. 7 p.m. Singer and ventriloquist Darci Lynne Farmer of America’s Got Talent fame stops in Greensboro on her inaugural tour. Tickets start at $25.75. Steven Tanger Center for the Performing Arts, 300 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 373-7575 or tangercenter.com.
February 20
GET MOVING. 8–10 p.m. The annual Prime Movers Concert features original choreography and
works by UNCG School of Dance majors and is produced entirely by the university’s Dance Student Organization. Attend in-person or via livestream. Tickets: $5–25. The University of North Carolina at Greensboro, Mary Channing Coleman Building, 1408 Walker Ave., Greensboro. Info: (336) 3345570 or dance.uncg.edu.
February 24
FOR DRAMA LOVERS. 8–10 p.m. Aspiring directors compare and explore techniques during this monthly workshop. Open to ages 16+. Registration: $30/session; $100/year. The Drama Center of City Arts, 200 N. Davie St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 373-2026 or thedramacenter.com.
February 25–March 14
TRIAD JEWISH FILM FESTIVAL. The Greensboro Jewish Federation virtually presents seven of the best films from Israeli and Jewish cinema yet to be released in theaters. Tickets: $11/film. Info: (336) 852-5433 or mytjff.com.
WEEKLY HAPPENINGS SUNDAYS
NEW YEAR, NEW DOG. 4:30–5:30 p.m. Megan Blake teaches her “We Begin Now” dog training classes via Zoom. Ask her all your dog training questions, address behavioral problems and practice what you and your furry friend have been working on. Free; registration required. Info: WeBeginNow8@MeganBlake.com or greensborodowntownparks.org.
ALTERNATING MONDAYS ‘M’ IS FOR MURDER. 7–8 p.m. Lovers of true crime rejoice! The Greensboro Library hosts a virtual Murder Mystery Film Club discussion every other Monday, starting February 1 with Not Carol, then The House of Suh on February 15. Movies are free to watch with valid library card. Info: library.greensboro-nc.gov.
February 27
SEEING IN COLOR. 10 a.m. –5 p.m. Vibrant: Artists Engage with Color opens to the public. Free. Weatherspoon Art Museum, 500 Tate St., Greensboro. Info: (336) 334-5770 or weatherspoonart.org.
To add an event, email us at ohenrymagcalendar@gmail.com by the first of the month ONE MONTH PRIOR TO THE EVENT.
X Bobbie Maynard
Broker, Realtor ® , GRI, CRS, CSP, Green
Team Leader
Over 30 years experience buying & selling the Triad
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edu or guilford.edu/life/bryan-series.
Show your smile some LOVE
Make the right move!
CELL-336.215.8017 • GREENSBORO, NC • BOBBIEMAYNARD.COM
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
O.Henry 71
knitting FOR THE LOVE OF
2-J HOME IMPROVEMENT
• Painting • Pressure Washing • Carpentry • Hardwood Flooring • Tile Installation • Wallpaper Removal • & More! JOE DAAS
(336) 549-0854 Licensed and Insured
1614-C WEST FRIENDLY AVENUE GREENSBORO, NC 27403 336-272-2032 stitchpoint@att.net MONDAY-FRIDAY: 10:00-6:00 SATURDAY: 10:00-4:00
Practicing Commercial Real Estate by the Golden Rule Bill Strickland, CCIM Commercial Real Estate Broker/REALTOR 336.369.5974 | bstrickland@bipinc.com
www.bipinc.com
ASHMORE RARE COINS & METALS Since 1987
• 30+ years as a major dealer of Gold, Silver, and Coins • Most respected local dealer for appraising and buying Coin Collections, Gold, Silver, Diamond Jewelry and Sterling Flatware • Investment Gold, Silver, & Platinum Bullion
You won’t find them in ordinary kitchens. Or at ordinary stores. Sub-Zero, the preservation specialist. Wolf, the cooking specialist. You’ll find them only at your local kitchen specialist.
