Fruitcake Weather

It’s here. And so are the memories

 

By Cynthia Adams

Truman Capote’s “A Christmas Memory,” a paean to love, is Capote at his best.

The tale centers on young Buddy, Truman’s alter ego, and his elderly cousin Sook, celebrating the arrival of “fruitcake weather.” Thus, preparations begin for 30 fruitcakes, one earmarked for FDR’s White House. The glowing wood stove and ambrosial smells remind me of those who baked joyfully: my Great-Grandmother Loretta McClellan and my own grandma, Mama Patty.

They were equally enthusiastic about both fruitcake and the Roosevelts. Their fruitcakes — nut-filled and flawless — kick-started my affection for the holiday confection.

Loretta and Pat baked holiday cakes with effortless ease: fresh coconut and chocolate or vanilla pound cakes. 

Our mother, Jonni Louise, did not. She inherited few cake-baking talents from her elders and her infamous fruitcakes became the stuff of family legend. She compensated for disappointing dryness with a liberal dousing of brandy. Marinating until Christmastime, her fruitcakes disintegrated in a pool of liquor. On Christmas Eve, we picked around the alcoholic mush, patting our stomachs and claiming we were too stuffed. Mom, skeptical but unfazed, was nothing if not an improviser.

Occasionally, her improvisations succeeded.

With our father away for work, for instance, she once bought the Christmas tree without him. That night, it looked like a tinseled Tower of Pisa. When crashing to the living room floor for the second time, shattering more ornaments, we heaved it upright. Limbs scratched our arms and ruined orbs crunched beneath our feet. Snatching up a hammer, Mom nailed the stand to the newly waxed and buffed oak floor. We watched in shock and awe.

Mom embraced the expedient. 

When a hem fell out of my holiday dress before the school pageant, she grabbed tape and a stapler.

Yet there was no compromising on one thing: Hallmark (Who, by the way, invented gift wrap). 

Hallmark’s tagline — “When you care enough to send the very best” — was coined in 1944. It so compelled her that, for the rest of her life, whenever she received a card, she searched for their imprimatur before reading it. The unspoken was: Had the sender cared?

Jonni Louise indeed cared, driving to a Monroe Hallmark shop, where she gorged on themed paper goods and the tour de force: centerpieces with honeycomb pleats — trees, snowmen or Santas.

Hallmark’s sentimental ploy was peerless; its sappy commercials could make a grown man cry. Only Folgers’ 1984 Christmas jingle matched Hallmark tear for tear. We wept when the prodigal son, usually a serviceman, snuck into the kitchen to surprise Mom on Christmas morn as — what else? — coffee brewed. The best part of waking up . . .

We smelled it! 

Lifelong, Mom easily spent more on Hallmark swag than on food — though plenty was spent on holiday feasts. (Not to mention liquors required for fruitcakes, bourbon balls and other desserts.)

“A Christmas Memory” offers this O. Henry ending: Having spent their savings on fruitcakes for others, Buddy and Sook spend Christmas flying kites made for one another. A joyful Sook exclaims, “I could leave the world with today in my eyes.” It was, in fact, their last Christmas together.

Two years ago, not long before Jonni Louise departed from this realm — and just before the holidays — we shared Claxton’s store-bought fruitcake and a cup of (Folgers’) coffee.

“It will do,” she declared.

I fear Hallmark’s bottom line plunged that Christmas. 

But, perhaps not, given the many sympathy cards from those who knew Jonni Louise well. They had, indeed, cared enough to send the very best.  OH

Contributing editor Cynthia Adams may or may not prefer her fruitcake soaked in brandy. 

Holiday Treasures

Some old, some new. All bursting with magic

 

Compiled by Shannon Purdy Jones

Growing up, one of the things I most looked forward to about the holiday season was rediscovering the Christmas books my mother had packed up with the decorations in the attic. Stored out of sight for most of the year made them fascinating, almost otherworldly. They weren’t like all the other books on the shelf; they were special. Dreamy, snow-dusted illustrations and gentle rhymes worked their magic on me back then, and years on, they haven’t let go. 

Now, with kids of my own, I realize that part of what made those books so special was the memories attached to them: the time my brother and I stained the page of a family heirloom with red frosting (because who can be bothered to wash up while decorating cookies?). Or reading ’Twas the Night Before Christmas before bed every Christmas Eve. (The very same edition I now read to my children.)

We still have some of my most treasured childhood holiday books, and each year my kids add to the collection, creating their own memories of cookies and reindeer and snow. Below, you’ll find my favorite holiday books of 2021 — some brand-new, some re-releases of old favorites. No matter what holidays you celebrate, you can start — or grow — your own we-keep-these-forever stack of threadbare but well-loved books.

