Celebrating Samhain with the Bordens

From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggity teenagers in Mr. T costumes, oh Lord, please deliver us

By Jane Borden

On October 31 — the night between summer and winter, the midpoint between the autumnal equinox and winter solstice — the barrier between the realms of the living and the dead grows thin and flimsy. Spirits sneak through.

Or so believed the Celts and their Druid priest class, who lived more than 2,000 years ago in what is now Ireland, northern France and the U.K. To appease the spirits, and secure health and safety through the coming winter, the Celts celebrated the festival of Samhain. Eventually, Samhain traveled through the lenses of the Romans, the Catholic Church, and the American consumer, and became Halloween.

Based on my childhood memories of Halloween in the 1980s, though, Samhain is still alive and well in Greensboro. Here are five eery similarities between my family’s celebrations and those of the ancient Celts. Either nothing ever really changes, or my parents were Druids. You decide.

CROP DESTRUCTION

Spirits are tricksy. The Celts believed that the dead crossed into the realm of the living with a purpose: to wreak havoc on crops.

One year, my dad grew pumpkins in our backyard. Rather, he grew pumpkin. His crop yielded one, which we carved in time for Halloween. But when we rose on November 1 — hours after the spirits returned to their world and the barrier closed again — we found our pumpkin in pieces, smashed and left on the sidewalk. My eldest sister, Lou, cried. But Dad was like, “Well, it’s a pumpkin.” Spoken like a man accustomed to giving the dead their due.

APPEASING THE SPIRITS

These other-world residents not only destroyed crops, according to the Celts, but came to engage in all manner of nefarious shenanigans. As an insurance policy for themselves and their belongings, Celts tried to keep the spirits happy.

I remember seeing some marauding specters firsthand. They terrorized Country Club Drive, moving on foot in small groups. Fearsome were their Tretorn sneakers and homemade Mr T costumes! Lo, how they sprayed shaving cream on foliage! My gods, what happens to boys in puberty?!

One year, a group of these teen ghosts chased us on the golf course. They bullied many children that year — and even stole trick-or-treating candy. There is no greater sin than taking candy from a child princess. Only an evil spirit (or adolescent male) could execute such an atrocity. Mom was prepared to call the cops. But then one of the victims recognized one of the perpetrators, a football player at Aycock, at which point we begged Mom not to turn them in. Come to think of it, maybe instead of a Celtic community, I just grew up in a patriarchy.

AVOIDING POSSESSION

Another way to keep spirits out of your body: disguises. The Celts wore costumes on Samhain to throw off the spirits. Some historical accounts depict the Celts in animal skins and furs. Others have the Celts wearing white and painting their faces black.

My sisters and I often wore the same costumes, as a result of their being handed down. We especially remember a little Dutch girl costume, which had been brought home from a visit to Holland by my mom’s uncle Britt. It was worn not only by my sisters and me, but also by my mom and her sister. I now realize how dangerous this was. What ghost would see a Dutch girl five times — in Greensboro, N.C. — and not recognize her? And not think, “Huh, that Dutch girl hasn’t aged in 35 years. I better check it out by possessing her.” Being dead doesn’t make you dumb.

PREDICTING THE FUTURE

Divination was among the Druids’ primary jobs. The priests were especially busy on Samhain. Celts believed the future could be more easily accessed on the night the living mingled with the dead. On Samhain, even regular Celts went around telling each other’s fortunes, as part of the fun.

Similarly, one of my family’s friends made a keen prediction one Halloween night. Every year, Dad took us on the same trick-or-treating tour, stopping by the homes of a handful of family members and friends, including that of Louise Miller, my preschool teacher (and my sisters’) at First Presbyterian Church.

One year, Mrs. Miller pulled up in a taxi just as we arrived. My parents can’t remember the details exactly. She suddenly realized that she’d either left her pocketbook at the airport or at the hospital. Regardless, she didn’t have keys to her apartment or a wallet, and upon realizing as much, had directed the driver to continue taking her home anyway. So Dad paid the driver and drove Louise to retrieve her purse. My sister Tucker remembers that when Louise got out of the taxi, she said to Dad, “I told the driver you’d be here, you always come.” Dad paid the driver and drove Louise to retrieve her purse.

SACRIFICES

Whether to appease the gods or the spirits, ritual sacrifices were a common Celtic practice. On Samhain, the Druids burned crops. During war, they slashed throats and, some believe, cannibalized the victims ceremoniously. Anything would be given over, if it made the gods happy.

Similarly, most of our Halloween candy mysteriously disappeared every November 2nd. But in our case, the gods lived in a trashcan. So, maybe my parents weren’t Druids after all. Maybe they just worshipped raccoons.  OH

Jane Borden now lives in Los Angeles, where, hopefully, her daughter will wear the Dutch girl costume on a Halloween soon.

Silver Pride

Airstreams have gone mainstream

 

By Tom Bryant

Joel Kilby is exactly the All-American, clean-cut individual I would expect to be managing the Out-of-Doors-Mart, just off Interstate 40 in Colfax, a mile or so from the Piedmont Triad International Airport. His is one of the oldest Airstream dealers in the country. I was in his office on a whim recently, talking to him about his operation and Airstream travel trailers in general.

“Our business is actually one of the leading RV dealerships on the East Coast and, as a matter of fact, we’ve been selling and servicing Airstreams longer than any dealership in the world.”

That got my attention. We were in Joel’s office, and like any busy executive in the country today, his phone was ringing and computers were beeping. It seemed that a lot of business was going on that required his time.

“In the world?” I questioned.

“Yep, Airstreams have become popular all over the world — Japan, France, all of Europe. It seems that everybody wants to own what has become an icon in the travel trailer industry.”

The Out-of-Doors-Mart is truly a family affair. Grady Kilby, Joel’s father, who turns 86 in November, started working with the existing company in 1962. Later, he and a partner bought the operation and brought it to where it is today.

Joel said, “Dad comes in three or four times a week. He’s what I call my watchdog.”

“When did you get started with the company?” I asked.

“I was just a youngster and would work after school and weekends washing trailers and cleaning up. Anything my dad would let me do. I graduated from UNC Wilmington in ’92 and came to work full time after that.”

Joel and his wife, Alyson, have two daughters, who are now in college. “The business is really a family affair. Speaking of that, you’re going to have to talk to Ben, our parts guy. He’s almost family.”

At that point, we took a break so Joel could send off an email, and I walked over to see Ben Goslen, the parts manager. He has been with the company for 33 years and is a fixture in the business. He has the “aw shucks” personality of the actor Jimmy Stewart, and I could tell he was proud of the part he has played in the company’s success.

“We have one of the best and most fully stocked Airstream parts departments in the country. If we don’t have it, we can get it in a day or two.” I told him it was a pleasure seeing someone who really liked his job.

“After 33 years, I’d better,” he replied, laughing.

I went back over to Joel’s office to finish our conversation before getting a photo of the three: Joel, Grady and Ben. “You’ve got quite a number of Airstreams on the lot,” I said as I pulled up a chair in front of his desk.