SHOP LOCAL FOR BEST PRICES We Service What We Sell & Offer Personal Attention
Visit us: www.ashmore.com or call 336-617-7537 5725 W. Friendly Ave. Ste 112 • Greensboro, NC 27410 Across the street from the entrance to Guilford College
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336-854-9222 • www.HartApplianceCenter.com
2201 Patterson Street, Greensboro, NC (2 Blocks from the Coliseum) Mon. - Fri.: 9:30am - 5:30 pm Sat. 10 am - 2 pm • Closed Sunday
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
modern furniture made locally
Preventive & Wellness Care • Hospitalization Medicine / Surgery • Dentistry Laser Therapy • And more ...
Dr. John Wehe | Dr. Tyler Perkins 511 S Elm St. | Greensboro NC 27406 | 336.370.1050 areamod.com
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We strive to provide complete care for our patients.
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1 2 1 - A W E S T M C G E E S T. | G R E E N S B O R O , N C 2 74 0 1 3 3 6 . 7 6 3 . 9 5 6 9 | W W W. J A C O B R AY M O N D J E W E L R Y. C O M
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
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Fall In Love With Your Skin
BEAU JOURS
Results Driven Skin Treatments by Licensed Master Aesthetician
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Facials • Chemical Peels Micro & Hydro Dermabrasion Dermaplaning • Microneedling LED Light Therapy • Skin Classic All of our medical grade treatments and products are free of harmful chemicals, parabens, sulfates, and are cruelty-free.
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507 State Street, Greensboro NC 27405 336-275-7645 • Mon - Sat 11am - 6pm www.LilloBella.com
501 State Street Greensboro, 27205 •336.274.4533 • YamamoriLtd.com 10:00-5:30 Monday-Friday • 10:00-3:00 Saturday and Sunday by Appointment
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The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Love is in the air As in, I love staying home and 1st Choice keeps me there!
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Life & Home
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email: info@1stChoiceHomeCareInc.com
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The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Swing by for your shake or tea fix or a personalized health plan to fit your needs. • Free Wellness Evaluations • One-On-One Health Coaching • Personalized Meal Planning 1633 Spring Garden St. | Greensboro, NC 27403 | 919.937.7252 @GSOsipnshape
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shops • service • food • farms
support locally owned businesses
Fall in Love with Locally Owned Businesses
WWW.TRIADLOCALFIRST.COM
Carriage House Antiques & Home Decor 336.373.6200
2214 Golden Gate Drive Greensboro, NC Monday-Friday 10-5 • Saturday 10-4
“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.
76 O.Henry
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Join the effort. Visit www.triadlocalfirst.com.
As seen in: Biltmore House, Asheville Greensboro News & Record
C.P. LOGAN “SERENITY FALLS” • 22”X28” • ORIGINAL OIL
Resinate Art The Original Representational Epoxy Artist ARTIST Carol Kaminski • HOURS by appointment only RESIN classes available
CONNIE P. LOGAN - ARTIST/TEACHER
4912 Hackamore Rd, Greensboro, 27410
www. CPLogan.com
Arts
& CULTURE
704-608-9664 • www.ResinateArt.com
Black History Month Programs
Podcasts
Pieces of Now Exhibit
Collect · Connect #HistoryHappeningNow Visit greensborohistory.org for events, resources and more
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shops • service • food • farms
support locally owned businesses
SweetTreats
ABOUND
Irving Park
Dover Square
♥♥ ♥
LADIES CLOTHING, GIFTS, BABY, JEWELRY, GIFTS FOR THE HOME, TABLEWARE, DELICIOUS FOOD
A small batch bakery with fresh batches every day. From cake pops, brownies, cupcakes, and much more, we’re happy to satisfy your sweet tooth. 1616 Battleground Ave, Greensboro, NC (336)306-2827 Order by email! easypeasydnd@gmail.com
1738 Battleground Ave • Irving Park Plaza Shopping Center • Greensboro, NC • (336) 273-3566
78 O.Henry
The Art & Soul of Greensboro
Join the effort. Visit www.triadlocalfirst.com.
Irving Park
COMING SOON! BOOK NOW ONLINE
Live well
Relax & Breathe
At Salt and Soul, we are dedicated to the simple yet powerful understanding that health is a precious aspect of life that can, and need be protected, improved, and maintained.
