Comrades in the Wilderness

A solitary woman and a red fox

By Stephen E. Smith

Literary agents and acquisition editors who read early drafts of what would become Catherine Raven’s bestselling Fox and I: An Uncommon Friendship must have wondered what niche the book might fill. Memoir/autobiography? Not exactly. Humanities/social sciences? Not really. Spirituality/self-help? Probably not.

This much is certain: Whatever nook the book occupies, a careworn copy of Walden is already there. Like Thoreau, Catherine Raven wandered into the wilderness “to live deliberately, to confront the essential facts of life, and see if she could not learn what it had to teach.”

At the age of 15, Raven escaped her abusive parents who, she claims, wanted her “to disappear.” She eventually landed a job as a ranger in the National Park system. She was homeless, living in her car on a piece of remote land in Montana while putting herself through college and graduate school, where, as she frequently reminds the reader, she earned a Ph.D. in biology. She built a house in Montana and taught the occasional college class, all the while avoiding her fellow human beings. Then she met the fox.

Every day at 4:15 p.m. a red fox visits Raven’s property. His arrival quickly becomes the central focus of her otherwise uneventful life, and she begins to structure her activities around his visits. She reads to him from Dr. Seuss and Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince (a fox plays a central role in the story). She observes his every movement and speculates as to his motivations. She keeps track of his nutritional needs (he has an appetite for voles), his mating habits, the kits he helps raise, and his interaction with the surrounding fauna, especially two magpies who she names Tennis Ball and Round Belly, and bluebirds, deer, bats, eagles, elk, feral cats, etc. And she details the local flora — fescue, mustard, cheat, mullein, sunflower, Russian thistle, rabbitbrush, knapweed, sagebrush, wild rye, bluestem, wheatgrass, sow thistle — with equal purpose, producing a litany of zoological annotations liberally sprinkled with a biologist’s vocabulary. (Readers utilizing a Kindle will appreciate the handy “Dictionary” function.)

The fox never exhibits what might be interpreted as affection and doesn’t approach within petting distance. But Raven’s isolation leads her to imagine a relationship has developed between her and the animal. Her friends, few though they may be, remind her that her academic training forbids anthropomorphizing the fox, but the regularity of his visits and his attention to her human affectations lead her to project a personality onto the fox. “I tried to imagine when Fox and I first became more than just two itinerant animals crossing each other’s paths. . . . Maybe the relationship had developed so smoothly that I never doubted that all was as it should be, or maybe it had developed rapidly enough to keep me perpetually confused. . . . I had barely enough social intelligence to understand that adults, least of all trained scientists, don’t go around treating wild foxes as if they had personalities.”

Raven’s narrative doesn’t collapse into a mawkish “Lassie” story, but it approaches, especially in its conclusion, a sentimentality that is tempered only by her scientific training. Because she accepts that communicating with a wild animal is not the same as conversing with her friends and that her relationship with the fox is in no way tantamount to a human friendship, she remains uncertain as to why the attachment has developed or what lessons she might draw from her limited interaction with the fox. In fact, Fox and I might be read as a rationalization for Raven’s bond, real or imagined, with the fox. As beautifully written as her memoir is — and certainly Raven’s prose occasionally rises to the level of poetry — she never truly resolves the ambiguities that are central to her life with the fox.

Predictably, the moment arrives when Raven senses that the fox’s trust in her is almost complete. On a moonlit night, she is waiting outside for his arrival and notices the fox’s “wispy, translucent fur in the light” as he trots directly to her front steps. “I stepped away from the door, and four round and fluid kits rolled past me. Fox moved off to the side, leaving me surrounded by little leaping foxes. Close enough to touch, they were tumbling around me like acrobats while my hands sprung up in surprise. I focused on two tussling kits, and everything around them homogenized into a blur.”

All such animal tales have an obvious and inevitable conclusion, and it’s not spoiling the ending to reveal the fox’s fate. Wildfire rips through Raven’s corner of Montana, and she flees for her life. She returns to find that her house has survived but that the fox and his kits are nowhere to be found, gone up, one would suppose, in smoke, possible victims of global warming. “Nature is cruel,” she writes, “that’s a trope masquerading as a paradigm, in the sense that a carpetbagger might masquerade as a charlatan.”