“That has become something of a problem,” he replied. “Not our Airstreams, but getting more. They’re producing them in Ohio as fast as they can and can’t make enough because the demand is so strong. When the big recession hit back in ’07, Airstream had only 189 employees. Today, there are over 800 workers at the plant in Jackson Center (Ohio), working as hard as they can. Something else has changed since you bought your little Bambi. The demographics of Airstream buyers have turned around dramatically. Once it was mostly older, retired folks or people trading up who would buy a unit, but now over 50 percent of our customers are first time buyers and are relatively young.”

I’ve been an Airstream fan for many years, having been first introduced to the travel trailer in the 1950s, when my grandfather bought a small one to use as a base camp when he fished in Florida. He parked it on land he owned on the St. Johns River, and he and my grandmother lived in it during the colder months. When the winters, even that far south in Florida, got too frosty for him, he pulled up stakes and towed the Airstream farther south to Everglades City. Again, it was home for him as he fished Chokoloskee Bay and the Ten Thousand Islands.

Later, Granddad bought a big 32-foot Airstream and parked it semi-permanently on his land on the St. Johns. He added a front screen porch and outbuildings with storage for boats and fishing gear. All of this was good for early in the winter months, but he still had the little Airstream to use in the Everglades when it turned colder.

Those early days when I would camp with him on his fishing expeditions reinforced my desire to someday own an Airstream; and the year I retired from my day job, Linda and I drove up to the Out-of-Doors-Mart, looked at a spanking brand new Bambi and bought it.

The folks at the shop did everything to get us hooked up and rolling. I dealt with Jason, a super salesman and, of course, the ever-present Grady overlooked the sale. It was a pleasurable experience. Our first major trip in the Bambi was from Southern Pines to Alaska. It took us two months up and down the Alaska Highway, and we drove over 11,000 miles with only one punctured tire on our towing vehicle. The trip was a real testament to the reliability of the Airstream.

Joel and I rounded up Grady and Ben for a photo outside the building in front of a new Airstream for sale.

Grady, always the salesman, said, “I remember you. Aren’t you that newspaper guy from Southport?”

“No, Grady. I’m from Southern Pines.” I replied.

“Oh yeah, I remember, got the little Bambi. You ready for a new one?”

“It would be like getting rid of one of the family,” I said.

We went out to the front of the building, where I made my photo, said goodbye, then walked past a big new Airstream on my way to the car, where Linda, my bride, was waiting.

“You know,” I said to her as I fired up the Cruiser, ready to leave. “That big new one sitting right there would look great in our backyard.”

“Only if we can keep the Bambi,” she replied, smiling.  OH

Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and a regular columnist from O.Henry’s sister publication, PineStraw.

Saturday at Home

By Brian E. Faulkner

They come unbidden, fragments of time lost, then found. Fleeting bits of memory: the plink-plink of water dropping on a spoon in the kitchen two rooms away and one floor down remains fresh 60-odd years later. So, too, the hiss of our radiator and the clank of pipes on a sharply cold New England night, window wedged up to let the crisp air have its way with any children’s toes that may have dared poke themselves out from under the comforter. Season after season, my brothers and I fell asleep listening for the deep night sounds: a barely perceptible dog bark floating like a vapor through the neighborhood and then gone; the sudden surprise of a car going by so late; the distant swoosh and clatter of steam engines sorting themselves in the rail yard a couple of miles off.  On winter mornings, snow covered with specks of soot was proof that we’d heard them and not dreamed it.

Back when the old pufferbellies started giving way to diesel-powered engines that looked like the future, my dad shot and edited an 8-millimeter movie that froze our family in time. Saturday at Home started at dawn, stopped at bedtime and in between captured our family’s end-of-summer, beginning-of-fall minutiae in extraordinary detail. It began with paper titles hung on the clothesline, shirts and pants and diapers with letters clipped to them spelling out Saturday at Home (clever fellow). Dad forever captured kids, parents and pets during his late-1940s production, including one memorable image of my younger brother tied to a tree after riding his trike into the street. New-old cars populated the background along with shots of our yard before the trees got thicker and the lawn got thinner. There we were, playing with Bootise the cat and riding our bikes up and down the sidewalk. There was Dad, in a cameo appearance, showing off the dark hair and movie star looks that caught the eye of a feisty redhead he met in high school and eventually married. He sets a beer down on the grass beside a huge Westinghouse radio placed there to beam Red Sox play-by-play his way as he takes down the summer awnings and lugs heavy old wooden storm windows up a ladder to the second-floor bedrooms, an onerous task we kids would inherit in later years. As day morphs into evening, we read Slappy the Duck on Dad’s lap. Then it’s bunk-bed time. And finally their time. Closing scenes show Mom stretched out on the couch with Time magazine as Dad reads in his easy chair. That’s how it was in the waning years of civilization without TV.  And cigarettes! It’s easy to forget how pervasive (almost glamorous) smoking was in the ’40s and ’50s.

Saturday at Home still plays in my mind during those rare moments free of today’s demands, along with fragments from Dad’s other home movies: me leaving home, me coming back, me moving to North Carolina and becoming just an occasional visitor. It took a long time to sort out where home was vs. where home used to be.

North Carolina has been home now for the greatest part of a lifetime.  Our four children have grown up in and around Winston-Salem and also spent a great deal of time with their maternal grandparents down toward the coast, where you can “still hear the soft Southern winds in the live oak trees,” to quote Don Williams.

That other Faulkner, the famous literary one, once wrote a line about lying “beneath a strange roof thinking of home.” I get that. And sometimes, six decades-plus gone from that Saturday at home, I recall with uncommon clarity how it felt to lie in bed during the deep of night, listening to the sound of steam trains assembling in the distance. 

Mom and Dad have been gone for near half a generation after leaving New England in the late ’80s for a dream home in South Florida. (She begged him on her knees to buy that house, and they moved so decisively I never got to see the place again). Now I have box after box of my own photographs, profuse with memories of offspring who grew up minute-by-minute at the speed of light — plus five grandchildren spread from here to all-too-far-away, each of whom provides this growing oldster with a full measure of wonder and delight as they grow and change. Best of all, I sometimes get to tell them stories of rascally children and ancient days that somehow get more generously painted each time told.

Two of my brothers inherited the folks’ photographic treasures, including Saturday at Home. Some of the old snapshots are dog-eared and faded, but others seem ready to jump out of their borders and say hello, how are ya, where ya been . . . it’s been a long, long time. I look forward to getting one or two of these Faulkner Moments tucked into one brother’s Christmas card every year, which I put in my own boxes, companions to the gazillion slides I took of my children as they sprouted wings, stumbled a time or two, finally got the hang of it and flew off to make something of their lives.   

“What is your life?” asks James in the Bible. “For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes.”  Memories float in and out of that mist. But sometimes the fog lifts for a span and they come back to us, unbidden. Then they vanish, retreating to wherever it is treasured spirits go to rest, revive themselves and wait for the next time.

