Calls of the Wild

The season of the full-throated eastern phoebe is here

By Susan Campbell

Eastern phoebes are small black-and-white birds that can be easily overlooked — if it weren’t for their loud voices. Repeated “feee-bee, fee-bee” can be heard around wet areas all over our state during the warmer months. The farther west one travels through the Piedmont and into the Foothills, calling males become more and more common. From March through June, they loudly and incessantly declare their territory from elevated perches adjacent to ponds and streams.

Phoebes have an extensive range in the Eastern United States: from the coast to the Rockies and up and across central Canada. In the winter they can be found in southern states from the Carolinas over to Texas down into Mexico and even in northern Central America. They are exclusively insectivorous, feeding on beetles, dragonflies, moths — any bugs that will fit down the hatch. Although they don’t typically take advantage of feeders, I have seen one that did manage to negotiate a suet cage one winter. The birds’ feet are weak, and they are not capable of clinging. So this bird actually had perfected a hovering technique as it fed in spurts.

Originally, Eastern phoebes would use ledges on cliff faces for nesting. We do not know much about their habits in such locations since few are found breeding in such places now. Things have changed a lot for these birds as humans have altered their landscape and offered them an abundance of urban locales in which to nest.

In our area, phoebes can be easy to spot as a result of their loud calls, but their nests may not be. Good-sized open cup structures, the habitats will be tucked in out-of-the-way locations. Typically they will be on a ledge high up on a girder under a bridge or associated with a large culvert. The corner of a porch or another protected flat spot often suits them. Grasses and thin branches are woven and glued together with mud, so the nests are necessarily located near wet areas.

The affinity eastern phoebes have for nesting on man-made structures in our area may indicate that these are safer than more traditional locations. Climbing snakes are not uncommon in the Piedmont and Sandhills. Black rat snakes and corn snakes are not as active in buildings as they are on bridges and other water-control structures. It might be that the birds are adapting their behavior in response to these predators and others that are less likely to dwell so close to human activity.

In recent years it has been fascinating to discover the variety of locations that these little birds choose as support structure for nesting.  Light fixtures and light boxes (such as the one on our hay barn that is this year’s choice for the local pair), gazebos, porch support posts and other domestic structures suit their needs as long as they are covered by at least a slight overhang. Water, of course, is a necessity for phoebes in summer, and they require mature trees for perching and foraging, as well. So keep an ear out and perhaps you will find one of these adaptable birds nearby — ’tis the season!!

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

Trespassing on Fertile Ground

Writing a book requires a curious spirit, a rental car and potential bail money

By Wiley Cash

On two separate occasions, my career as a novelist has nearly resulted in my being charged with breaking and entering. The first instance occurred at my elementary school. When I was 35 years old.

In June 2013, I was invited back to my high school in Gastonia, North Carolina, to receive an alumni award that was to be given during the school’s graduation ceremony. After flying down on Friday and settling in at the hotel, I woke up early on Saturday morning with a little time to kill, and I thought I’d drive my rental car over to Robinson Elementary, where I had gone to school as a child. The baseball field behind the school serves as the model for the ball field in the opening scene of This Dark Road to Mercy, a novel whose final edits I was then in the middle of completing. I wanted to see the ball field again and make certain that I had gotten it “right” on the page. I wanted to know that my memory had done it justice.

I followed the sidewalk to the back of the building, where a playground sat, the old baseball field resting at the bottom of the hill. I stood there, picturing my characters, two young sisters, playing on the ball field. Once I was certain that I had imprinted the scene upon my mind, I made my way back to the front of the school. That is when I passed the gymnasium. At that moment, the exact smell of the gymnasium came back to me, a scent I had not smelled in almost 25 years: fresh carpet, new paint, well-used basketballs, and something else that I wasn’t able to place. I couldn’t resist my curiosity in wondering whether or not the gym still smelled the same. I checked the door. It was unlocked. I opened it and stepped inside.

I have two bits of news to report: First, the gymnasium at Robinson Elementary has smelled the exact same for almost 25 years. Second, Robinson Elementary’s security alarm is really loud.

I slammed the door and stood there for a moment, and I’m not going to lie: I considered fleeing. Before I continue, let me tell you a little about my rental car. It was a souped-up, turquoise Camaro. The guy at the rental place had been excited when he told me about the car, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that it wasn’t quite my style. Now, I pictured myself in my suit and tie, burning rubber in a turquoise Camaro as I peeled out of my old elementary school’s parking lot. I did the only thing I could think to do: I pulled out my cellphone and called 911 on myself. The conversation went something like this: No, I don’t work for Robinson Elementary. No, I don’t have a child who goes here. No, I’m from out of town. But I’m a writer, and I wrote about Robinson in a novel that will be out next year. I have to let you go. The police are here.

A similar line of questioning occurred during my parking lot police interrogation. As soon as I was released my wife called. “Is that a siren?” she asked. I gave the only answer I could give. “I set off the alarm at my elementary school.” Apparently, my wife is used to this type of behavior because all she said was, “I’ll talk to you later.”

The second time my career as a novelist nearly resulted in a rap sheet for breaking and entering occurred last spring, just west of Gastonia in the small town of Bessemer City, where much of my forthcoming novel The Last Ballad is set. The novel, which is based on true events, tells the story of a young woman who is swept up in a violent mill strike during the summer of 1929. Her name was Ella May Wiggins, and she worked at a mill in Bessemer City called American Mill No. 2. After a little research, I was able to locate the crumbling mill: It had been sold several times over the intervening decades, and, from where I sat parked along the road in front of the old mill, it appeared abandoned.