The Star Tree by Gisela Colle (Northsouth Books, $17.95) A timeless classic back in print with a fresh, new look. In a little house in a big city, an old man remembers Christmases long ago: when friends and family gathered to tell stories and sing carols, and children made gold paper stars to welcome visitors. Now the city is filled with skyscrapers, bright lights and flashy signs. Who would even notice old-fashioned paper stars hanging in a window? But when the old man decorates a park tree with his basket full of paper stars, the whole community rediscovers the simple power and beauty of the Christmas spirit.

Santa in the City by Tiffany D. Jackson, illustrated by Reggie Brown (Dial Books, $17.99) It’s two weeks before Christmas, and young Deja is worried that Santa might not come to her house. After all, as a city kid, she doesn’t have a chimney for him to shimmy down and none of the parking spots on her block could fit a sleigh, let alone eight reindeer! But with a little help from her family, community and Santa himself, Deja discovers that the Christmas spirit can find its way into any corner of the world. With bold, colorful illustrations that capture the joy of the holidays, this picture book from award-winning author Tiffany D. Jackson and illustrator Reggie Brown is a holiday gift to be treasured for years to come.

The Shortest Day by Susan Cooper, illustrated by Carson Ellis (Candlewick, $17.99) As the sun set on the shortest day of the year, early people would gather to prepare for the long night ahead. They built fires and lit candles. They played music, bringing their own light to the darkness while wondering if the sun would ever rise again. Written for a theatrical production that has become a ritual in itself, Cooper’s poem captures the magic behind the returning of the light, the yearning for traditions that connect us with generations that have gone before — and the hope for peace that we carry into the future: So the shortest day came, and the year died. Richly illustrated by Caldecott Honoree Carson Ellis, this beautiful book evokes the joy, universality and community found in honoring and celebrating the ongoing mystery of life. Welcome, Yule!

The Christmas Owl by Ellen Kalish & Gideon Sterer, illustrated by Ramona Kaulitzki (Little Brown, $17.99) When Little Owl’s home is cut down by people saying it will make a beautiful Christmas tree, she’s not sure she wants anything to do with Christmas, whatever that means. But then she is saved by a woman named Ellen, whose house is merrily decorated for the holiday — and filled with birds who need someone to care for them. Surrounded by kindness and helpful new friends, Little Owl begins to wonder if Christmas might not be such a bad thing after all. Co-written by Ellen Kalish, caretaker of the real owl found inside the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree, The Christmas Owl is a charming story of friendship, compassion and the true meaning of this special time of year.

Red and Green and Blue and White by Lee Wind, illustrated by Paul O. Zelinsky (Levine Querido, $17.99) It’s a holiday season that both Isaac, whose family is Jewish, and Teresa, whose family is Christian, have looked forward to for months! They’ve been counting down the days, playing in the snow, making cookies, drawing (Teresa) and writing poems (Isaac). They enjoy all the things they share, as well as the things that make them different. But when Isaac’s window is smashed in the middle of the night, it seems like maybe not everyone appreciates difference. Inspired by a true story, this is a tale of a community that banded together to spread light.

The Snowflake by Benji Davies (Harper Collins, $17.99) From Benji Davies, the award-winning creator of Tad and The Storm Whale, comes a dazzling wintry tale about trust and serendipity. Exquisitely written and beautifully illustrated, The Snowflake tells the separate stories of one snowflake and one little girl. Both longing for their own special place in the world, they spin together into a magical ending. The snowflake and Noelle discover that, wherever we go — and however we fall — in the end, we all find a way to shine. Perfect for fans of The Night Before Christmas (illustrated by Loren Long) and Dasher by Matt Tavares.

Jan Brett’s The Nutcracker by Jan Brett (GP Putnam’s Sons, $18.99) Jan Brett’s striking illustrations and the Christmas classic, The Nutcracker, are a match made in picture book heaven. Brett makes this classic her own by setting it in snowy Russia and adding whimsical touches to favorite elements of the traditional ballet. Enjoying this book will be an instant Christmas tradition for families who love the ballet or for those new to the story. As perfect a gift as Brett’s classics, The Mitten and The Night Before Christmas.  OH

Shannon Purdy Jones is store manager and children’s book buyer at Scuppernong Books.

Hell of a Read

A dizzying journey of the imagination

By Anne Blythe

The adage that you can’t judge a book by its cover is not one that works for the fourth novel written by Jason Mott, a writer and poet who lives in southeastern North Carolina. The title of Mott’s latest work of fiction, Hell of a Book, is in large, bold capital letters at the top of a black and yellow cover. Go ahead, judge it.