If we truly are fortunate, the moment these fleeting bits of memory re-emerge from the mist, a grandchild — or two — may find us dozing in an easy chair or stretched out on the sofa like a lizard in the sun and say, “Grandpa! Grandma! Tell me a story about what it was like . . . back then, when you were a kid . . .”  OH

Among other things (most having to do with writing or marketing) Brian Faulkner is a five-time Emmy award–winning writer of magazine-style programming on UNC-TV.

The Bonnet Blues

Having a second baby was a dream come
true — though a bit of a challenge at first

 

By Caroline Hamilton Langerman

The summer I moved from New
York to North Carolina with a 1-year-old boy, I was already eager to have a baby girl. It was all about the bonnets. Here in the Old North State, parents still embraced the traditional style of pastel day-gowns and smocked jumpers. My son was wearing a little white bucket hat that tied under his chin; he needed a sister in a sundress.

Babies, my Southern grandmother had taught me, should wear soft colors. Baby Gap might try to trick me with its tiny jeans, orange onesies and mini sneakers, but my new city was protected from fads by a population of sleek, tailored mothers. “Yummy Mummies,” I had heard someone call them, and while the expression made me gag a little, I couldn’t help but hear it in my head every time I pulled into the preschool parking lot and saw a tall blonde hopping down from a Chevvy Tahoe in yoga pants. She often had two — sometimes three! — babies, all in matching sailor suits or gingham jumpers. I was not blonde, and I felt naked in yoga pants. But I had a strong set of biceps; surely I, too, could lift well-dressed babies out of an SUV.

My baby boy was fairly easy: He ate, he slept. Once, we brought him in a bassinet to a work function and a colleague asked if he were a waxen doll. But the new baby, who arrived in the middle of a snowstorm, was not a waxen doll. The new baby screwed up her little red face and wailed. The new baby made my other baby cry. I didn’t even take the pink Feltman Brothers gowns out of the wrapping paper; she was spitting up like a professional. One by one, friends and family uttered the word “colic.” I was thankful that my 18-month-old liked siren sounds.

At her 2-month checkup, I hoisted the 30-pound car seat and my 30-pound toddler into the examination room, both kids bawling. They cried so hard that the doctor and I could not hear each other say hello. They cried so hard that when the doctor said, “Do you have any questions?” I crumpled up my list and said no. They cried so hard that when the doctor left the room I almost started crying, which made my older son cry harder. I bit my lip as I plugged him with Goldfish.

When I opened the door, three nurses peered in, as if upon a petri dish.

“We couldn’t believe,” one of them said in a gentle Southern accent, “that all that crying was coming from the same room.”

“Yes,” I said numbly, and lifted the car seat with an aching bicep.

“Come to the beach and get some help,” my parents said from the coast in Wilmington. I packed the criers into the car and listened to them wail down Highway 74. We arrived exhausted, soaked through with milk and pee and drool, and as I handed the miserable baby to her grandmother, my son yelled the names of vehicles: “Log loader! Dirt digger!” At the end of night two, my mother said sympathetically, “You weren’t exaggerating.”

My dad, more agitated than sympathetic, pressed pause on the nightly news and requested to know the next day’s plan. The word “plan” sent me to a mental state somewhere between fuming and hysterical. Here was my plan: I stuffed the little baby into her baby-backpack and chased my son through their un-baby-proofed home, which now appeared less a beach retreat and more a haunted house of spooky staircases and hidden outlets. “At least,” I said to my husband from the passenger seat on the way back home, “they are each a week older now.”

We returned home to a front porch of packages: silver spoons and crystal picture frames and gorgeous dresses that were, to our miserable new mammal, entirely unusable. Previously I had considered gift-giving as an exquisite form of Southern hospitality; but in my delirium I was starting to understand baby gifts as tiny apologies from people who felt sorry for us. My husband beat the cardboard boxes into our recycling can. I quivered over my thank-you notes.

Month four arrived and she was still shrieking in the night. Sometimes she woke her brother, who called out into the darkness, “Mommy! Wheels!” I was unable to attend story hour at the public library read by the man with a monotone. I skipped the Musikgarten class that I had paid for. I was too busy living out the human condition. Cavewomen had no need for a 3-month-size smock. And neither did I.

I now looked at the other moms in the parking lot a little more closely. Did they have spit-up all over their blouses?

“We were wet,” one mom confided, “for seven months.”

How, I asked a young woman who was in a book club I had attended in another lifetime, do you get a cute picture to post on Instagram?

“You take a video,” she said matter-of-factly, “and take a screen-shot of the one second when she’s smiling.” I could have broken her with my grateful hug.

Month five rolled around and I was still not, as the Bump.com site suggested I should be, “enjoying my baby.” Exasperated, I booked a plane ticket to New York to visit some friends. This break was something I deserved, something I needed, something that would be, I told myself as I took off my shoes and, thinking of my son, admired the wheels on the conveyor belt, “good for all of us.”

In New York, I walked down the city sidewalks at the speed of light — not weighted by my stroller. I sat down (in a clean blouse!) with an old friend outside a charming West Village café. No sooner had we air-kissed and taken a sip of our iced coffees than a firetruck sounded on the next block. To my friend’s bewilderment, I craned my neck to see it.

“Firetruck!” I said, as the shiny red engine came into view. And then, unable to stop myself: “Here it comes!” She laughed, unsure why this was remarkable. “They don’t have those in North Carolina?” Next, a mom came into the coffee shop wearing a little baby-backpack.

“How old is she?” I cooed. I listened with rabbit ears to her answer. I nodded with kindness. “I have two!” It seemed imperative to me that she know. I realized that the tiny noises and smells and chores I had tried to escape were now calling me home. I was thankful to be on the sunrise flight home.

My sweet girl — whose colic is long gone — is finally bonnet-ready. When I tie the bow under her double chin she grins like the Cheshire cat. Strolling around the neighborhood in the sunshine, I catch myself enjoying my baby. We peer at each other, still knowing so little about each other except this: There’s fire behind her façade; and being a Southern mother will require so much more than tying her bow.  OH

Caroline Hamilton Langerman has written for many publications, including Town & Country and The New York Times. She is an essay specialist at the Charlotte Latin School.

Unfriendly Florida Natives

Gardening’s perilous hissyfits

 

By Ross Howell Jr

Although my home is in Greensboro, for a couple of years I’ve been working on a landscape project on the Florida Panhandle between Panama City and Destin, by the white beaches and turquoise waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

My wife, Mary Leigh, and I are upgrading a home we call our “grown-up house,” because it has a foyer — a first for us. Our plan is to rent the house to vacationers in the high season, then spend some of the off-season there ourselves.

Mary Leigh has given me free rein on the landscaping, I expect because she feels the mischief I can create outdoors will be less pernicious than the mischief I might create inside. (Though one day she scurried outside after my new neighbor buddy and I had just felled a pine leaning ominously over his two-car garage. Her sigh of relief was audible when she saw that neither of us was injured and the garage stood intact. But I digress.)

Until recently our visits have been short, so my work was limited to spreading pine straw, grubbing out tree-choking vines, pruning limbs, and cleaning dead fronds from a sea of palmettos. (On my first bloody foray I learned they don’t call them “saw” palmettos for nothing — the teeth on those fronds are as effective as the blades on a good set of steak knives. Sorry, I’m digressing again.)