Raven blames herself, enjoying the self-pity that accompanies the probable death of the fox, noting that he might have fled to safety with his vixen and the four kits, but that he waited for her to appear: “I imagined him upright on his hind legs and pressing his nose into my front window like he used to do. I could see him standing with his ears drawn back until his ankles shook and then skipping backward to regain his balance. His last memory of me was an empty house.”

Although Fox and I is nonfiction, Raven uses fictional techniques to tell her story and includes chapters written from the fox’s point of view. Though occasionally afflicted with the dictionary disease, her style is fluid and lyrical and is a joy to read, propelling the reader through her intermittent pedantic ramblings. More to her credit, she doesn’t burden the reader with timely political insights or lessons learned. Readers are left to their own conclusions. She simply tells the story of a lonely woman’s encounter with a red fox in the wilds of Montana.  OH

Stephen E. Smith is a retired professor and the author of seven books of poetry and prose. He’s the recipient of the Poetry Northwest Young Poet’s Prize, the Zoe Kincaid Brockman Prize for poetry and four North Carolina Press Awards.

Rising STARworks

Art from the Ground Up

 

By Wiley Cash  •  Photographs by Mallory Cash

The town of Star is the artistic center of North Carolina. I mean that — literally — in that Star is the geographic center of the state. And I also mean it figuratively, as the town is home to STARworks, where artists from around the world have been working in fire arts like glass blowing and ceramics since 2005.

“We love to set stuff on fire around here,” says STARworks executive director Nancy Gottovi, who, in a single decade, led the transformation of an abandoned hosiery mill into a destination for artists from around the globe.

In 1993, a nonprofit called Central Park NC formed when leaders from six Central Carolina rural counties came together with a common vision of creating a sustainable economy. The group formed an initiative to focus on art as a way to capitalize on the natural and cultural assets of the rural spaces located between the urban centers of Charlotte and the Research Triangle. That was when Nancy Gottovi began asking herself questions about what a working artist truly requires.

“They need to have a really good space to work with good equipment,” Gottovi says. “They also need a community of other artists to feed off of. And they need a way to make a living.”

In 2005, Gottovi and Central Park NC found a space — nearly 200,000 square feet of space, to be exact — when they accepted the donation of a former hosiery mill in Star that had been abandoned in 2001, leaving more than 1,000 local residents unemployed.

Enter STARworks Center for Creative Enterprise.

In the early days, the organization was grossly understaffed and overwhelmed by the nearly four acres of aging factory it had inherited, but Gottovi soon realized that in order for the fledgling organization to survive, the building itself had to start generating income.

“Our biggest asset is this amazing space,” she says. “We needed to get the best artists we could find and then set them loose in the building.”

The artists Gottovi invited set about creating glass pumpkins as one of the first ventures to raise capital to sustain the organization. Suffice it to say that it worked, and that Gottovi proudly witnessed the former factory evolve into an artistic and cultural center where artists gathered and forged both creations and community. Now, over a decade later, glassblowers at STARworks regularly create and sell as many as 3,000 glass pumpkins each fall. And each holiday season, they make and sell thousands of Christmas ornaments.

The economic model at STARworks could be described as self-sustaining. The organization offers paid internships to glass artists, who earn hundreds of hours of experience in a field that is often cost-prohibitive to those just starting out and who might not be able to afford their own studios and equipment. In turn, the interns work to create the pumpkins and ornaments that are sold each year while also having the time, space and materials to pursue their own projects. The interns also gain valuable experience as mentees while working side-by-side with professional artists from around the world who come to STARworks as residency recipients and visiting artists. An onsite gallery provides space to showcase and sell individual artists’ work.

While interns and established artists come from around the world, visitors are just as likely to discover a group of local students dabbling in glassblowing and ceramics.

Some of the students who continually benefit from their experiences at STARworks are the young men from nearby Eckerd Connects, a juvenile justice program for youth ages 13–17. Gottovi continually finds the young men from Eckerd to be the most interesting and curious young people she has encountered in her years at STARworks. According to Gottovi, working with fire and glass is a little dangerous, but these young people are comfortable navigating a certain amount of pressure in their lives, and glassblowing in particular teaches them how to work in a team and rely on other people to create a piece of art. It is an affecting experience for many of the young men, born out by the fact that several returned to STARworks as formal apprentices.