I got out of the car, a Subaru Forester — more inconspicuous and better suited for exploration than the Camaro — and approached the gate, assuming it would be locked, but there was no lock, and when I tried to open the gate it opened easily. I climbed back into my car, drove through the open gate, and parked in front of the mill.

For the next half hour I took pictures outside the mill, wondering where Ella had entered it, wondering how I would capture it on the page. It was painted a fading white, but I knew from old photographs that the red brick beneath had once been exposed. I also knew that Ella had worked as a spinner, but from outside the mill, I couldn’t imagine where the spinning room would have been located. I considered trying the doors to see if any of them were unlocked. I even considered climbing up the ramp and trying to gain entry to the doors in the loading area. But the place was so quiet and felt so undisturbed that something gave me pause. The mill felt haunted, whether by Ella’s presence or my own imagining, I could not tell. I decided to snap one more photo of the mill before getting back into my car and heading for Asheville, where I was scheduled to give a reading that evening.

And that’s when I saw him: a scarecrow of a man standing on the loading dock about 100 yards from me. I lowered my camera, feeling as if I’d just been caught stealing secrets. The man wore blue jeans and a button-down shirt, a baseball hat pulled low over his eyes. His face was obscured by shadow, but he appeared to have a mustache and to be wearing thick glasses. I lowered my camera, and I stared at him. He stared back at me.

My car was parked between us, and I considered sprinting to it and getting behind the wheel and stepping on the gas for Asheville. But instead I approached the man where he stood. I didn’t say a word until I was within 10 feet or so of where he loomed above me from his perch on the loading dock.

“Hello,” I said. “My name’s Wiley Cash, and I’m a writer, and I’m writing about a woman who worked at this mill in 1929. I was just taking a few pictures for research.”

Silence.

“Her name was Ella May Wiggins,” I said. “She was shot and killed during the Loray Mill strike.”

More silence.

“Have you ever heard of her?”

He raised his eyes, looked out toward the road where the gate remained open from my illegal entry. He stared at my Subaru, and I suddenly wished I’d been driving the Camaro. Finally, he looked at me. I wondered if he would go inside and call the police, or if he’d disappear and return with some kind of weapon and take the law into his own hands.

“Well,” he said, “I reckon you’d better come inside and have a look around.”

His name was Walter, and he was 67 years old. He’d grown up in Gastonia not too far from the place where I’d grown up, and he’d been working at the mill — under one owner or another — since the late 1970s.

“There were almost 200 employees back then,” he said. “Today, we’ve got two on the floor.”

Inside, two middle-aged women were busy packaging cloth rope and preparing it to be shipped. Neither of them looked up when Walter and I passed.

The mill appeared even older once I was inside it. It was dark and musty, the hardwood floor worn smooth from decades of foot traffic and pocked from years of heavy machinery being moved across it, the ceiling low and riddled with what appeared to be hand-hewn beams and crossbeams where single bulbs cast soft yellow light defined by deep shadows.

“This is probably exactly what this place looked like when she worked here back in ’29,” Walter said. He stopped, looked at me. “What did she do?”

“She was a spinner,” I said.

“Come on,” he said.

I followed him up a rickety staircase to the second story. It ran almost the length of the mill, but it was virtually empty. The roof pitched above us at a sharp angle. Sunlight streamed through dirty glass windows and chinks in the walls. Gaps in the flooring made it so I could see through to the story below.

“This is where the spinners would’ve worked,” he said. “The machines would’ve been up here.”

“Would it have been loud?” I asked.

“Deafening.”

“And hot?”

“You can’t imagine,” he said.

“She worked 70 hours a week for $9,” I said. “And she had five children. Four had already passed away. She joined the strike because she thought the rest of them might die if something didn’t change.”

He drew his lips into a straight line, shook his head in what seemed like either disbelief or disappointment. I thought of the two silent women at work downstairs, and I wondered if Walter saw anything of Ella’s story in theirs.

When I left, I told Walter that I’d make sure he got a copy of my novel when it came out. I told him I’d drop by the mill and see him. He smiled.

“If we’re still here,” he said. “If so, I hope you’ll stop by.”

I’ve learned that sometimes, as a writer, you have to get out of the (rental) car and open doors. Other times, it’s best to wait for doors to be opened to you.  OH

Wiley Cash lives in Wilmington, North Carolina, with his wife and their two daughters. His forthcoming novel The Last Ballad is available for pre-order wherever books are sold.

The Daiquiri

And the way to perfect it with myriad rums

By Tony Cross

The next time you’re in an establishment and you’re uncertain if the drinks on their cocktail list are any good or not, order a daiquiri. If you’re envisioning a syrupy, strawberry-colored frozen drink that comes in a 16-ounce piña colada glass, keep reading. To make a classic daiquiri, all you need is rum, lime juice and sugar. But like many other pre-Prohibition cocktails, the daiquiri was ruined in the ’70s with artificial everything. When made correctly, this cocktail is the epitome of balance: not too boozy, not too tart, and not too sweet. Chances are, if the bartender can make a good daiquiri, the other cocktails on the list will also be balanced. I’ve had guests request a daiquiri for this very reason, and it resulted in their group ordering a few other cocktails throughout the evening.