Lately I’ve been able to stay longer, giving me time to water things in, so I’ve been planting some natives — yaupon holly, Ilex vomitoria; muhly grass, Muhlenbergia capillaris; and Southern magnolia, Magnolia grandiflora.

It occurred to me as I was crawling about on my hands and knees — especially with the warmer weather — that it might be prudent to learn something about other Florida natives I was sharing space with.

In the Panhandle there are six species of venomous snakes.

First is the cottonmouth moccasin, an aquatic snake. Not good. Did I mention there’s a creek at the back of our lot, and much of the area nearby is designated wetlands? Florida cottonmouths are about 3 feet long, dark in color, or completely black. When agitated, they hiss, revealing the white maw that gives them their name. Young moccasins may be reddish in color and easily confused with copperheads.

Copperheads also like streams and wetlands. They’re around the same length as cottonmouths, with a relatively thick body. Their color is gray to brown, with dark brown bands in a distinctive hourglass shape across their backs. Their camouflage is remarkably successful in the habitat they prefer — namely, our backyard. I’m going to have to keep a keen eye out for these guys!

Next on the venomous list is easier to spot because of its coloration. The skin on coral snakes has bright black, red and yellow bands. The snakes are small — rarely more than 30 inches in length — and they’re reclusive, spending much of their time underground. Some nonvenomous Florida snakes have similar coloration, but if red and yellow are juxtaposed, watch out!

Now for the rattlesnakes. The Eastern diamondback is described as the most venomous and dangerous of the snakes in Florida, growing to more than six feet in length. While they prefer dry habitats, like pineland or scrub, I certainly can’t rule out their presence in the yard. At least their rattles make a loud buzzing sound when they’re threatened, and they issue this warning before they strike. Usually.

Timber rattlesnakes prefer pinelands, river bottoms and low-lying hammocks. That’s a good description for what our neighborhood must have been like before it was a neighborhood. Timber rattlers are pinkish-gray to tan in color, with dark markings, and a distinctive reddish-brown stripe running down the spine. Five feet long, they have large rattles and big heads. Fine. All the better to bite me with.

Last is the pygmy rattler. Adaptable little fellows, they’re “one of the most commonly encountered venomous snakes . . . in residential neighborhoods,” notes the University of Florida Extension Service. Fortunately, they’re not likely to carry enough venom to kill me. Problem is, shaking their little rattles with all their might, they probably can’t make enough noise to warn me off — my hearing’s not good.

I thought writing this would be therapeutic. It’s good to know your adversary, right? But in fact my anxiety has grown.

And there’s the matter of the native plants. This spring, a lovely carpet of native ferns emerged on our property. Wherever I find them, I encourage them with a dose of composted cow manure and topsoil, then carefully mulch with pine straw.

Just last week on the internet I was able to identify them. They’re Botrychium virginianum, a hardy native species found all the way from Florida’s southern tip to Canada’s northern reaches. But the common name is a problem.

Rattlesnake fern.  OH

Thanks to Mary Leigh, who found them in a catalog, Ross Howell Jr. now has a thick pair of leather gloves reaching nearly to his elbows. He can now face unfriendly Florida natives without trepidation, though the same can’t be said of Hurricane Irma, which veered east avoiding the Howells’ home.

Broad Brush Strokes

A new chapter for prolific painter William Mangum

 

By Waynette Goodson

The great F. Scott Fitzgerald said, “There are no second chapters in American lives.” But that’s not the case in the life of one proud North Carolinian — William Mangum.

After spending four decades mastering the art of watercolors and painting realistic landscapes, particularly of his home state, Mangum recently put down his tiny brush, capturing the twigs on the trees, and picked up a cup to pour — yes, pour — bright acrylic paint over large canvases in a sweeping contemporary style.

It would be as if Bob Timberlake woke up one day and decided to paint like Georgia O’Keeffe.

With 3,000 paintings under his palette, exhibited everywhere from the New Realists Show in Chicago to the International Exhibition in London, Mangum is an accomplished artist. So why would he make such a dramatic change?

Simple . . . a challenge.

In 2013, Mangum partnered with Klaussner Home Furnishings to create Carolina Preserves — An Artist’s Inspired Home Collection. Four distinct groups, Blue Ridge, Sea Breeze, Southern Pines and Riverbanks, celebrate the state’s diverse seasons and topography — and they’re right in the artist’s wheelhouse.

Then, a new furniture trend emerged: midcentury modern. And for the fifth collection, Klaussner debuted Simply Urban in October 2016.

“It was time to take the country boy to the city,” Mangum recalls. “To celebrate urban topography and to get me out of my comfort zone. To be honest with you . . . it was not a comfortable transition.”

To top it off, he didn’t have much time. The conversations about the new collection started in October 2015, and at the end of the holiday season, Mangum “began to tack,” with just a year until the launch.

So he got into the studio every day — he typically paints every morning for five to six hours — and taught himself the new style. “After six months, I went through many failures,” Mangum admits. “There were many sleepless nights.”

The intrepid artist compares the new approach to a roller coaster ride. “It’s definitely full of surprises,” he says. “This is not as controlled of a technique . . . some pieces are heavily textured,” he says. Painting with acrylic involves using a pallet knife, scraping and layering. “It’s like being a cook and mixing all these ingredients that you apply to give you different flavors. And you don’t know the end result until you come back the next day, and it’s cooked overnight. The paint changes and you get some pleasant surprises.”

Klaussner was pleasantly surprised with the results: “Bill’s artwork and inspiration have been the catalyst for four of our most popular home collections,” according to Geoff Beaston, Klaussner’s senior vice president of case goods. “His ability to capture nature with its distinct textures and diverse palette of colors has been the basis for storied collections from the mountains to the coast.” That was the old Bill, before acrylics. “With his newest collection, Bill has taken an exciting turn as he celebrates urban living. The result is an exceptional collection that is simultaneously modern and classic,” Beaston says.

Some pieces such as Coral Reef have as many as 30 layers that can take a week or two to dry. In another, Awakening, which resembles a bright blue flower, Mangum took cups of paint and raked them across the canvas. Other substrates include wood and even masonite.

When compared to his first love, watercolors, other major differences include not having to frame the contemporary works, and well, just knowing when to stop. When painting a tree, it’s pretty obvious when it’s finished, but that’s not the case with abstract art. “It’s intuitive,” Mangum says. “It’s hard to walk away. But you sense it’s at an ending.”

After a year of trial and error, he was able to present 54 original works last May at his gallery on Lawndale Drive, which underwent a redesign to stage the new paintings with their coordinating Simply Urban furnishings. Now, it looks as if the cast of Mad Men could make their entrance at any moment.

“The newest originals show broad, masterful handling of a variety of mediums and techniques,” says Joy Ross, Mangum’s gallery director. “From traditional watercolor, to transitional acrylics and contemporary works featuring everything from brush and pallet knife to poured paintings, this is a bold body of work. For those that feel they know his work, this collection is bound to be a bit of a surprise.”