It is a hell of a book, one that explores racism, police violence and being Black in America.

It’s a novel — and a mystery, too — about a novelist with a vivid imagination. It’s difficult to know what’s real and what the writer is imagining. It’s also challenging to see how the main characters are connected, until the very end. Even then, there’s no certainty as to whether they’re truly bound in anything other than the novelist’s mind.

Mott pulls readers through a difficult and sometimes overwhelming conversation about “The Altogether Factual, Wholly Bona Fide Story of a Big Dreams, Hard Luck, American-Made Mad Kid” — his subtitle — with madcap humor, painfully poignant prose and a show-me-don’t-tell-me contemplative style.

The protagonist is a Black fiction writer on a dizzying book promotion tour, an unnamed bestselling writer who is whisked through a blur of airports, hotels and cities by a quirky cast of drivers, and a profit-driven agent.

We first meet him at 3 a.m. in the hallway of a Midwestern hotel, where he’s naked, locked out of his room and being chased by an angry husband who has caught the author with his wife. He runs after him, flailing at him with a large coat hanger.

As the protagonist is about to be caught, the elevator doors open, and he escapes into a new scene with his savior of the moment, an elderly woman bringing home groceries in the wee hours of the morning.

As the naked novelist and woman watch the hotel floors counted off in the elevator, Mott introduces readers to a sobering reality that becomes a central theme as the writer moves through his chaotic, alcohol-infused tour. Another Black male has been shot and killed by police, but Mott doesn’t give him a name. The old woman asks the novelist a question:

“Did you hear about that boy?”

“Which boy?”

“The one on TV.” She shakes her head and her blue hair sways gently like the hair of some sea nymph who’s seen the tides rise and fall one too many times. “Terrible, terrible.”

The novelist tries initially to go on with his celebrity life without fleshing out his feelings about “the boy.” He tries to push the latest outrage blaring on TVs and pulling Black Lives Matter advocates into the streets with signs and chants into that place deep inside himself where injustices stew without boiling over.

This time, though, the world is outraged, and the protagonist can’t tune out the calls to stop the madness or the cries to confront centuries of oppression and brutality.

The morning after the naked ride in the elevator, we meet The Kid, a mysterious but thought-provoking boy who might, or might not, be a figment of the author’s imagination. He looks to be about 10 years old, “impossibly dark-skinned,” and might, or might not, represent the all too many Black children lost to police violence.

We also get to know Soot, another Black boy in rural North Carolina, whose father tries to teach the power of invisibility, picking up on a theme in Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man about not wanting to be seen by oppressors. We’re left to wonder how these boys are connected to the protagonist.

Early on, it becomes clear that the touring novelist has what he describes as “a condition,” an unnamed affliction through which he can blend an imaginary world with reality. His storytelling style, almost a stream of consciousness, can be disorienting but riveting, mind-numbing but thought-provoking.

On one trip from an airport to a book event, The Kid appears in the backseat of a limousine. He’s aware that the driver up front can’t see him, and he’s ready to test the author’s assertion that he’s just a character made up in his mind.

“Why am I not real?” The Kid laughs.

“Because I have a condition,” the protagonist says. “I see things. People too. They say it’s some sort of escape valve for pressure on the mind, probably caused by some sort of trauma. But I don’t go in on that. I haven’t had any type of trauma in my life . . . Nothing worthy of a Lifetime network movie or anything like that.”

Trauma eventually takes readers from the misadventures of the book tour to the dirt roads of Bolton, the hometown of Soot — and Mott as well, raising yet another conundrum. Is Mott’s Hell of a Book a novel, or is it more fact than fiction about a Black novelist from the South?

“Nestled in the sweaty armpit of Carolina swampland, the town of Bolton is the land that time forgot,” he writes. “The main exports of Bolton are lumber and black manual labor. The wood comes from the forests and swamplands — all of which are owned by the local paper mill — and the labor comes from the town’s seven-hundred-odd residents. I wish I could tell you that there’s something more than those two chief exports that comes out of Bolton, but there’s nothing else. Bolton isn’t a town that gives, but neither is it a town that takes. It’s the type of place that keeps to itself. It’s self-sustaining, the way the past always is.”

The past and the present need to confront, and reckon with, what generations of Black Americans have endured.

“Down in this part of the world, we got it all: fifty-four Confederate flags planted along the Interstate, statues put up by the daughters of the Confederacy, plantations where you can have wedding pictures taken of the way things used to be, we got lynchings, riots, bombings, shrimp and grits, and even muscadine grapes,” the novelist writes.