STARworks is not just creating space for artists. It is also sourcing the medium from which art is made. Recognizing the region’s long history of both brick-making in central North Carolina and pottery in nearby areas such as Sea Grove, Gottovi saw an opportunity to take advantage of the organic materials surrounding them. While spending time in Japan after graduate school, Gottovi met a Japanese potter who had a degree in ceramic material engineering, and years later she invited him to come to Star to start a clay business. He took her up on the invitation, and now STARworks is selling the best clay in North America, one of the only manufacturers creating potter’s clay from indigenous sources. The program is both a financial and educational boon. While selling clay to potters and sculptors all around the world, interns at STARworks have the opportunity to learn about the process of finding, digging and making quality clay, which Gottovi compares to “eating artisan baked bread if you’ve only ever eaten white.”

One of the most consistent challenges that STARworks has faced is where to house its artists. “Housing is the biggest challenge in a small community of only 800 people,” Gottovi says. But, just as she has done since the early days in the abandoned mill, Gottovi is finding solutions. The organization takes out year-long leases for artists in rental homes in the area, and an old boiler building on the property is being considered for future renovation for onsite housing.

One cannot help but think about Gottovi’s early consideration of what artists need: space, community, support. Whether in the studio, in the local community or in the earth itself, all the ingredients are here, and STARworks is right in the middle of it all.  OH

Wiley Cash is the Alumni Author-in-Residence at the University of North Carolina-Asheville. His new novel, When Ghosts Come Home, is available wherever books are sold.

Et Tu, Tofu?

Adventures in curd-based cooking

 

By Maria Johnson

Lately, I’ve been eating a plant-based diet.

“Don’t you mean vegetarian?” a meat-based reader might say.

Here, I would split hairs — in the way only a plant-based person would — and say, “No.”

First of all, “plant-based” is a hipper term than “vegetarian,” which sounds so . . . Moosewood (see Moosewood Cookbook, a vegetarian standard published in 1974).

Also, I think “plant-based” sounds more flexible. To me, it means my diet is mostly plants, but it also leaves room for the fact that if you waved a Ruth’s Chris petite filet, seared medium, under my nose, I’d probably bite your fingers off to get at it.

Granted, it’s a slight distinction, but accuracy is important to me. It’s also accurate to say that most of the time, I don’t miss meat.

All of which brings me to tofu, a protein-rich staple of many people who eat plant-based diets.

Tofu is bean curd. Smooth, white and gelatinous, and it’s sold in chilled squares. Imagine clammy, chalky Jell-O, minus the flavor. Not a great sales pitch I know, but there you have it.

Tofu is what I would call a member of the blah food group — think grits, rice, potatoes, couscous — which is to say that when it’s cooked right and dressed up to the point you don’t recognize it, it can be really good.

My fave local Asian restaurant — shout out to Timmy and the crew at Thai Corner Kitchen #2 — fries up some mean tofu cubes: golden brown and chewy, they’re the perfect sop for whatever scrumptious sauce they’re swimming in.

Inspired, I started playing around with tofu at home, adding it to stir fries and curries with favorable results, meaning that my husband and my hound, a reliable food taster, ate it without complaint — and also, I think, without the knowledge that they were eating tofu, but that’s beside the point.

The point is, I started wondering if I should serve a tofu turkey for Thanksgiving, not as a replacement for the Pilgrim kind, but as an option, along the lines of serving both pumpkin and pecan pies.

After all, we’re likely to have a vegan and several plant-leaning folks at the table this year, and I thought it would be nice to give them — us — more choices.

To that end, I started reading reviews of store-bought tofu turkeys, which, thank goodness, aren’t molded to resemble turkeys, à la Spam lambs. Rather, they favor meat roasts. Lump-like and comforting.

The best-known brand offered an oblong product called “a plant-based holiday feast,” which received an average of 4.1 out of 5 stars from 47 reviewers. Their opinions ran the gamut.

“OK. SO . . . I can eat a whole one by myself. These little sh*ts are hella delicious,” wrote Christie R.

That sounded good. Ish. If one could get the imagery out of one’s mind.

Michelle S., who doesn’t put much stock in punctuation, was slightly less sanguine: “Its OK a lil on the cardboard side.”

As a hostess, I was hoping for a lil more.

“I like their vegetarian sausages,” declared Jaismeen K., managing to confuse everyone.

Rachel T., however, was clear.

“This is perhaps the most disgusting thing I’ve ever put in my mouth, and I mean that’s saying a lot for me,” she wrote.