I tried this gambit out a few years back on a hot summer afternoon. The bartender took my order, only to return a few minutes later to ask if I “wanted that blended.” I opted for the sauvignon blanc instead. Here are a few of my favorite rums that I’ll be making daiquiris with and kicking back during the first month of summer.

Flor de Caña Extra Seco 4 Years

Cocktail historian David Wondrich calls the daiquiri “the first true classic cocktail to be invented outside the United States.” He’s right, and like so many classic cocktails that I’ve researched, many bartenders from the past have taken credit for their creation. Wondrich found the daiquiri referred to as the “Cuban Cocktail” in a cocktail book from Hugo Ensslin called Recipes For Mixed Drinks published in 1916. However, in a later edition of the book, Ensslin corrects himself, giving credit to Jacques Straub for publishing the cocktail in 1914. What we do know is that the original was made with Bacardi rum. Bacardi in the early 1900s was different from the Bacardi we know today. Back then it was rich and “exceptionally smooth.” Today, it’s very light, with not much flavor. Instead, grab a bottle of Flor de Caña Extra Seco 4 Years. Based in Nicaragua, this distillery — meaning “Flower of the Cane” — has been around since 1890. The sugar cane was planted at the foot of a volcano in hopes that the soil would enrich the flavors of the rum, and the humidity would naturally age it once it was in oak barrels. Flor de Caña makes a lot of different aged rums: four year, five year, seven year, 12 year, 18 year, and a 25 year. This is the best go-to rum for making a classic daiquiri without hurting your pocket: less than $20 a bottle.

Classic Daiquiri

2 ounces Flor de Caña Extra Seco 4 Years

3/4 ounce fresh lime juice

1/2 ounce simple syrup (2:1)

Combine all ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice, and shake vigorously until the shaker is very cold. Strain into a chilled cocktail coupe glass. No garnish.

Fair Game Beverage Company’s Amber Rum

A few years back, Fair Game distiller Chris Jude released a sorghum rum titled “No’Lasses.” It was delicious and different: great rum characteristics, but with a whiskey backbone. Last year, he released his Amber Rum. He sources his panela sugar from Colombia. Panela sugar is made from evaporated cane juice; it’s a raw sugar with rich flavors. This sugar gives the rum a sweet, floral and grassy profile. Like the No’Lasses, it’s also aged in bourbon barrels after distillation in Jude’s alembic pot still. The sugar ferments very slowly with Caribbean rum yeast before being added to the still. If you’re looking for a daiquiri with more body and flavor, use this rum. You can use it with the same specs from the daiquiri recipe above or when making a Hemmingway,  named for the author, of course. Legend has it, at the El Floridita bar in Havana, Hemmingway set a house record for drinking 16 doubles (sans the sugar — that alone would’ve probably killed him).

Hemmingway Daiquiri

2 ounces Fair Game Amber Rum

3/4 ounce fresh lime juice

1/2 ounce fresh grapefruit juice

Bar spoon maraschino liqueur

Bar spoon simple syrup (2:1)

Combine all ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice, and shake vigorously until the shaker is very cold. Strain into a chilled cocktail coupe glass. No garnish.

Smith & Cross Traditional Jamaican Rum

My favorite rum. Ever. There are so many great things to say about this funky rum. Funky as in all kinds of flavor — on the nose it smells like a Werther’s caramel drop and on the palate there are ripe bananas, nuttiness and spice, undertones of grass, oak and honey. Coming in at a whopping 57 percent ABV, this is my definition of pirate rum. Titled “Navy Strength,” it must be at least 100 proof, which was the traditional strength requirement of the British Navy.

Smith & Cross is one of the oldest producers of spirits and sugar in England. Dating back to 1788, the sugar refinery was located on the London docks. As time passed, the refineries turned into rum cellars. Haus Alpenz, the distributor of Smith & Cross, says, “At this proof a spill of the spirits would not prevent gunpowder from igniting. As important, this degree of concentration provided an efficiency in conveyance on board and onward to trading partners far away.” This rum is bottled in London, and made with a combo of the Wedderburn and Plummer styles of rum producing. The Wedderburn style is aged for less than a year, and the Plummer is aged one to three years in white oak. Molasses, skimmings (the debris that collects of the top of the boiling fluids, skimmed off during molasses and sugar production), cane juice, the syrup bottoms from sugar production, and the dunder (the liquid left in the boiler after distilling rum) make this rum my favorite; it’s not just because we share the same name.

Here’s my recipe for a daiquri. This has got
to be one of my favorite cocktails to drink. The half ounce of Smith & Cross does wonders for this quick sipper.

Cross Daiquiri

1 1/2 ounces Flor de Caña Extra Seco

1/2 ounce Smith & Cross Jamaican Rum

3/4 ounce fresh lime juice

1/2 ounce simple syrup (2:1)

Combine all ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice from distilled water, and shake vigorously until the shaker is very cold. Strain into a chilled cocktail coupe glass. No garnish.  OH

Tony Cross is a bartender who runs cocktail catering company Reverie Cocktails in Southern Pines.

Hi, Ho Silver

A tarnished history

By Susan Kelly

Itís June, the traditional month for weddings, though there are no “traditions,” much less rules anymore when it comes to weddings. To all my cousins, and the parents of all those bridesmaids and groomsmen, I’m sorry, but there just wasn’t room. And while wedding stories abound, my eternal favorite will be the hungover groomsman who projectile vomited at the altar of First Presbyterian. Mainly because it overshadows the groomsman who began a toast at my wedding with the alphabet, and by the letter F, it was clearly a disaster — and there were still 20 letters to go. Thirty-nine years later, my mother has yet to forgive him.