In fact, that was Mangum’s No. 1 fear: acceptance. Would his 20,000 buyers and the thousands who come to his annual Open House connect with his contemporary art?

“Or would people believe it’s just frivolous?” he asked.

So far, many of his collectors have invested in the new pieces, which have also found homes in corporate offices. In addition, Leftbank Art is interested in the new collection. “They like that it’s a portfolio and not a single piece — not just one vase of tulips,” Mangum says.

Just as a classically trained ballerina easily transitions to modern dance, he has mastered the basic competencies to allow him to sidestep so nimbly.

But the humble artist puts it in plainer terms.

“I’ve been driving a Jeep for 25 years,” Mangum explains. “The new Jeep I have is not a Jeep; it’s a Lexus. It’s got more dingbats and whistles and hot and cool seats, but within that, the core is still there; only the icing on the cake is different.”

Ross continues: “The reason it works so well is that he has a long career, and he understands balance and composition and color, and that translates to the new medium . . . I want people to know that this is a sincere body of work. Bill puts his heart into every piece.”

That heart, that emotion and energy, shine through in the hopefulness of the bright blue Blossom, the tension in the black-and-white Storm, and the romance of the indigo Starry Nights.

For those who still yearn for his original watercolor and landscape techniques, no worries; Mangum will continue to paint both. “I still love my watercolors,” he assures. “That just feels like breathing. That’s like riding a bicycle.”

At the October High Point Market, Klaussner will debut the sixth edition of the Artist Inspired Home Collection, but Mangum isn’t giving any hints. “It’s done,” he says. “It’s very cool; it may be the best yet.”

While the next collection is done — Mangum is not. An accomplished author, publisher, gallery owner, keynote speaker, golfer and philanthropist, the 64-year-old is showing no signs of putting away the paint.

Sporting impeccable penny loafers, sharp navy slacks and a classic gingham Oxford the same color as his blue eyes, Mangum appears perplexed at the thoughts of what he might do next. “Why should I retire?” he asks. “It’s going pretty well. I guess the day I come in and there’s no one here and nothing to sign, maybe I’ll go home.”

We predict he’ll need more pens: this second chapter could be a long one.  OH

Waynette Goodson is the editor of Casual Living magazine.

Come On In! xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

While the interior of William Mangum Gallery has changed, one thing has not: you’ll still find the artist helping customers most every afternoon. He particularly enjoys sharing insights into the inspiration, locales and techniques employed in his paintings. “There are few true art galleries these days, and an artist-owned gallery is an even rarer commodity,” says Joy Ross, gallery director. “Nothing compares to having the chance to spend time with the artist and learn about his artwork.” Comfortable and inviting, the gallery features original works of art, furniture, prints and gift items — all curated by Mangum. Don’t be surprised if he asks if he can gift-wrap your purchase or carry it to your car. That’s just the essence of this affable artist who’s excited to share his new works. Info: williammangum.com

Zombie

Quick history on a walking dead classic

 

By Tony Cross

In my selfish quest to explore the myriad rums out there — drink the myriad rums out there — I’ve actually figured out a way to tie it into October with a brief history lesson on the Zombie cocktail and its original 1934 recipe. There have been many different specs for this drink, and many bartenders (myself included) have built and served it incorrectly. That’s all changed now, thanks to one man, and his never-ending search for the earliest recipe.

I first read about Jeff “Beachbum” Berry years ago when my newfound love for rum began. His recipes were in Imbibe magazine, and I’d seen his name pop up in references from other bartenders across the U.S. Berry graduated from UCLA film school but, after minimal success, found himself committing full time to bartending and uncovering lost recipes from the early to mid-1900s. He’s opened a bar, Latitude 29 in New Orleans, and written a handful of books with extensive coverage on beach drinks. And if that’s not enough to make you break out in a hula, he recently developed an app for your phone, Total Tiki, that makes cocktailing easier, especially when you’re on the fly.

Berry’s search for the authentic, original Zombie recipe began with the man responsible for its creation, Ernest Raymond Beaumont-Gantt, otherwise known as Donn Beach. In 1934, Beach opened up Don the Beachcomber’s in Hollywood. The tiki craze began. All of Beach’s creations were the real deal: fresh juices, intricate syrups, and different rums. Fifty-plus years later, Berry was having quite the time hunting down the Zombie ingredients. Apparently, Beach kept his creations a close secret, and it seemed next to impossible for Berry to unearth the original specs.

Beachbumberry.com recalls:

“In 1994 the Beachbum began a quest to track down Donn’s original Zombie recipe. Ten years and several blind alleys later, he was still none the wiser. But then the gods finally took pity on him. In 2005 their messenger, in the form of Jennifer Santiago, appeared with the drink recipe notebook that her father, Dick, had kept in a shirt pocket during his 15 years at Don The Beachcomber’s. Several of the notebook’s recipes had been reworked, renamed, or cut altogether from the Beachcomber’s menu by 1940 — proving that Dick’s notebook dated from the 1930s, possibly 1937, the year he was hired. Which meant that the notebook’s Zombie could very well be the original 1934 version.

“O cruel Fate! But there, on the last page of the notebook, scribbled in Dick’s own hand, was a recipe for New Don’s Mix: two parts grapefruit juice to one part . . . Spices #4″? Another code name!

“Bowed but not broken, the Bum asked Mike Buhen of the venerable Tiki-Ti bar if he’d ever heard of Spices #4. Since Mike’s dad, Ray, was one of the original Beachcomber’s bartenders in 1934, if anyone knew, Mike would. ‘Ray would go to the Astra Company out in Inglewood to pick up #2 and #4,’ Mike told the Bum. ‘A chemist would open a safe, take out the ingredients, and twirl some knobs in a big mixing machine, filling up a case while Ray waited. Then they’d close up the secret stuff in the safe. Ray took the bottles — marked only #2 and #4 — back to Don The Beachcomber’s.’ All well and good, but what did #4 taste like? ‘I have no idea,’ Mike shrugged. ‘Astra was owned by a guy named John Lancaster, who died of cancer in the ‘60s. The company’s long-gone.’

“And so the original Zombie Punch recipe sat, Sphinx-like, the solution to its riddle so close we could almost, well, taste it. Months went by. A year went by. And then the Bum made the acquaintance of a veteran Tiki bartender named Bob Esmino. Did he know what #4 was? ‘Oh, sure, from John’s old company,’ chuckled Bob, who hadn’t thought about the stuff in 40 years. ‘It was a cinnamon syrup.’”

Berry used to say that he’d never serve his guests more than two of his prized prescriptions at a time. That’s marketing at its finest, true or not. Though there’s more than one way to create this cocktail (Total Tiki has six different recipes that range from the 1930s to 2007), I’ll leave you with the original. You’ll see that a few of these rums are hard to obtain locally. May I suggest ordering online? As for glassware, there’s always cocktailkingdom.com. More recently, I stumbled upon a shop in Oregon that creates unique and beautiful tiki mugs: munktiki.com. The Zombie is a high-test treat; imbibe responsibly, and be even more careful if you’re playing host. Playing babysitter shouldn’t have to be a prereq in your party syllabus.