So many questions for Rachel.

Maybe, I thought, I should make a tofu turkey from scratch instead. SO — as Christie R. would say — I dredged up a recipe for a trial run, ran to the store, and commenced to sweating some tofu, which means wrapping the blocks in a dish towel, laying heavy objects on top of them and bleeding out the liquid — pretty violent stuff in plant-based circles.
Then, per the recipe, I mixed the tofu with lots of herbs and spices, shaped it into a dome, hollowed out a well, packed in the stuffing, capped the well and brushed that baby with a glaze made of soy sauce, spicy mustard and red wine.

An hour later, I pulled it from the oven. It smelled great. It looked like an asteroid.

I cut into it. The stuffing was recognizable. The tofu was more mealy than meaty.

I summoned the husband and the hound.

“I kinda like it,” Jeff said, several forks in.

“Really?” I squeaked, chewing slowly.

“Yeah, I didn’t think I would,” he said. “But I do.”

He went for seconds. God love him.

I held out a piece to Rio. He sniffed it and left the room.

I thought so.

I blamed myself. Then I blamed the recipe, which felt better.

Later, I was searching The New York Times cooking app for another version, when I ran across this question-and-answer column by food editor Sam Sifton:

Q: How does one cook a tofurkey? I’m having some vegetarian guests for Thanksgiving this year.

A: One does not. The point of vegetarian food is not to make meat out of vegetables. One makes vegetables and calls them by their proper names. And if one can’t make a turkey to place alongside them, or if one needs a vegetarian main course, one’s way is clear. One makes really big beets.

To find Sam’s Really Big Beets recipe, search “No Tofurkey for You (and Other Thanksgiving Cooking Advice)”.

You can thank me later. OH

Maria Johnson is a contributing editor of O.Henry. Email her at
ohenrymaria@gmail.com.

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

Watch a garden spider mercilessly swaddle its prey in silk and see if you aren’t vaguely reminded of your favorite Scorpio. Dark and mysterious by nature, it’s little wonder that the presence of this powerful water sign tends to make people feel a bit uncomfortable. But those who know and love this brooding and morbidly sensitive being will tell you that their wrath is justifiable: Their every action is rooted in their fierce loyalty to truth and those dearest to them. This month, Scorpios will be asked to take stock of their emotional baggage. Heavy, isn’t it? The new moon is a good time to let go.

 

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Have you heard of therapeutic shaking? It might counteract all that fidgeting.

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

It won’t be a cakewalk, but there will be music. 

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

You’re overthinking things again. Draw yourself a bath and relax.

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

A seesaw only works if you’re willing to cooperate.

Aries (March 21 – April 19)

The prize is the box itself.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

Regression isn’t a good look for you. Dust yourself off and keep going. 

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

Temping, isn’t it? Do what you want. It’s really only karma.   

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

Wear the pink ones.

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

There’s no such thing as a free puppy. Read that again.

Virgo (August 23 – September 22)

Let’s put it this way: The bubble needed to be burst.

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

Neat and tidy isn’t always an option.  OH

Zora Stellanova has been divining with tea leaves since Game of Thrones’ Starbucks cup mishap of 2019. While she’s not exactly a medium, she’s far from average. She lives in the N.C. foothills with her Sphynx cat, Lyla. 

Brotherhood

A night to remember with Tim and Danny Carter

By Ogi Overman

When Danny Carter was wheeled into Springers bar off Randleman Road, the SRO crowd posed for selfies with him and treated him like the prodigal son. While grown men fought back tears, some women didn’t even try.

Most of the attendees had grown up with the music of Danny and brother Tim, aka the Carter Brothers, but had not seen Danny in the five years since he was diagnosed with hydrocephalus, a brain disorder that can lead to delirium and death. A procedure helped, but then Danny suffered a stroke, which robbed him of his ability to walk. And play guitar. (But not to sing.)

Since then Tim had been taking care of Danny and their mother, Hazel, for whom they’d built a cabin adjoining their home and recording studio in Ridgetop, TN. She passed away last December, and shortly afterward Danny told Tim that he’d like to move back home to High Point.

After a seemingly endless array of long-term care issues, Tim finally found a facility in High Point that seemed well suited for his brother’s needs.

At last Danny had found a home, was being visited regularly by a host of old friends and was progressing well with his therapy. Then, with no warning, Tim was told that unless he came up with $15,000, they would have to find a nursing home for Danny.