“Yeah, the South is America’s longest-running crime scene. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise. But the thing is, if you’re born into a meat grinder, you grow up around the gears, so eventually you don’t even see them anymore. You just see the beauty of the sausage. Maybe that’s why, in spite of everything I know about it, I’ve always loved the South.”

It’s also the place where the protagonist, The Kid and Soot converge — without fully solving the air of mystery that surrounds them throughout the book. The enigmatic threads Mott so adroitly weaves together become more tightly stitched toward the end. Hell of a Book will make you think while also entertaining you on a helluva journey.

“Laugh all you want,” the protagonist writes as he and The Kid come to the end of the journey, “but I think learning to love yourself in a country where you’re told that you’re a plague on the economy, that you’re nothing but a prisoner in the making, that your life can be taken away from you at any moment and there’s nothing you can do about it — learning to love yourself in the middle of all that? Hell, that’s a goddamn miracle.”  OH

Anne Blythe has been a reporter in North Carolina for more than three decades covering city halls, higher education, the courts, crime, hurricanes, ice storms, droughts, floods, college sports, health care and many characters who make this state such an interesting place.

Cultivating Community

Caroline Stephenson steps out from behind the camera

 

By Wiley Cash  •  Photographs by Mallory Cash

According to filmmaker Caroline Stephenson, “It’s all about storytelling.” She should know. She was born and raised in rural Murfreesboro, North Carolina, where she grew up surrounded by stories and storytellers. Despite the rich culture around her, as a young person, Stephenson believed that real art could only be found outside Hertford County. Her father, a retired professor and writer, and her late mother, an architectural historian, regularly traveled with the family to places like Norfolk, Virginia, Washington, D.C., and metropolitan New York, where they would visit museums and view films in art house theatres.

“That made a big impression,” says Stephenson, especially the films. “I wanted to do that.”

The restlessness that Stephenson felt as a coming-of-age artist in rural eastern North Carolina manifested itself not only in her desire to create, but also in an all-too-familiar angst-driven urge to leave home. Like so many young people who think opportunity and adventure are waiting somewhere else, Stephenson says that she “couldn’t wait to get out of there.”

First, she spent two years at St. Mary’s School in Raleigh, and then two years at Boston University before transferring to Columbia College Chicago, where she received her Bachelor of Arts in film. Soon, she was living in Los Angeles, beginning a career that would carry her to places such as Prague, Vienna, Athens and Budapest, working as an assistant director on sets for films and television shows like Empire, House and, currently, Tom Clancy’s Jack Ryan.

After marrying fellow filmmaker Jochen Kunstler and having two children, Stephenson felt a call to home. She and her young family moved back to Murfreesboro in 2010, where Stephenson came to terms with Hertford County’s rich cultural heritage as well as its incredible challenges. The county is 60 percent Black, and historical inequities in everything from education to home ownership serve to compound a poverty rate of 22 percent, much higher than the state average. The county’s struggles also have resulted in a dogged spirit of determination that immediately inspired Stephenson and her family to dedicate themselves to supporting the community.

“I’m driven by the incredible people where I’m from,” Stephenson says. “They created beauty, and, above all, they persevered and were proud.”

To tell the stories of the people of her region, Stephenson stepped behind the camera and relied on the talents that had taken her around the world. She made documentary films about Rosenwald Schools, which educated rural Black children during segregation, as well as a documentary about women who work in chicken processing plants in eastern North Carolina. Other documentaries and screenplays are in the works, all of them highlighting challenges that have either been overcome or are still being faced. 

Like any successful director looking for the best angles and working to make a production as seamless as possible, Stephenson is most comfortable being off camera, outside the glare of the lights.

“I like to be behind the scenes,” she says. “I want other people to shine.”

She also wants to make connections between the people and the organizations of Hertford County so they can support one another. In 2016, Stephenson opened Cultivator, an independent bookstore that quickly became a community hub. “We also sold local art and pottery, screened movies, held meetings and educational workshops,” she says. The store was the only bookstore within an hour’s drive in any direction but, as is the case with so many independent bookstores, it was tough to make ends meet. The pandemic made the venture even more difficult, and Cultivator closed its doors in April 2020, but the books — most of which were either donated or left behind after Stephenson’s mother, a voracious reader and book collector, passed away in 2014 — remained.

Stephenson quickly realized that not having a storefront did not have to stop the work of Cultivator, and so she converted her minivan into a bookmobile. “It’s just a folding table, personal protective equipment, and boxes and boxes of free books,” she says. “But we now serve more people than we served with the bookstore.”

The Cultivator bookmobile regularly sets up in front of libraries, grocery stores, big box stores and churches. Sitting behind a table in the parking lot of Murfreesboro United Methodist Church one chilly night in late October, a volunteer named Christina is handing out books at the church-sponsored monthly bilingual dinner. Young children, many of them Spanish speakers, tote armfuls of children’s books, some written in Spanish. When Stephenson’s name comes up, Christina, who has been a volunteer for 10 years, pauses.