Zombie

1 1/2 ounces Gold Puerto Rican Rum (I use Bacardi 8, flavors of tropical fruit and spice)

1 1/2 ounces Gold or Dark Jamaican Rum (I use my trusty Smith & Cross. That being said, Smith & Cross is Navy Strength, clocking in with a 57 percent ABV. I use 1/2 ounce. Otherwise, I’d use Appleton Estate Reserve.)

1 ounce Lemon Hart 151-proof Demerara Rum (distilled in Guyana, this big boy is a must-have ingredient for this cocktail; flavors of vanilla, caramel, and dried fruits)

1/2 ounce Falernum (a syrupy, very low-proof liqueur with flavors of clove, lime,and almond)

3/4 ounce fresh lime juice

1/2 ounce Don’s Mix (two parts white grapefruit juice and one part cinnamon syrup*)

1 teaspoon grenadine (Rose’s Grenadine is not grenadine, it’s corn syrup — Google it)

6 drops pernod or absinthe (I opt for the latter)

1 dash Angostura Bitters

3/4 cup crushed ice

*Cinnamon syrup: Create a simple syrup (equal parts water and sugar) and add 10 ounces of syrup to a blender along with 8 grams of cinnamon sticks. Blend on high for 20 seconds. Pour into a container, sealing it, and leaving in the fridge over night. The next day, fine-strain out bits of cinnamon. Keep refrigerated.

Blend all ingredients for 3-5 seconds. Pour into a tall glass (again, very cool Zombie chimney glasses that Berry created are available online), and add ice if needed. Garnish with mint. Put on a “Cramps” record, and go to town.  OH

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

The Carolina Theatre at 90

In the words of those who loved it most

 

Compiled by Lynn Donovan
and Nancy Oakley

“There was the National, the Carolina, the Imperial, the Criterion and the State.That’s all there was uptown. As kids we used to go to the Carolina on Saturday mornings. I remember the big organ up there on the right that was always playing.” Alan Cone

“My father always read Kipling to me. The Jungle Book was one of my favorites when I was little. When Elephant Boy with Sabu was coming to the theater and I said, ‘Oh, I’ve got to see that.’ So my mother took me, and it was very sad. And I was just hysterically weeping, and I remember her telling me, ‘You wasted your money on this!’

Another time, she and some friends went to the Carolina to see Rudolf Valentino in a revival of The Sheik, which she had loved as a young girl. By then it was so dated, they broke into a fit of giggles. The ushers asked them to leave because they were laughing so hard.” Ann Y. Oakley

“As a middle school and high school student, I was involved several summers in local summer stock performances. The Livestock [Players Musical] Theatre shifted its summer theater performances and rehearsals from a literal cow barn to the Carolina Theatre when I was in high school in the late 1970s. Although I don’t remember the specific musical we were rehearsing that particular summer, I vividly recall one day when some cast mates and I were bored and decided to explore the lovely, but aging, theater. We were stunned to find a “Negroes Only” entrance around the corner and to the left of the main entrance, and even more stunned to find that this entrance led to a separate staircase to an upper level balcony. I felt that this was a telling moment for me personally, witnessing first-hand what others had been faced with not very many years before.” Carol Lutz

“I worked there for a few months while in high school . . . around 1970 . . . at the Carolina Theatre in concessions. There was a man who made the popcorn fresh every day in a little spot in the side of the building. It was the best popcorn.” Linda Greene Cruciano

“Early in my clown career, I worked with Sam Hummel on a tribute to Vaudeville that was a huge success! Wonderful memories of the magical space that is The Carolina.” Jeff Darnell (former Livestocker & Ringling Brothers Circus Clown)

“Great memories of Circle K at the Carolina Theatre. My hand was first held by a boy at Circle K! 6th grade, 1958! Remember it like it was yesterday!” Meegie Guy

“Had my ballet dance recital there.” Ellen Hinshaw

“My uncle who is 75 says they had to go in the side door and could only sit in the balcony. He says at the time he was a kid and segregation was just the norm. He says the crazy part was that as he got older and times changed and he could sit where he wanted, he realized the best seats were in the balcony. He also said as a kid they took delight at throwing popcorn at the white people below just to annoy them. My memories were of watching all the blaxploitation and kung fu movies of the ’70s. I knew a guy who didn’t take a single martial arts training lesson. But through looking at every kung fu movie at the Carolina Theatre, I saw him get in a fight and take the guy out better than Bruce Lee. He got suspended but he was a local hero from that day forward.” Paul Swann

“Me and my brothers would ride the Duke Power bus early Saturday and go to Circle K with McDonald’s wrappers then ride home. I guess we were 10 to 12 at the time. . . . Can’t do that these days.” Bob Taylor

“Had my ears pierced there in the ladies room with a needle, rubbing alcohol and concession stand ice when I was 16.” Elaine Grantham March

“The time when my entire class at GHS [Grimsley High School] went to see Romeo and Juliet. And the gorgeous chandelier!” Dale Wilson Fulton

“The last movie I saw at the Carolina was Moby Dick, it was to be the last time I went to a movie with my dad, as he was killed by a drunk driver. I loved the Carolina it was so beautiful. I remember the huge chandelier, and the graceful staircase. I always felt like a princess when I was little walking down the stairs.” Cindy Alvis Goad

“Some of my very best childhood memories were the movies shown at the Carolina. I was 8 years old and the year was 1956 when my grandmother, Lillie Kirkman, took me to see The Ten Commandments with Charlton Heston and Yul Brynner. She took me in 1959 to see Ben Hur, again Charlton Heston starred. By 1963, I was old enough to go to downtown Greensboro on the bus that picked up on Walker Avenue in front of my house. That was the year I saw The Birds and I will never forget the images in that movie. I cannot count the number of times I have seen Gone With the Wind. I am so happy to have old memories of this wonderful place. I cannot wait to bring my 3-year-old grandchild to the next showing of The Wizard of Oz.” Susan K. Evans

“One of the best at the Carolina was The Sound of Music singalong! People dressed in costumes, with props, singing along with the words scrolling on the screen, major hissing when the baroness appeared on screen.” Carrot McClure

“Performing in Pippin as a dance partner with my then new husband Johnny King. We met through the Livestock Theatre group and our marriage has now lasted 40 years. I had the joy of taking my daughter to see the remake of Pippin recently and got to tell to her about her dad and I doing the show together at the Carolina. Wonderful memories!” Karen King

“I enjoyed so many amazing Livestock Theatre productions at the Carolina Theatre but my most memorable was Secret Garden in 1997. This breathtakingly beautiful show was dedicated to our brother who died from melanoma a few months later.” Laura Michael

“December 25th, 1969, my parents took me to see Disney’s 101 Dalmations. (We used to always go to a movie Christmas night.) When we came out it was snowing.” Tara Dingus

“My next-door neighbor, Tim Johnson, was about five years older than me. He played in a band that played sometimes at Circle K on Saturday mornings. He would give me drumsticks to carry and say I was part of the band and I would get in free! Felt really “cool” being part of a band!!”
Lisa Martin Streat

“I always enjoyed going to the Carolina Theatre. Growing up, on Saturdays Mother would take my two brothers and me to the Carolina to see mostly Disney movies, but thanks to my brothers we also got to see tons of cowboy movies.