Hence the six-band benefit concert, organized primarily by Shiela Klinefelter, notorious for such altruistic endeavors.

“I had to come up with the money almost overnight,” says Tim. “We’ve about recouped it now, but it’s hard to know what his long-term needs might be.” But the real bonus? “He needed to know how many friends he’s got and how much they care for him. He just needed to see them.”

Finally, it was time for the Tim Carter Band to hit the stage. With one extra member. A mic was set up in front of the stage and Danny took his place behind it. And, yes, he remembered every lyric and hit every note.

This time, grown men didn’t even try to hide their tears.  OH

Clap if the Spirit Moves You

Drumming and dancing and an all-black cast? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, yes. Poet and playwright Langston Hughes’ Black Nativity will all but shake the walls of The Barn Dinner Theatre from Friday, November 13, through Tuesday, December 23. With its foot-stomping gospel songs and soul-stirring folk spirituals, this riveting retelling of the Christmas story has been inspiring audiences since its Off-Broadway debut in 1961. The following year, when it first appeared at the Festival of Two Worlds at Spoleto, Italy, a New York Times reporter described congregations of worldly theater patrons fervently clapping and singing along — “and insisting on curtain call after curtain call.” Little wonder this show sells out early each year. As for the all-you-can-eat Southern-Style buffet? Can we get a Hallelujah? The Barn Dinner Theatre, 120 Stage Coach Trail, Greensboro. Info: barndinner.com. 

Art of Betrayal

Although “time-bending, darkly comic world between heaven and hell” sounds like a fairly apt description of our present reality, it also sets the scene for The Last Days of Judas Iscariot — a contemporary drama with raw language and the kind of shock factor that’s sure to offend someone’s Bible-thumping granny. The UNCG School of Theatre invites you to join the Purgatory party this month at the Pam and David Sprinkle Theatre (402 Tate St., Greensboro). Where else can you mingle with Mother Teresa, Mary Magdalene, Sigmund Freud, Satan and the New Testament’s OG sinner? Performances run November 4–14; Thursdays through Saturdays at 7:30 p.m.; Sundays at 2 p.m. On-demand streaming November 18–20. Box Office: (336) 334-4392. Info: vpa.uncg.edu/theatre.

This Box is Meowing

Carolina Classic Holiday Movies are here (and some of you have yet to polish off the leftover turkey). Here’s the holly, jolly lineup for this month:

November 28 – National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, 7 p.m. Because Chevy Chase as Clark Griswold. That’s why.

November 29 – Miracle on 34th Street, 7 p.m. Spoiler alert:
Santa is real.

November 30 – Elf, 7 p.m. Discover the best way to spread Christmas cheer — and where the reindeer get their magic.

Tickets are $7. Doors and box office open at 6:15 p.m. See website for COVID protocol and a B-O-G-O offer for essential workers. Carolina Theatre, 310 S. Greene St., Greensboro. Info: carolinatheatre.com.

 

Pop Goes the Concert

Broadway big name Matthew Morrison — generation Glee know him as Mr. Schue — is bringing the p-o-p and fizzle to the Greensboro Symphony for a POPS concert on Saturday, November 6, at 8 p.m. Morrison, who starred in the original cast of Hairspray, has been nominated for Tony, Emmy and Golden Globe awards for his work on stage and screen. He can dance, act and sing with the best of them. Don’t miss the chance to experience his high-range pipes live with the GSO. Tickets start at $35. Steven Tanger Center for the Performing Arts, 300 N. Elm St., Greensboro. Info: tangercenter.com/events.

Urban Indian

If you’ve been reading this year’s One City, One Book selection, There There, then you know what author Tommy Orange means when he describes himself as an “urban Indian.” As in, leave the feathered headdress and other stereotypes at the door. Born and raised in Oakland, Ca., Orange is the son of a white mother and Native father and an enrolled member of the Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes of Oklahoma. There There, his debut novel, is one of The New York Times “10 Best Books of the Year,” a Pulitzer Prize-finalist and Winner of the Pen/Hemingway Award. An Evening with Tommy Orange takes place on Thursday, November 18, 7 p.m. at The Terrace (Greensboro Coliseum, 1921 W. Gate City Blvd.); free admission. Additional OCOB programming includes a Native American storytelling and stone-carving workshop, storytelling crafts, indigenous hip hop, a lesson on natural navigation, a conversation on community gardens, a powerful discussion on the misrepresentation of native women and a film offering 21st century Native American perspectives. Y’all come. Info: library.greensboro-nc.gov/books-media/one-city-one-book.