Used to be that sterling silver was The Gift To Get.  The Hunt brothers in Texas were buying up all the silver when I got married, so even a humble teaspoon deserved a two-sided thank you note. My grandmother had earlier “started” my silver pattern with a silver-backed hand mirror, which I found particularly useless except to practice smiling without showing my gums, a flaw I was then obsessing over. (She’d also given me a circle pin. Seriously: I’d rather have had Love’s Baby Soft perfume, Jean Naté bath splash, anything.)

There used to be rules for silver, too. About putting it in the dishwasher; about not using it with eggs or mayonnaise. You won’t find silver at Pottery Barn, or Lowe’s, which is where couples register these days. You also won’t find it on my sideboard, because, having grown up racing through my grandmother’s dining room and hearing the rattle of the silver service on her sideboard, I vowed that old-person tinkle would never happen to me. So, I ditched my mother-in-law’s silver tea service this year. My mother-in-law taught me the best way to polish silver. You line the sink with tinfoil, dump in generous amounts of Spic and Span and ammonia, and throw in the silver. Then stand back, because the fumes are completely lethal. Take that, tarnish!

The only piece of silver I’d truly like to own is the one I don’t: a wee watering can no bigger than a thimble, and meant to dispense a drop or two of vermouth in a martini. At my house, we just whisper “vermooooth” over the gin, and that’s sufficient. Still, if I ever find the watering can, I’m buying it.  If nothing else, I can put it on a charm bracelet. Because, you know, everyone wears charm bracelets so much nowadays.  OH

Susan Kelly is a blithe spirit, author of several novels, and proud new grandmother.

Dog Days Ahead

Ruff language from the monthly rescue dog meeting

By Clyde Edgerton

Following is a transcript
of a recent rescue dog monthly meeting at a local pound:

Dog 1, the Moderator: Good afternoon. My name is Dusty. I’m a Mix. As you have been informed, we are meeting to go over some of the characteristics of rescue families. As you know, if you are not rescued this month then —

Dog 2: Please don’t go into that.

OK. But please be aware that you may be rescued by a Conservative, a Liberal, a Mix, or a Hermit. You should be able to recognize either, so that you can pick the rescue family that will be a good fit for you. That’s the purpose of our meeting — recognition. Please interrupt at any time with questions, by the way.

Dog 2: What’s a Mix?

Someone who is both a Conservative and a Liberal.

Dog 3: Impossible

Dog 4: No, it’s not.

Dog 2: What’s a Conservative?

Someone who listens to Fox News on their SirrusXM Satellite car radio.

Dog 2: What’s a Liberal?

Someone who listens to CNN or MSNBC on their SirrusXM Satellite car radio.

Dog 2: How are they different?

I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but it may be easier to say how they are alike. Judging from the commercials on those stations, they all likely owe $10,000 in back taxes or they are over $10,000 in credit card debt or they snore a lot, or are dysfunctional in some other way. It’s like they are all criminals. And, as with all humans these days, they are owned by somebody — or something — they may not recognize. And neither group will feed you chicken bones. But, as to their differences, I can tell you that —

Dog 2: What’s a Hermit?

A loner.

Dog 3: Why would a Hermit want a dog?

Don’t know. They probably wouldn’t. Right. So scratch that category.

Dog 4: Just wondering — can a woman be a Hermit?

Of course. Why would you think otherwise?

Dog 5: What’s a woman?

Come on, y’all — you were supposed to do your homework.  A woman is person who will most likely be feeding you once you rescue a family. Now, please hold off on the questions and let me just clarify a few things.

Dog 4: But what’s a man, then?

Dog 5: Do you mean a person who identifies as a man?

Dog 4: You must be a Liberal. Nanny nanny boo boo.

Dog 5: You must be a Conservative. Nanny nanny boo boo.

Hold on, hold on. Please don’t jump to conclusions. You are dogs, remember. You serve Conservatives, Liberals and Mixes. We rescue so that we can provide entertainment and company to rescue families, regardless of their political outlook. We must all —

Dog 6: I’ve been around the block a few times. Peed on a lot of fire hydrants. And I can tell you this: You want to rescue people who are kind to dogs. I rescued a Conservative family twice and a Liberal family twice. I learned that kindness is unpredictable. What you need is somebody who will squat down, look you in the eye, and talk to you. Gently. Who will give you food, shelter, and love. And if you are a Mix, like all of us here, then you —

Dog 7: I’m a pure breed. Dalmatian, as a matter of fact.

Dogs 2 – 23: Oh my goodness.

What the hell are you doing here?

My Lord.

For Heaven’s sake!

Overbred. Overbred. Overbred.

Nanny nanny boo boo.

Liar.

Dummy.

Softy.

Calm down. Listen up. Let’s not jump to conclusions. I believe there may be more than one pure breed among us. Or that could be what we call a “social construct.” Please understand that we are all in this together. More than likely each of you will find a family match — even pure-breed-Dalmatian-Dog 7. I understand Dalmatians are high-strung and perhaps you, Dog 7, will find a comfortable match . . . say, a vegetarian family. And listen, everybody, if a family doesn’t work out, simply bring them back and we will send them over for feline therapy. Believe me, they will come crawling back.  OH

Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels, a memoir and most recently,
Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW.