“Caroline is who inspired me to get involved in the community,” she says. “She does for others.”

Andrew Brown owns a family farm with his daughter, Sharonda, and has partnered with Cultivator to address food insecurity in the community. Sharonda is the evening’s featured speaker. The family has also been the subject of one of Stephenson’s documentaries.

“Caroline got things going when she came back home,” Brown says. “You need someone like her to bring people together.”

Inside the church’s fellowship hall, tostadas and accompanying fixings are being placed on long serving tables as a line of hungry diners forms. A woman named Alejandra announces that dinner is ready. Pastor Jason Villegas greets everyone, moving quickly between English and Spanish.

“I met Alejandra at an ESL (English as Second Language) class at Cultivator,” Pastor Villegas says. When Alejandra joined Villegas’ congregation, she encouraged him to preach in Spanish to reach more people in the community. The community dinners began not long after.

When Pastor Villegas says the blessing, he prays first in English, then translates it to Spanish.

“Thank you that we have connection and unity here,” he says. He keeps his eyes closed, but he lifts his hands as if gesturing toward the people around him. “And thank you to Caroline Stephenson for bringing so many of us together.”

Of course, Stephenson is not there to hear this prayer or witness her community’s gratitude. She is overseas on a film set, operating where she is most comfortable, behind the scenes. 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.

Ted Talk

A few serious words about humor

 

By Maria Johnson

To: Ted Koppel

From: Me

Re: Stay in your lane

Dear Mr. Koppel:

“How do you do, Mrs. Wile-y?”

Do these words mean anything to you?

Didn’t think so.

I’ll explain them later.

As you might have guessed by now, I’m writing to you about your piece for CBS News Sunday Morning, the one you reported from the city of Mount Airy, N.C., which was the hometown of Andy Griffith and the inspiration for Mayberry, the fictional setting of the The Andy Griffith Show.

Some people have called your story a hit piece on the show.

I don’t think it was a hit piece.

’Cause I think you missed the point entirely.

But first, I’ll give you kudos you deserve. You’re awesome at crises. Really. When Iranian militants took 52 American hostages in 1979, you rightly dogged that story every night for 302 of the 444 days they were in captivity. Your show, Nightline, ushered in an era of 24/7 news channels.

So, um . . . thank you?

Also, a few years ago, you wrote a helluva book, which warned about the vulnerability of U.S. power grids to other countries. You did this country a service in writing the book. In fact, I stood in line so you could autograph my copy after your Bryan Series lecture here in 2018.

I gotta hand it to you. You’re a newshound’s newshound, with a deep understanding of foreign actors.

But your understanding of comic actors?

Bro.

Stay home.

In your piece for Sunday Morning, you made an airtight case that Mayberry was an idealized place, a fantasy island that failed to recognize political and racial tensions in the years the series was shot, 1960–’68.

Very true.

In fact, the spirit of the series was rooted even farther back in time — in the 1930s and ’40s.

How do I know this?

Opie told me.

Ron Howard, the actor who played Opie Taylor on the show — and who has gone on to become one of Hollywood’s most respected directors — recently teamed up with his brother, Clint, to tell the story of their growing up in Hollywood.

The book is called The Boys, and, as you might expect, it spills a decent amount of ink on The Andy Griffith Show, which launched little red-headed Ronny to stardom.

As adult Ron tells it, Griffith, who died in 2012, was at the height of his power when he created the show that bore his name.

He was coming off a successful radio career — “What It Was Was Football”— and a stint on Broadway. He’d just scored a major hit film, A Face in the Crowd, in which he played Lonesome Rhodes, a two-bit radio host who gains a following and “transforms into a lusty, egomaniacal demagogue.”

Interesting, huh?

“Elia Kazan was a brilliant director,” Howard writes. “But he had manipulated and provoked Andy to summon his darkest, ugliest thoughts and impulses, and the process about wrecked him. ‘I don’t ever want to do that again,’ Andy said. ‘I like to laugh when I’m working.’”

Howard continues.

“Andy, born in 1926, consciously set out to evoke the atmosphere of his youth in the 1930s and ’40s. People are nostalgic for The Andy Griffith Show now, but it’s important to realize that, even then, it was an evocation of a bygone era, and an idealized evocation at that.”

Still, Griffith showed that he felt the pinch of discrimination — in maybe the only way that he, a handsome, successful white man, could have. He was eager to dispel the myth that all Southerners are stupid hayseeds.