Once, when I was old enough to go without Mother, I went with a friend. When we went to the water fountain outside the Ladies room there was a sign on it that said ‘Beware of the Triffids,’ so of course neither one of us would drink the water. Later on we found out it was an advertisement for an upcoming movie The Day of The Triffids. . .” Charlene McGrady

“The Carolina Theatre was built in 1927 as a Vaudeville house. David, who works there and takes great care of the place, told me locals still pack the house during Christmas movie season when the theater shows classics. He said It’s A Wonderful Life still always sells out. Experiencing something you love with others who love it too is a powerful and reassuring experience. These great old theaters are like churches in that way. Thanks to the people of Greensboro for keeping the Carolina Theatre going for all of us.” Lyle Lovett

“I have so many memories of the Carolina Theatre both on and off stage that it is hard to pick a favorite. I performed on that wonderful stage for many years as part of Livestock Players, Razz-Ma-Tazz Musical Revue Company and CTG [Community Theatre of Greensboro]. Highlights of the many roles I played include flying across the stage as Peter Pan, tap dancing as Nellie Cohan in George M!,  and living through 50 years of marriage’s ups and downs as Agnes in I Do! I Do!. I have also been privileged to photograph many of the stage’s stellar talents for the theater.

However, my most special memory has to be the one when Razz-Ma-Tazz performed a number from Jelly’s Last Jam to open a show by Gregory Hines. He watched our number, then performed his phenomenal show. At the end, he called us all back up on stage, borrowed a vest from one of the guys and told us he was going to do the number with us. He not only performed the number but did not miss a step after seeing it one time. Director Carole Potter took a photo showing him watching my feet as we tapped. Years later when he returned to the Carolina, I took that photo to show him and he autographed it. Not long after that, the world lost one incredible talent.”
Lynn Donovan

Party On, Carolina! Party On, Carolina! Party

To celebrate its 90th anniversary, the Carolina Theatre will host a number of events into next year. This month: a screening of the 1931 version of Frankenstein, part of the Decades of Film series (October 10th, 7 p.m.). Sorry Halloween buffs, but the Carolina Paranormal Lock-in on October 21st is sold out, but as a consolation, you can see the cult classic, Rocky Horror Picture Show on the 27th at 7 p.m. On October 28th at 8 p.m. catch The Spirit of Carolina: Celebrating 90 Years, a one-night performance of dance, music, drama, history, magic and more. For information on subsequent events, visit carolinatheatre.com. 

Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?

And guess who has to cope with it

 

By Susan Kelly

A friend called
me in a panic. “Sally is bringing her boyfriend home for the weekend. Tell me what to do. You do this all the time.” Having older and more children than my friend, I did have significant experience with Significant Other visits. But I’m here to tell you: You never get used to them.

I trace my trauma to visits to my mother-in-law. It’s one thing to have stacks of Southern Living magazines on the den window seat. In 1981, it was quite another to have stacks of Southern Living from 1966, and 1969, and 1971 in your den. Who does that? (My husband’s decades-long calming chant to me — “You have got to stop being incredulous” — began about then, and is a particularly helpful mantra if you have sons.)

But back to significant other visits. You know that Bible verse: Judge not lest ye be judged?  Well, hello girlfriend, boyfriend, spouse. Hello, judgment day.

Understand that your kitchen is a veritable minefield. My personal greatest slovenly/discovery fear is the refrigerator produce bin. Celery limp as yarn, parsley gone to mulch, unidentifiable runnels of pale yellow liquid at the bottom — few vows can withstand produce gross-out. Wrestle bin from runners, and scour. Pitch anything in Tupperware or tinfoil, lest the SO become curious and unearth leftovers — like I once did — that resemble the dog’s dinner.  This cannot be unseen.

When it comes to meals, breakfast is the most delicate issue. Setting a table for breakfast? Too weird. People want coffee at different times, drift to the kitchen at different times. They want a newspaper, they want a run, they want their social media. Stock the larder, stack the cereals and utensils attractively on the counter, and leave a DIY note. Eliminates the fret for all those Do I set the alarm, appear fully dressed and perky, spatula in hand? concerns. Besides, depending on the SO age — and therefore their likely hangover status — the lovebirds will decamp for the closest fast-food biscuit joint.

Note: If the SO claims to be something complicated like vegan or gluten free, commence subtle bust-up procedures. You’re in for a lifetime of culinary misery, never mind boring table conversations. There are plenty of fish in the sea, even if the SO won’t eat them.

Next to the fridge, the bathroom is the most vulnerable chink in your “like my child, please like me” armor. So sit on the guest bathroom toilet.  You heard what I said. Stare at the walls and cabinets. Get to those scuff marks and thumbprints you see, because she’ll be staring at them too. For the shower, go ahead and sacrifice the Moulton Brown products you stole from the Eseeola or Umstead and ditch the Dial. Dig your thumb into the scrubby. Glimpse any brown? Replace instantly. Snip stray strands from towels evolving to strings. Iron the sheet, but you can get away with just the counterpane. Make bed, then start all over upon realizing the monogram is inside out. Spray with scented sheet spray, a must for significant other hostessing. Cover pillow drool with pillow covers, then add the regular pillow case, making sure zippers go in first so she doesn’t scrape her fingers when she shifts at night, and in case her mother taught her to do the same thing, and she checks on you. (Like I once did.)

Provide Kleenex. Do not make her take off her mascara with toilet paper. She will never, ever forget. (Like I never have.)

Make sure that the significant other’s significant other is as equally represented in framed photographs around the house as your other children.

Note: If SO is male, slash all effort by 50 percent.

In retrospect, the above can be summed up by (another of) my mother’s edicts: Spend a night in your own spare/empty nest/guest room now and then. Flaws will be self-evident. Alas, however, what’s relegated to history are the folded bills she used to stuff into my palm when I visited anyone: Money For The Maid.

Me.   OH

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

Writing The Last Ballad

The story behind the story, and an excerpt

 

By Wiley Cash

When I began writing my new novel The Last Ballad, an excerpt of which is printed here, my wife and I were living in Morgantown, West Virginia. It was the fall of 2012. My first novel, A Land More Kind Than Home, had been published in April, and I had recently completed the manuscript for my second novel, This Dark Road to Mercy. I had two novels behind me, but that fall I was staring down a story that I did not believe I had the talent or the heart to tackle. That story was the story of the Loray Mill strike, which unfolded over the spring and summer of 1929 in my hometown of Gastonia, North Carolina.