Jumpin’ June

Mystery, suspense and a generational saga are among this month’s offerings

By Brian Lampkin

June 6: The Last Kid Left, by Rosecrans Baldwin (MCD, $27). The Last Kid Left is a bold, searching novel about how our relationships operate in a hyper-connected world, an expertly-portrayed account of tragedy turned mercilessly into entertainment. And it’s the suspenseful unwinding of a crime that’s more complex than it initially seems. But mostly it’s the story of two teenagers, dismantled by circumstances and rotten luck, who are desperate to believe that love is enough to save them. Baldwin lives in Chapel Hill and teaches at the Center for Documentary Studies at Duke.

June 6: Camino Island, by John Grisham (Doubleday Books, $28.95). A gang of thieves stages a daring heist from a secure vault deep below Princeton University’s Firestone Library. Their loot is priceless, but Princeton has insured it for $25 million dollars.

Bruce Cable owns a popular bookstore in the sleepy resort town of Santa Rosa on Camino Island in Florida. He makes his real money, though, as a prominent dealer in rare books. Very few people know that he occasionally dabbles in the black market of stolen books and manuscripts. John Grisham will appear at Scuppernong Books on June 27 (ticket required!).

June 13: You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me: A Memoir, by Sherman Alexie (Little Brown, $28). Winner of the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction, the PEN/Malamud Award for Short Fiction, a PEN/Hemingway Citation for Best First Fiction, and the National Book Award for Young People’s Literature, Sherman Alexie is a poet, short-story writer, novelist and performer. A Spokane/Couer d’Alene Indian, Alexie grew up in Wellpinit, Washington, on the Spokane Indian Reservation.

June 13: Blind Spot, by Teju Cole (Random House, $40). In this innovative synthesis of words and images, the award-winning author of Open City and photography critic for The New York Times Magazine combines two of his great passions. The Los Angeles Times calls Cole “one of the most vibrant voices in contemporary writing.”

June 27: Quiet Until the Thaw, by Alexandra Fuller (Penguin, $25). The debut novel from the bestselling author of Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight and Leaving Before the Rains Come. A complex tale that spans generations and geography, Quiet Until the Thaw conjures the implications of an oppressed history, how we are bound not just to immediate family but to all who have come before and will come after us, and, most of all, to the notion that everything was always, and is always, connected.

June 27: Take Out, by Margaret Maron (Grand Central, $27). Following the heartwarming conclusion to her Deborah Knott series, New York Times bestselling author Margaret Maron returns with a thrilling new mystery featuring NYPD detective Sigrid Harald. Hopefully we’ll see Greensboro’s own Ms. Maron at bookstores around the state.  OH

Brian Lampkin is one of the proprietors of Scuppernong Books.

Back to Bulgaria

A compelling and mysterious journey

By D.G. Martin

Asheville author Elizabeth Kostova will always be remembered for her 2005 novel,
The Historian, that became the fastest-selling hardback debut novel in U.S. history and the first ever to become No. 1 on The New York Times best-seller list in its first week on sale. Her achievement was especially noteworthy because her book was literary fiction, a genre that does not often produce massive sales results.

The plot of The Historian followed a search by scholars for the origins of Vlad the Impaler, better known as Count Dracula. After research in libraries and archives in Amsterdam and Istanbul, the book’s main characters travel throughout Eastern Europe in search of Dracula’s tomb. When they find it in a Bulgarian monastery, it’s empty. Is Dracula still alive? Will they find him? Are there other vampires? On these questions, Kostova built her compelling and successful mystery.

Kostova’s second book, The Swan Thieves, was set in the world of art and made the Times bestseller list for 20 weeks in 2010.

In her third and most-recent book, The Shadow Land, she takes her readers back to Bulgaria, but this time there are no vampires. The villains are modern and very realistic.

Its main character is a young North Carolina mountain woman, Alexandra Boyd. On her first day in the country she meets a small Bulgarian family group — an older woman and two men, one in a wheelchair and the other a tall man of particular note.

Showing off her lyrical prowess, Kostova writes, “She saw that the tall man was dressed in a black vest and an immaculate white shirt, too warm and formal for the day. His trousers were also too shiny, his black shoes too highly polished. His thick dark hair, with its sheen of silver, was brushed firmly back from his forehead. A strong profile.
Up close he looked younger than she’d first thought him. He was frowning, his face flushed, glance sharp. It was hard for her to tell whether he was nearer to thirty-eight or fifty-five. She realized through her fatigue that he might be one of the handsomest men she’d ever observed, broad-shouldered and dignified under his somehow out-of-date clothes, his nose long and elegant, the cheekbones flowing up toward narrow bright eyes when he turned slightly in her direction. Fine grooves radiated from the edges of his mouth, as if he had a different face that he reserved for smiling. She saw that he was too old for her after all. His hand hung at his side, only a few feet from one of hers. She felt an actual twinge of desire, and took a step away.”

He tells her his group is on its way to a beautiful monastery and suggests she consider visiting it, too. After they leave, notwithstanding Alexandra’s obvious fascination with him, it will be several hundred pages before she sees the man again, and we understand why he was described so completely. When his group departs in a taxi, Alexandra discovers she has a satchel that belongs to the Bulgarians.

A young taxi driver called Bobby befriends her as she seeks to find the satchel’s owners. In it is a wooden urn, containing ashes and inscribed with the name Stoyan Lazarov. She and Bobby report the incident to the local police, who seem suspiciously interested, but who don’t take possession of the urn. Instead, they give Alexandra an address where Lazarov lived.