All That Glitters

If there were but Seven Wonders of The Gate City, then surely the Greensboro Science Center would be one of them. And that’s before the holidays when a shimmering light show joins penguins, Bakari the okapi and a host of life-size dinosaurs. This year’s Winter Wonderlights promises to be “bigger, bolder and brighter” than ever, expanding to transform Revolution Ridge (the center’s 11-acre zoo expansion) into a glittering, prismatic dreamscape. From November 6 through January 2, experience GSC’s dancing fountains, twinkling carousel, enchanted Forest of Light and a host of wild and wintry adventures. Tickets: $16.50 (children and seniors); $24.50 (adults). Free for children 2 and under. Greensboro Science Center, 4301 Lawndale Dr., Greensboro. Info: greensboroscience.org.

 

 

Ogi Sez

by Ogi Overman

Next month we’ll be saying, “Wow, is it Christmas already?” But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Rather, let’s just say, “Wow, is it Thanksgiving already?” Criminy, I’m barely over Halloween. Let’s just pretend every day’s a holiday and celebrate by going to a concert.

• November 10, The Ramkat: When alt. country became a thing back in the mid-90s, three groups vaulted to the top in my book: Wilco, Two Dollar Pistols and Drive-By Truckers. Of the three, I must admit that Drive-By Truckers was always my fave, even before Jason Isbell’s stint from 2001-’07. They’re keeping the genre alive, God bless their little hearts. You bet I’ll be in Winston for this.

• November 14, High Point Theatre: After two COVID-induced cancellations, the third time’s gotta be the charm for A.J. Croce. Don’t expect a clone-tribute act of his late father Jim’s material, though. Sure, the hits will be covered, but A.J. is a virtuoso pianist who’s toured with the likes of B.B. King and Ray Charles, and he is a top-shelf songwriter and has 10 albums to his credit. This will be well worth the wait.

• November 19, Greensboro Coliseum: When this show was announced, I almost passed out from joy. Both of my all-time favorite singer-songwriters on the same bill — James Taylor and Jackson Browne. I’m literally counting down the days. If I never see another show, my life will be complete after this one.

• November 20 & 21, Tanger Center: I think I’m seeing a pattern develop here. When a genuine legend with a rabid fan base comes to the 3,000-seat Tanger, it needs to be a two-nighter. No doubt, Sting falls into that category. He could probably sell out several shows, so if you want to be one of the 6,000, you might want to order ASAP.

• November 27, Carolina Theatre: OK, so we really are celebrating Christmas already. But with this supergroup ensemble, comprised of past members of the Temptations, the Miracles and the Capitols, A Motown Christmas would be a treat any season of the year. Hey, getting a little head start on the holidays seems quite in order. We deserve it.

Time and Remembrance

As the honeybee takes its final drink, bittersweet memories arrive and depart

 

By Jim Dodson

I’ve been thinking about time lately. How quickly it comes. How quickly it passes.

An excellent example of this phenomenon is O.Henry magazine, which celebrates its 10th anniversary this month, a moment of reflection in a 200-plus-year-old city whose lifespan stretches from the days of the American Revolution to the dawn of the Digital Space Age.

If I may be bold enough to speak on behalf of my talented colleagues — our generous owners and contributing writers, gifted artists, photographers, designers and tireless sales folks who handcraft this magazine every month with equal parts passion and creativity — we as a staff are deeply grateful to have earned your loyal support and steadfast readership over the years.

As we embark on the next decade of life, you will see an observance of this milestone in our pages this month, stories that celebrate our past, present and future hopes for the historic Gate City we call home. In the process, we are also embracing inevitable change by saying a reluctant goodbye to Editor Ashley Wahl, my longtime protégé and the original senior editor of this magazine, who begins her new married life with husband Alan in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Ashley’s gracious return one year ago began the process of allowing me to hand off the editor’s baton as part of my plan to refresh the magazine with new voices and ideas, a natural 10-year evolution that will see both of us remain fully engaged contributors to the magazine we love.

As part of this process, beginning with the December issue, we are thrilled to welcome Mary Best onboard as O.Henry’s new editor, a talented veteran of magazine editing whose love of writers and fine storytelling makes her the ideal choice to carry the magazine forward.