Although I grew up in Gastonia, I never heard a word about the strike or about the young woman who became the face of it. Ella May Wiggins was 28 years old when the strike occurred. She had given birth to nine children, but only five of them survived poverty-related illnesses. Her husband had abandoned her for what looked to be the final time. She earned $9 for a 72-hour workweek in a mill in Bessemer City, North Carolina. Like many people on the eve of the Great Depression, Ella and her children were barely hanging on. After learning about the strike at the nearby Loray Mill, Ella joined the National Textile Workers Union and wrote and sang protest ballads that were later performed by Woody Guthrie and recorded by Pete Seeger. She traveled to Washington, D.C., and confronted senators about working conditions in Southern mills. She integrated the labor union against the will of local officials. But these bold actions that Ella took were not without consequence. The decisions she made would alter the course of her life and affect her family for generations.

I first learned of the strike and the story of Ella May Wiggins after leaving North Carolina for graduate school in Louisiana. I considered writing about her over the years, but each time I sat down to write I struggled to tell Ella’s story for two reasons. First, not much is known about her. She was born in east Tennessee in 1900. She lost her parents and married young and had children with a no-good man. She left the mountains for the good life promised by the mills in the South Carolina upstate and North Carolina piedmont. She lost children. Her husband disappeared. She joined the strike. Then her tragic life spiraled further toward tragedy. Details of her life are scant, and I knew that if I were going to write about Ella I would have to be comfortable telling a story that I could not learn. But that is what writers do: We allow the germ of an idea, be it the idea of a story or the idea of a person, to infiltrate our minds, and we attempt to meet that idea with our own creations. I was prepared to do that.

What I was not prepared to do was face the second thing that made writing about Ella’s life so difficult: How could I possibly put words to the tragedies in her life and compress them on the page in a way that allowed readers to glean some semblance of her struggle?

I began working on the novel in earnest in the spring of 2013, and then my own life got in the way. My wife and I left West Virginia and returned to our beloved North Carolina after being away from home for 10 years. We had a daughter in September 2014, and then another daughter in April 2016. I lost my father a month a later.

While attempting to chronicle the tragedies, as well as the many triumphs, of Ella’s life, I was blind to the goings-on in my own. When my wife and I returned to North Carolina it gave me the chance to revisit the sorrow of my leaving it a decade earlier, and I thought about Ella leaving the Tennessee hills, a place she would never see again, for the linty air of a mill village. Unconsciously, each time I held one of my newborn daughters in my arms I wondered how Ella had managed to continue on after losing four children. When I lost my father at 38 I found myself wondering how Ella had weathered the deaths of both parents before even turning 20. While I knew I could never understand the power of Ella’s life, perhaps I could harness it by exploring the depths and pinnacles of my own.

In the following excerpt, which opens the novel, you will meet a young woman named Ella May Wiggins who is still reeling after leaving home over a decade ago. She has lost a child, and she fears she may lose more. She is struggling to survive and keep her children alive. But she is tough, tougher than me for sure, probably tougher than anyone I have ever known. It was an honor to write about her and put words to a story that has been untold for far too long.

*  *  *

Ella May knew she wasn’t pretty, had always known it. She didn’t have to come all the way down the mountain from Tennessee to Bessemer City, North Carolina, to find that out. But here she was now, and here she’d been just long enough for no other place in her memory to feel like home, but not quite long enough for Bessemer City to feel like home either.

She sat on the narrow bench in the office of American Mill No. 2 — the wall behind her vibrating with the whir of the carding machines, rollers, and spinners that raged on the other side, with lint hung up in her throat and lungs like tar — reminding herself that she’d already given up any hope of ever feeling rooted again, of ever finding a place that belonged to her and she to it. Instead of thinking thoughts like those, Ella turned and looked at Goldberg’s brother’s young secretary where she sat behind a tidy desk just a few feet away. The soft late-day light that had already turned toward dusk now picked its way through the windows behind the girl. The light lay upon the girl’s dark, shiny hair and caused it to glow like some angel had just lifted a hand away from the crown of her head. The girl was pale and soft, her cheeks brushed with rouge and her lips glossed a healthy pink. She wore a fine powder-blue dress with a spray of artificial, white spring flowers pinned to the lapel. She read a new copy of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, and she laughed to herself and wet her finger on her tongue and turned page after page while Ella watched.

How old could that girl be? Ella wondered. Twenty? Twenty-five? Ella was only twenty-eight herself, but she felt at least two, three times that age. She stared at the girl’s dainty, manicured hands as they turned the pages, and then she looked down at her own hands where they rested upturned in her lap, her fingers intertwined as if they’d formed a nest. She unlocked her fingers and placed her palms flat against her belly, thought about the new life that had just begun to stir inside her, how its stirring often felt like the flutter of a bird’s wing. She didn’t know whether or not what she felt was real, so she’d decided not to say a word about it to Charlie, not to mention a thing to anyone aside from her friend Violet.

Charlie had blown into Bessemer City that winter just like he’d blown into other places, and Ella knew that one day he’d eventually blow out the same way he’d come in. He didn’t have children or a family or anything else to tether him to a place where he didn’t want to be.

“I hadn’t never wanted a child,” he’d said after they’d known each other for a month. “I just never found the right woman to care for a child the way I want it cared for.” He’d come up behind Ella and spread his palm over her taut belly as if trying to keep something from spilling out. She’d felt his hand press against the hollowed-out space between her ribs and her hips. She was always so racked with hunger that she found it hard to believe that her body offered any resistance at all. “But who’s to say I’m always going to feel that way?” he’d said. “I might want a family of my own just yet.” Maybe he’d meant it then, and, if so, she hoped he still meant it now.

Perhaps it was the soft thrash of wings against the walls of her belly that made Ella think further of birds, and she considered how her thin, gnarled hands reminded her of a bird’s feet. She placed her palms on her knees, watched her knuckles rise like knobby mountains, saw her veins roll beneath her skin like blue worms that had died but never withered away. What was left of her fingernails were thick and broken, and it was laughable to imagine that someone like Ella would ever spend the time it would take to use a tiny brush to color such ugly things.

She resisted the urge to lift these awful hands to her face and allow those fingers to feel what waited there: the sunken, wide-set, dark eyes; the grim mouth that she imagined as always frowning because she did not believe she had ever smiled at herself when looking into a mirror, and she had only seen one photograph of herself in her lifetime, and she was certain that she was not smiling then. She recalled the photograph of a younger version of herself taken more than ten years ago; she and John and baby Lilly posing for a traveling photographer inside the post office down in Cowpens, South Carolina. John with his arm thrown around Ella’s shoulder, his face and eyes lit with the exaltation of the gloriously drunk, Lilly crying in her arms, what Ella knew to be her own much younger face blurred in movement as it turned toward Lilly’s cries at the exact moment of the camera’s looking. John had purchased the photo, folded it, and kept it in a cigar box that rattled with loose change and the quiet rustle of paper money when and if they had it. Ella had removed the photograph and gazed upon it from time to time over the years, but never to look at her own face. She’d only wanted to see the face of her firstborn, the girl who was now a tough, independent young lady who mothered her little sister and brothers more than Ella had the time or the chance or the energy to. John had left her — left them all, for that matter — over a year ago, and Ella assumed that he’d taken the cigar box with him because Lord knows he’d taken all that money, but the only thing that Ella missed now was the photograph. 

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