Bobby suggests they rush to the monastery and return the urn to the Bulgarians, but when they get there the group is gone. Ready to continue their search, they find themselves locked in a room. Alexandra thinks, “nothing in her previous experience had prepared her for the feeling of being suddenly locked in a monastic room with a stranger five thousand miles from the Blue Ridge Mountains, holding an urn containing the ashes of another stranger. In addition to being tired and afraid, she was suddenly a thief, a vagrant and a prisoner.”

Though Alexandra and Bobby escape from the monastery, they cannot escape a growing awareness that they are being followed and their possession of the urn has put them in danger. The next day they go to the address the police provided. The house is empty, but photos and papers inside confirm the owners of the urn had, indeed, lived there. A neighbor sends them to another address in a different part of Bulgaria but, before going, they adopt a stray dog that would come to play a major role in one of the concluding scenes.

Kostova introduces other people, including an older, wealthy businessman-turned-politician named Kurilkov, known as “The Bear” who, running on a promise of “non-corruption,” is seeking to win the nation’s next election. There are growing and inexplicable dangers: vandalized cars, threats, murder and kidnapping. The urn’s secret and its dangerous value become the spine on which Kostova builds the book’s surprising and violent resolution.

On that same spine she attaches another story, that of the man whose ashes are in the urn. Stoyan Lazarov, a talented violinist, lover of Vivaldi, devoted husband and father, ran afoul of Bulgaria’s brutal Communist dictatorship following World War II. He was confined for many years in a torturous labor camp where work conditions and weather almost killed him, destroying his health and his prospects for a fulfilling musical career.

At the work camp, Lazarov met two men, one a friend and fellow inmate, and the other a guard who becomes a heated enemy. Both characters play a major part in the book’s dramatic conclusion. Kostova confesses that The Shadow Land is “very much a book about political repression — and suppression — and I’m glad to be bringing it out at this exact political moment.”

Her unforgiving description of the oppression Lazarov suffered is based on factual events. It is a disturbing reminder of the horrors of the Soviet methods of dealing with any failure to toe the Communist line.

Why has Kostova set another book in Bulgaria? Explaining her fascination, she writes about her first visit to “this mysterious country, hidden for so long behind the Iron Curtain,” and that she felt, “I had somehow come home.”

Kostova’s poetic portrayal of Bulgaria’s cities and villages, landscapes and people will make readers want to see for themselves the place she loves and describes so well. Another beloved North Carolina mountain author, Ron Rash, affirms the book’s importance. “In this brilliant work, what appears at first a minor mystery quickly becomes emblematic of a whole country’s hidden history. Lyrical and compelling, The Shadow Land proves a profound meditation on how evil is inflicted, endured, and through courage and compassion, defeated. Elizabeth Kostova’s third novel clearly establishes her as one of America’s finest writers.”  OH

D.G. Martin hosts North Carolina Bookwatch, which airs Sundays at noon and Thursdays at 5 p.m. on UNC-TV.

Lost and Found

Hanging up on Expectations

By Maria Johnson

My cell phone must’ve fallen out of my bag between the tennis courts and the car.

I didn’t realize it until later that night when I wanted to take pictures at a family dinner, and I had to resort to a bulky black antique called a camera.

After dinner, my husband called up the Find My iPhone app, and sure enough, there was a blinking blue dot near the public tennis courts.

I grabbed a high-powered flashlight and dashed out the door with my 6-foot-3 son.

We retraced my steps. Street to courts. Courts to bathroom. Bathroom to courts. Courts to street. No phone. Someone must have found it and locked it in the office. I’d come back in the morning.

The next morning, as I reached for coffee, Jeff got a text from our cell phone carrier.

“You need to stop using so much data,” he said. “We’re almost over
the limit.”

“Huh?” I croaked. “I never use data.”

“Yes, you do,” he said, holding up a graph of my usage.

“When?”

He bored in on the graph.

“Uh-oh,” he said.

“What?”

“Last night between nine and one-thirty.”

“(Expletive),” I said.

“(Expletive),” he said.

“Let me see that map again,” I said.

He called up the finder app from the night before. I zoomed in. The dot was actually down the road from the courts, near a creek.

“Can you refresh it?” I said.

No luck. My battery must have died.

The morning was not going the way I’d expected.

I called the cell phone carrier, suspended my number and paid a small upcharge for a temporary data plan. Then I thought about what was on my phone. Recorded interviews. Notes. Photos related to stories. Oodles of phone numbers.

Were they backed up, resting on a storage cloud somewhere in the computing ether? Maybe. Maybe not.

But what if? What if the person who’d picked up my phone had stayed in one place until the battery died then chucked the phone in the weeds near the creek?

It was a long shot, but we would take it. Jeff and I jumped in the car. Of course we did.  We’re a journalist and a Scotsman. If you cost us an interview or an upcharge for data, we will find you.

“More that way. To your right. Closer to the creek,” Jeff said, using a map that showed the location of his phone against the last-known location of my phone.

“I’m almost to the creek,” I said

“Keep going,” he said.

“Hmm,” I said.

“What?” he said.

“Look at this,” I said, pointing to a sandbox-size structure covered with a blue tarp. Stones had been laid carefully around the edge of the tarp to keep it pinned down.

My mind wandered to everything that could be under that tarp. A person? A cache of stolen goods? A person with a cache of stolen goods?

Jeff stepped closer. Cats sprang from the brush.

He jumped. I jumped.