In the meantime, November is a month of remembrance. We begin by celebrating Hallowmas, the Feast of All Saints known and unknown. In the middle of the month we’ll remember veterans for their sacrifice and wind up November by giving thanks for the abundance of the Earth and ties that bind. The good news this holiday season is that families may finally be able to gather in person to celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas, though collective reflection upon the millions worldwide who are no longer with us this year reminds us of life’s precious brevity.

Speaking of such, the other afternoon, cheered by the sudden arrival of autumn light and a breath of welcome coolness, I noticed a small honeybee having a drink of water from an old bird bath I’ve kept filled on account of our lingering summer. Recently, I placed a circle of small stones at the water’s edge to prevent thirsty bees from falling in and drowning. Until my wife informed me that drowning is a genuine threat to the invaluable life of bees, I never gave passing thought to how a simple drink of water could be so perilous.

In ancient times, bees were considered symbols of order and immortality. The wax they produce found its way into candles used in religious ceremonies, their honey sweetened and preserved food. Coins from the fifth century featured images of bees, held to be among nature’s most magical creatures.

Modern science, in fact, confirms what ancient observers believed about bees — that they have a mysterious yet highly refined way of communicating with each other that enables them to find the hidden nectar of flowers and construct honeycombs from thousands of symmetrically perfect hexagons, mathematical structures reminiscent of the six-pointed stars that form the Flower of Life.

“Because bees feed on the nectar of flowers,” writes symbologist Adele Nozedar, “and fundamentally on sunlight, they are agents of transmutation, making something from nothing, mystical creatures that are able to foresee the future.” This belief, she adds, may explain why beekeepers since the late Middle Ages have followed the tradition of speaking to their honeybee hives, conveying news of the household, particularly of births and deaths, and the broader life of the community.

Between us, I lost track of time watching this lone honeybee pause to refresh. Either five minutes or the better part of an hour drifted by. The bee was in no hurry and neither was I, both taking our own sweet time as the clock of another year winds down, though his days are ten thousand times shorter than mine, a bittersweet reminder to get on with things that need to be done. 

As I watched him hop from stone to stone, I wondered where he might be headed and how much time he has left to fulfill his purpose. A male honeybee lives anywhere from one month to seven weeks, on average, and suddenly it was autumn. I felt a stab of sadness for my thirsty friend, but he rose into the air, hovered for a moment, then flew away. My impression was that he knew exactly where he was headed and why he is here. Isn’t that the greatest lesson of being alive?

Remembrance often comes with bittersweet memory. Still sitting where the honeybee left me, I randomly opened an old leather journal — ironically embossed with the Celtic Flower of Life, purchased years ago in a Dublin book shop — where I keep a record of travels, eccentric thoughts, favorite quotes, overheard comments, mildly blue jokes and notes on my garden, only to be stopped by a line I wrote two days before Thanksgiving last year.

For the first time ever, due to COVID distancing, none of our grown children could make it home for the holiday. That was disappointing enough — a moment we expected to eventually come in time as their busy lives expanded — but the unexpected loss of our sweet and lovable golden retriever, Ajax, a gift to my wife for our 10th anniversary, was a devastating blow. Due to a swift malady that came out of nowhere overnight and left us no choice but to humanely put him down, a kind lady vet came to the house to administer relief as he lay calmly on his favorite couch, gazing out the window at the yard where he loved to romp with the kids. He was such a big kid himself, I called him “Junior.”

After I carried Junior’s body out to the doctor’s car, I sat at the top of my office steps by the garage and watched the beautiful light of a perfect autumn afternoon leave the world as peacefully as my friend Ajax had just done. The mighty white oaks around us had shed most of their leaves by then, though a few last ones filtered to earth in the golden light. I heard children’s voices just yards away, playing tag, squeals of terrified delight. Junior would have loved that. I looked up and saw a red-tailed hawk cruising over the treetops, tilting to the west as if turning toward home. I wondered what he saw from 200 feet closer to heaven. Perhaps an old dude sitting at the top of his steps, grieving for his friend who brought such joy into the world.

It’s probably about time I let my grief for Junior go. The light in the eye grown dim, wrote Walt Whitman, shall duly flame again. 

Though I doubt that will happen just yet. OH

Jim Dodson is the founding editor of O.Henry.