Greensboro Salt Room and Wellness Studio offering Halotherapy, Hydromassage and Infrared Sauna services
Salt & Soul
1819 Pembroke Road | Greensboro, NC 27408
336-763-4666 www.saltandsoulgso.com The Art & Soul of Greensboro
O.Henry 79
O.Henry Ending
Never Arrive at the Funeral Home Late By K atherine Snow Smith
I watched from the second-to-last
basement stair, which was covered in the original short-pile marigold carpet from 1959. My mother ironed my sister Melinda’s tea-length dress. It was the color of orange sherbet, lace overlaying silk. Melinda had worn it to our cousin Melanie’s wedding several years earlier. It would be the last dress she would ever wear, because she was to be buried in it the next day.
We had to be at Brown-Wynne Funeral Home to plan my sister’s funeral in just about an hour. My mother, who painstakingly pressed every tuck and every pleat, was moving in slow motion. Then she stopped ironing to talk. “First thing this morning, we heard a lawnmower and looked out the dining room window and that sweet Grady Cooper was mowing the lawn. He did the front and back in all this heat,” she told me, referring to my dad’s good friend since sixth grade. Grady knew we’d have people coming over and wanted the house to look good, but more so, he just wanted to do something to help when there really was nothing anyone could do. “And then that wonderful Glenn Keever insisted on going with your father and Alean to the funeral home this morning,” she said as she placed a tulip sleeve over the tip of the ironing board. Alean was the housekeeper who had stayed with Melinda and me while our parents worked. She was still coming once a week when Melinda died at age 31 in a car crash. After my father told her the funeral would be closed casket, Alean asked if she could see Melinda once more. He complied immediately, later telling me he wouldn’t have done that for anyone but her. Glenn was one of my father’s closest friends. He had identified my sister’s body for the authorities after she was killed by a drunk
80 O.Henry
driver. My parents were out of town, and I was living in Florida. This all happened more than 20 years ago, and as every well-wisher promised me at the time, the pain has lessened. The gaping hole will never be refilled. I still remember how the basement smelled that day with the stiff, clean fragrance of Niagara Spray Starch as my mom ironed. It was a familiar scent because the ironing board was always in our basement, where Melinda and I had spent hours, thousands of hours, playing. To my right was the big brick fireplace, devoid of ashes in June. I pictured it two decades before, lined with produce boxes my mom procured from Winn-Dixie so Melinda and I could stack them three high and eight long to build empires for our Barbies. Finally, my mother was done ironing Melinda’s dress. She carefully hung it on a padded coat hanger. Now if she could just change clothes quickly we could leave in 10 minutes and get to the funeral home almost on time. But then she placed a pair of white cotton underwear over the ironing board and gingerly touched the steaming iron to the fabric, an inch at a time. Nobody, I mean nobody, was even going to see the underwear. What was she doing? And then I got it. I was only four months pregnant with my first child, but I got it. She wanted to be Melinda’s mother for five more minutes. She wanted to keep ironing, caring, teaching, defending, celebrating, helping, consoling, praising. This was the last thing she would ever do for her daughter. “I love you so, so much and so did Melinda,” I said as I rushed to my mother and hugged her. “Thank you, Katherine. I love you more than you will ever know,” she said through tears. We were a good half hour late to the funeral home. Nobody complained. OH Katherine Snow Smith is a North Carolina native who has worked as a journalist throughout the Carolinas. She currently lives in St. Petersburg, Fla., where she is a freelance editor and writer, but visits her parents and friends in the Tar Heel state every month. This essay was excerpted from her first book, Rules for the Southern Rulebreaker: Missteps and Lessons Learned, which was published by She Writes Press in 2020. The Art & Soul of Greensboro
ILLUSTRATION BY HARRY BLAIR
A broken rule and a lesson on love and understanding
NOW ACCEPTING APPOINTMENTS FOR EYE EXAMS! CALL TODAY! 336-852-7107
2222 Patterson St, Suite A, Greensboro, NC 27407 Serving the Triad’s eyewear needs for over 40 years