“That’s it,” I said. “We’re calling the cops.”

A few minutes later, a Greensboro officer was throwing off the blue tarps. Underneath were cat shelters, meticulously built wooden boxes with carefully sawn doors, and built-in storage bins. They were filled with wood shavings. Plastic containers of cat food were strewn around.

Someone with real carpentry skill had gone to a lot of trouble to build and maintain homes for these animals.

Not what I expected to find in the middle of the woods.

Jeff checked his phone.

“We’re still not on top of the blue dot,” he said. “It’s a few more yards in that direction.”

We crept through the woods.

“Aha,” I said.

It was the backside of a small homeless camp, an amalgam of shack, tent, clothesline, buckets, old bicycles, suitcases and boxes.

“You stay here,” the officer advised. “Let me see what’s happening.”

He walked to the front of the camp, out of
our view. We heard voices. Then raised voices. Then yelling.

As things escalated, I feared the worst. Over a stupid cell phone.

That’s not what happened. Thank God.

It was a difficult situation. The police were professional, polite, restrained. An officer delivered my phone at the end of his shift.

Later, after charging the phone and adding a security code, I looked at the Web history.

Yes, the homeless guy who’d picked up my phone had looked at porn.

And fast cars.

And pranks on YouTube.

And just before the battery died, movies.

Up the hill from a colony of feral cats that’d gotten expert help in the art of survival, he’d been watching movies. Romance movies.

Not what I expected. Not at all. OH

Maria Johnson is a columnist for O.Henry. She can be reached at ohenrymaria@gmail.com.

Furnishing Hope

The Barnabas Network gets a new address and executive director

For an agency that deals mostly in used items, there’s an awful lot of “new” going on at The Barnabas Network.

The nonprofit furniture bank moved into a new location in December, transplanting from a leased location on 16th Street to a
smaller donated building at 838 Winston Street, a block south of
Bessemer Avenue in Greensboro.

Then there’s the new executive director, 34-year-old Derrick Sides, formerly the chief administrator at the Randolph Arts Guild.

At Barnabas, he replaces Erin Stratford Owens, who’s now at the helm of the Humane Society of the Piedmont.

It’s a small, small, small nonprofit world.

The double dose of new at Barnabas means the organization is poised to grow in different ways, says Sides, who would like to see more social media presence for the outfit that channels donated furniture, housewares and appliances to needy folks who’ve been referred by human services agencies.

Clients shop for the basics, for free, in the Barnabas warehouse. Some of the donated furniture — which is given by individuals, plus furniture and consignment stores — goes to the Barnabas retail store, housed under the same roof.

Board members hope a bigger social media profile will boost sales on the retail side, which brings in about 15 percent of the operating budget. They’d also like to raise awareness of the Barnabas mission.

“It’s the simple premise of taking excess abundance from people who have enough and giving it to people who don’t,” says board member Ruth Edwards.

Started in 2006 as an outreach of Greensboro’s Holy Trinity Episcopal Church, the local charity was named for St. Barnabas, an early Christian missionary who sold his possessions and gave the proceeds to the disciples, including his friend St. Paul.

The organization’s goals line up with Sides’s personal values. He recalls a conversation with his 6-year-old daughter shortly after he left the arts guild to focus on organic farming for a while.

“She was genuinely upset that not everybody had a house to live in or food to eat or basic amenities. I said, ‘The reason you feel that way is that something needs to be done about it. That’s why we’re here, is to take care of each other,’ ” he says. “It was within a day or two that this opportunity came across my radar.”  OH

Next on the Barnabas calendar: Chair Affair, a silent auction of one-of-a-kind chairs decorated by artists. A ticket to the event will get the holder free food, drink and live entertainment. The fundraiser is scheduled for 6-9 p.m. on June 1 at Tracks Bazaar, 302 Gate City Boulevard. For more info, go to thebarnabasnetwork.org.

– Maria Johnson

Hoist ’em!

And no, we don’t mean pints of frosties (though the thought is tempting), but sails . . . and without having to venture far. Thanks to the Lake Townsend Yacht Club and Greensboro Parks and Recreation Department, you can release your inner mariner with sailing lessons. Held at Lake Townsend Marina (6332 Townsend Road, Browns Summit), you’ll learn knot tying, boat rigging, wind direction and more before you take to the waters. Weeklong sessions for adult beginners started in May, assuming the torrential spring rains didn’t wash aspiring sailors ashore. Another is scheduled this month from June 5–10, as are a couple of Junior Beginner classes (June 12–16; June 19–23). More are scheduled throughout July and August. Info: greensboro-nc.gov. To register: laketownsendyachtclub.com.

You Are What You Eat

And ya gotta eat your spinach, baby! Fortunately, the Guilford County Cooperative Extension is here to help. Last month it launched its series of  free “shop and cook” classes at 9 a.m. at the Greensboro Farmers Curb Market (501 Yanceyville Street), with a session on meal planning as an avenue to good health. Classes scheduled for June and July will cover low-sodium cooking options, canning and preserving. Look for more later in the fall. Info: (336) 373-2402 or gsofarmersmarket.org.

Tea’d Off

Steep yourself in history at “Tea Time,” an interactive event at the High Point Museum (1859 East Lexington Avenue) demonstrating the importance of tea in colonial culture. On June 17 from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. and June 18 from 1 to 4 p.m., you can sample imported teas, including Chinese tea and infusions from herbs grown in most colonial gardens. While you’re deciding between one lump or two, learn the reasons why colonials valued tea and why they would ultimately boycott it. Maybe their opposition had something to do with Tea Act of 1733? The thinly disguised bailout of the British East India Company was a factor in the American Revolution . . . decidedly not a tempest in a teapot. Info: (336) 885-1859 or highpointmuseum.org.