“One of his major motivations for the sitcom was to portray his world with humanity and depth,” Howard writes.

And Griffith did so, brilliantly, using humor.

Against the backdrop of innocence, Mayberry’s stories unfold, time after time, with fools and their foibles.

No character is spared.

Sheriff Andy Taylor himself falls short in several episodes.

Because the stories are made up — and the writers could make them end with fairy tale precision — compassion and understanding always prevail.

Humility is usually the lesson.

Laughing at our own shortcomings, as acted out by others, delivers the goods.

Which brings us to a character named Ernest T. Bass.

If he existed today — which he does, in many forms — he might be called developmentally challenged. He’s rude and crude, and he throws rocks through windows to get attention.

In one episode, “My Fair Ernest T. Bass,” a riff on My Fair Lady, Sheriff Taylor and his bumbling sidekick, Deputy Barney Fife — one of the funniest TV characters of all time — try to remake Bass into a well-dressed, well-spoken gentleman so he might snare a girlfriend at a society function.

Are they condescending to presume that they could, or should, change Ernest T.? You bet.

But they press on. They coach him on how to greet his hostess properly — “How do you do, Mrs. Wiley?” Ernest T. labors mightily to learn the greeting and a few other pleasantries. At the party, he struggles to make his well-rehearsed lines fit mismatched moments.

And we laugh. Because we feel the prickly heat of his discomfort. Because who among us hasn’t been caught flat-footed? 

The episode has a happy ending, of course. At the party, Ernest T. finds another sow’s ear pretending to be a silk purse — a woman who’s just as unpolished as he is — and they literally leapfrog into the sunset together.

Who’s the fool here?

I dare say anyone who watches the reruns could tell you, regardless of their political party. You made a serious misstep, Ted, in bringing presidential politics into your Sunday Morning piece.

Here’s my best Mayberry-esque arm-round-your-shoulder advice: Stick to hostages and power outages.

And leave us Mayberry fans alone, on our couches, with the laughter that takes us to places a news story can’t.

Best Always,

MJ  OH

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

 

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

When a Sagittarius plays with fire, it’s wonderfully innocent. Sort of. But this bold and short-fused fire sign has a reputation for being more than a little reckless — especially when it comes to affairs of the heart. Pause and reflect during the solar eclipse on the 4th. Who are you? Who do you want to be? Should you splurge for that positively extravagant vegan leather coat? Fortunately, things are looking a bit more auspicious this month. But don’t leave the candle burning unattended.

 

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

Two words: humble pie. 

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

Ask for a sign. You’ll know it when you see it.

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Save the smothering for the bread and butter.

Aries (March 21 – April 19)

You are the Perfect Storm. Don’t hold back.     

Taurus (April 20 – May 20) 

Best not to wait for an invitation. 

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

Ask again later.    

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

No matter how hot things get, play it cool.

Leo (July 23 – August 22) 

The quest for perfection doesn’t end well.

Virgo (August 23 – September 22) 

That smile on your face says it all.

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

Sometimes the obstacle is the path.

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

When the popcorn is ready, the truffle oil will appear.  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. 

Baby, It’s Cold Outside

Ah, winter! What better way to celebrate than to visit the GreenHill Center for North Carolina Art, which presents its 42nd annual Winter Show December 5 through February 16, 2022.

The two-month exhibition exemplifies GreenHill’s focus on cultural diversity, illustrating high levels of creative expression throughout the state. The show features wide-ranging contemporary works in multiple mediums — including paintings, sculpture, photography, ceramics, jewelry, wood and fiber works. The museum’s extensive digital catalog and curated visits for small groups complement the sheer artistry on view.

“Winter Show inspires connection and openness to new perspectives,” explains Barbara Richter, executive director and chief executive officer of GreenHill. “The exhibition offers coveted access to many of our state’s most innovative and thoughtful creators both online and in-person. More than 400 works by emerging and established artists showcase the resilience of our multi-faceted, cultural community.”

GreenHill offers a touch of warmth and connection on cold winter days.

 

 

Happy Holidays, Untapped

Since opening in November 2019 in the Oden family’s historic (circa 1930–1940) soft drink bottling plant, Oden Brewing Co., owned by Bill Oden, has grown into a thriving business — and contributor to the community.

And the holidays are no exception. First, on Friday night, December 10, the brewery on Gate City Boulevard will host a release party for a beer brewed in partnership with Ales for ALS (Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, a.k.a. Lou Gehrig’s Disease). Ales for ALS provides hops. Proceeds go to the ALS Therapy Development Institute, a nonprofit dedicated to developing drug treatments for ALS patients. 