A Frond Farewell

It’s summer, aka porch season, and as every Southerner knows, you can’t enjoy your wraparound without some hanging baskets of ferns. And forget their momentary bad rap as accouterments of yuppie bars in the 1980s: The shade-loving monilophytes, as they’re sometimes called, go back millions of years and have anywhere from 9,000 to 15,000 different species. Learn more on June 8 at 6 p.m. at “The Fascinating World of Ferns,” a lecture by Lisa Lofland Gould at Paul J. Ciener Botanical Garden, (215 South Main Street, Kernersville). To reserve: (336) 996-7888 or cienerbotanicalgarden.org.

Fenn-ciful

How you see it is one thing, how you paint it is another. Much like the French Impressionists, N.C. artist Richard Fennell has, for 40 years, explored various ways to depict how we perceive things. Be among the first to see the scope of his work at The Edge of Perception: A Richard Fennell Retrospective, which includes early sculptures, still lifes, interiors, landscapes and portraits, at an opening reception at 6 p.m. on June 16 at GreenHill (200 North Davie Street). The exhibition runs through August 20 and includes an artist’s talk and demonstration on August 16. Info: (336) 333-7460 or greenhillnc.org.

A Place in the Sun

For its thirteenth annual celebration, the Greensboro Summer Solstice Festival is, according to founder and head faerie Susan Sassmann, “raising the bar of artistic expression.” And in order to do so, there will be a $5 admission fee this year (kids under 12 free, no dogs). The event is held at the Lindley Park Arboretum from 2–10 p.m. Saturday, June 17.

Thirteen bands will be spread across three stages and run the gamut from blues, jazz and contemporary to Latin, reggae and gypsy. Twenty-five food trucks will be on hand, as well as 100 local vendors of all descriptions, and two Joymongers beer gardens.

Highlights include the Parasol Parade, led by a Dixieland band and the Paperand Puppet Intervention, Pixie Glen kids area, a drum circle, face- and bodypainting, mermaids in the fountain, hoopers, and the grand finale fire-spinning show by the Imagine Circus.

Costumes are encouraged. Fun is mandatory. Info: greensborosummersolstice.org

June-y Tunes

Call it nostalgia, call it a yearning for a simpler time — think: Mayberry feverishly trying to organize a Sunday evening band concert — or call it a slice of Americana, but there is something that touches our collective soul about an early evening, summertime musical event on the lawn. Thirty-eight years ago, Greensboro tapped into that sentiment by organizing a Music for a Sunday Evening in the Park (MUSEP) series. Likewise, the Eastern Music Festival has always held a portion of its events outdoors. And last year, the Levitt AMP Music Series carried that tradition a step further, with its 10-concert series at Barber Park.

All three series get underway in June. MUSEP kicks off June 4 at Blandwood Mansion with the Wally West Little Big Band at 6 p.m. For the full schedule go to musep.info.

As if it were scripted, in its first event Saturday, June 3, the Levitt AMP series’ featured artist is none other than Vanessa Ferguson, Greensboro’s own finalist on The Voice. Also on the bill are Nishah DiMeo and R’Mone Entonio. All events are on Saturday this season, running through August 5. The full slate may be found at artsgreensboro.org.

EMF launches its 56th season Wednesday, June 28, with a concert titled “The Glory of Brass — Baroque and Beyond.” While it is not outdoors, the First Presbyterian Church is so acoustically perfect, you’ll think you’re under the stars. Go to easternmusicfestival.org for details.

Ogi Sez

Now, I’m no Richard Rodgers, but I can tell you that June is, in fact, bustin’ out all over, especially on the musical carousel of Greensboro. So, let’s give it a whirl, shall we?

• June 1, Paul J. Ciener Botanical Gardens: They were one of the smashes at last year’s National Folk Festival, and now IBMA Entertainer of the Year (the biggie) award-winners Balsam Range return to the Triad, this time to Kernersville. They’ve taken the bluegrass world by storm and you really need to find out why.

• June 6 & 8, Carolina Theatre: I’m breaking the rules here, or at least bending them, by double-dipping a venue. But, when I tell you why, I think you’ll forgive me. Two days apart, the Carolina is hosting two of my favorite performers in the whole wide world. Joe Jackson (6/6), in my book, launched the swing revival of the mid-90s, and Greensboro’s own mega-star, Rhiannon Giddens, launched the current rejuvenation of old time and string band music.

• June 11, LISTEN Speakeasy at Hush: A self-described, “leftneck,” who once wrote a song titled “Liberal With a Gun,” Grant Peeples is why the terms “alt-country” and “East Nashville” were invented. One of the most clever and provocative lyricists around, he’ll have you laughing and crying — at the same time.

• June 12, Greensboro Coliseum: If you watched Journey’s performance last month at their Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction concert, you surely realized that they haven’t lost a thing with Steve Perry’s departure because of vocal cord polyps. They were once the hottest act on the arena rock circuit, but this ain’t hair-band hooey. This is timeless.

• June 25, The Crown: Mark this one down if you’re a Miles Davis freak. The cream-of-the-crop Piedmont Triad Jazz Orchestra is doing a whole show of Miles compositions. This will blow the doors off.