Then on December 12, Oden will host Carols & Ale from 3–5 p.m. Sponsored by Greensboro Beer & Hymns — an ecumenical organization that fosters a sense of community among diverse groups by sharing a drink and singing hymns — attendees will be belting out a variety of holiday favorites. Post your favorite carol on the Carols & Ale Facebook page for possible inclusion. It’s outdoors, so dress warmly and soak up your suds at one of their picnic tables or feel free to bring your own lawn chair.

 

“I Made My Family Disappear”

The Carolina Theatre continues its Carolina Classic Holiday Movies series this month. Here’s a sampling of the festive flicks with spoiler alerts:

December 4 — It’s a Wonderful Life, 7 p.m. George changes his mind, Clarence works to get his wings and a bell on the tree rings itself.

December 5 — White Christmas, 7 p.m. Not the same old song-and-dance when Bing Crosby and friends help save an inn.

December 15 — Home Alone, 7 p.m. Latchkey kid becomes man of the house and repeatedly wards off a pair bumbling burglars.

 

A Well-Deserved Honor

Since 1963, North Carolina has recognized more than 21,000 Tar Heel stalwarts with the state’s highest accolade — the Order of the Long Leaf Pine (O.Henry’s Jim Dodson among them). Celebrated are those “who have made significant contributions to the state and their communities through exemplary service and exceptional accomplishments.”

So, it’s no surprise that UNCG’s former director of the Weatherspoon Art Gallery, Nancy Doll, has been honored with the prestigious distinction. During her 22-year tenure, her steadfast leadership served as a model for community-engaged art and active promotion of the inclusion of female artists and artists of color.

On October 19, UNCG Chancellor Franklin D. Gilliam Jr. presented the visionary leader with the award at a university event.

Congratulations, Nancy, we can’t think of a more worthy recipient.

Merry and Bright

This month one of Greensboro’s loveliest neighborhoods is proving its beauty radiates inside and out. For more than 20 years, the residents of Sunset Hills have celebrated the holiday season by hanging glowing Christmas balls on the towering oaks that line its streets — hundreds and hundreds of glimmering orbs. Onlookers drive from miles away to gaze at the balls-of-light displays. So much traffic, in fact, Sunset Hillers decided some years ago to use its popularity to help others by asking visitors to contribute nonperishable food to help feed residents of the Triad. The goods go to Second Harvest Food Bank. The tradition not only bestows light and color on dark winter nights, but it also illuminates the community’s gift of comfort and hope.

 

OGI SEZ

By Ogi Overman

I love the holiday season, I really do. I shop year-round but intentionally wait until the eve before Christmas Eve to finish. I intentionally wrap presents on Christmas Eve while It’s a Wonderful Life is playing; unlike anyone I know, I intentionally eat a full Claxton fruit cake every year. And, adding to all that, I intentionally hit as many concerts as possible. After the 2020 famine, this year there are some good ’uns.

• December 2, Carolina Theatre: Anytime of the year is a good time to hit a Robert Earl Keen show. But, while most touring acts are shutting down in December, REK plans tours around it. And if you know anything, you know why. Hint: bring a bag of lemons and some Diet Sprites, a box of tampons and some Salem Lights.

• December 4, Ramkat: I have a special place in my heart for the Waybacks. I did my annual MerleFest story on band leader James Nash a couple of years ago. And Jessica and I saw their last Ramkat show before the shutdown. So, there’s a good chance that anytime they’re in the vicinity, I’m going to include them here. You can thank me later.

• December 9, Greensboro Coliseum: For me, the Trans-Siberian Orchestra show marks the unofficial start of the Christmas season. There is literally nothing like it on the planet . . . well, except the other, identical touring show. Yep, they have to cram so many shows into December that it takes two of them. You get extra eggnog if you knew that.

• December 18, Greensboro Coliseum: I almost never double-down on a venue in the same month but had to make an exception for Eric Church. He is, after all, the biggest name in country music right now, and, even better, you don’t have to love C&W to love him. I’m living proof — I’ve had a man-crush on him for several years.

• December 18, Tanger Center: When I saw Music of Queen listed on the Tanger program, I rather dismissed it, thinking it was a tribute act, which I never recommend in this space. Reading on, however, I discovered that it is being performed by the Greensboro Symphony Orchestra. Wha? Wrap your mind around that and give it a shot.

Meaningful Happiness

When you think about it, the ordinary becomes extraordinary

 

By Jim Dodson

I bumped into a friend in the produce section at the market. We had not seen each other since the start of the pandemic — well over a year ago, if not longer — long enough for me to briefly forget her name, though maybe I was just having the proverbial senior moment.

In any case, when I asked how she’d been, she simply smiled. “Like everyone, it’s been pretty challenging. But, also kind of revealing. It may sound funny, but I discovered that picking beautiful vegetables to cook for my family makes me really happy. Previously, shopping seemed more like a necessary chore than a privilege. I guess I’ve learned that the ordinary things provide the most meaningful happiness.”

We wished each other safe and happy holidays and said goodbye. She went off to the organic onions and I went in search of the special spiced apple cider that only comes round during the autumn holidays — an ordinary thing, it suddenly struck me, that provides “meaningful” happiness to my taste buds. For what it’s worth, though too late to count, I also suddenly remembered my friend’s name: Donna.

Quite honestly, in all the years I’ve steeped my tin-cup soul into the works of great spiritual teachers, classical philosophers, transcendental thinkers, Lake District poets and street-corner cranks, I’d never come across the phrase meaningful happiness.

But suddenly — like an ear-burrowing TV jingle or a favorite song from the 1970s — I couldn’t get the idea of it out of my head.

Mankind’s search for happiness and meaning, of course, probably constitutes the oldest quest on Earth, beginning with a fabled naked couple in a heavenly garden, though as any ancient sage worthy of his or her plinth will tell you, true happiness is not something you can acquire from the outside world. Even a fashionable fig leaf can only cover so much.

Objects and possessions can certainly provide a shot of pleasure, but they invariably lose their power to possess us somewhere down the line as rust and dust prevail. At the end of the day, as our wise old grandmothers patiently advised, true happiness can only come from the way you think about who you are and what you choose to do. As a famous old Presbyterian preacher once remarked to me as we sat together on his porch on a golden Vermont afternoon: “What we choose to worship, dear boy, is what we eventually become.”

This curious idea of meaningful happiness, in any case, struck me as a highly useful tool — a way of defining or, better, refining — what kinds of people, things and moments in life are worthy of our close attention in a world that always seems to be beyond our control and on the verge of coming apart at the seams. For most of us, like my friend Donna’s awakening among the vegetables, the art of discovering meaningful happiness simply lies in recognizing the ordinary people, things and moments that fill up and grace an average day.

My gardening hero, Thomas Jefferson — “I’m an old man but a new gardener,” as he once wrote to a friend — was an inveterate list-maker. And so am I.

So, naturally, I began taking mental inventory of the blessedly small and ordinary people, things and moments that provide meaningful happiness in a time like no other I can recall.

I’m sure — or simply hope — you have you own list. Here’s a brief sampling of mine:

Rainy Sundays give me meaningful happiness. The heavens replenishing my private patch of Eden. No fig leaf needed.

Speaking of which, I’ve spent most of the pandemic building an ambitious Asian-inspired shade garden in my backyard, though probably more Bubba than Buddha if you want to know the Gospel. Even so, it’s granted me great peace and purpose, untold hours of pondering and planning, no small amount of dreaming while digging in the soil, delving in the soul, bringing an artist who works in red clay a little bit closer to God’s heart.

Unexpected phone calls from his far-flung children provide this papa serious meaningful happiness. They grew up in a beautiful beech forest in Maine, assured by their old man that kindness and imagination could take them anywhere in the world. Today, one lives in Los Angeles and works in film, the other is a working journalist in the Middle East. They are telling the stories of our time. This gives the old man simple joy from two directions, East and West.

Courteous strangers also make me uncommonly happy these days — people who smile, open doors for others, wear the world with an unhurried grace. Ditto people who use turn signals and don’t speed to make the light, saving lives instead of time; those who realize the journey is really the point. For this reason, I always take the back road home.

Mowing the lawn for the first time in spring makes me surprisingly happy, as does mowing it for the final time in autumn, bedding down the yard.

In summer, I love nothing better than an afternoon nap with the windows wide open; or watching the birds feed at sunset with an excellent bourbon in hand, evidence of a growing appreciation for what our Italian friends call Dolce far niente — “The sweetness of doing nothing.” Ditto golf with new friends and lunch with old ones, early church, old Baptist hymns and well-worn jeans. My late Baptist granny would be appalled.

Let me be clear, eating anything in Italy makes me wondrously happy — for a few blessed hours, at least.

Watching the winter stars before dawn makes me blessedly happy, too, along with wool blankets, the first snow, homemade eggnog, the deep quiet of Christmas Eve, the mystery of certain presents, long walks with the dogs, writing notes by hand and my wife’s incredible cinnamon crumb apple pie.

This list could go on for a while, dear friends. It’s as unfinished as its owner. 

But time is precious, and you have better things to do this month — like shop, eat and be merry with the friends and family you may not have been with in years.

Let me just say that I hope December brings you true meaningful happiness.

Whatever that means to you.   OH

Jim Dodson is the founding editor of O.Henry.