Category: December 2023

Birdwatch

Wintering Waterbirds

Ducks, geese and swans, oh my!

By Susan Campbell

The arrival of cold weather in central North Carolina also means the arrival of waterfowl. Our local ponds and lakes have been documented to be the winter home to more than two dozen different species of ducks, geese and swans. Over the years, as water features both large and small have been added to the landscape, the diversity of waterfowl has increased significantly. Although we are all familiar with our local mallards and Canada geese, a variety of aquatic birds frequent our area from November through March.

Certainly the most abundant and widespread species is the ring-necked duck, flocks of which can be seen diving for aquatic invertebrate prey in shallow ponds and coves. The males have iridescent blue heads, black sides and gray backs. They get their name from the indistinct rusty ring at the base of their necks. The females, as with all of the true duck species, are quite nondescript. They are light brown all over and, like the males, have a grayish blue bill with a white band around it.

The most noticeable of our wintering waterfowl would be the buffleheads. They form small groups that dive into deeper water, feeding on vegetation and invertebrates. The males have a bright white hood and body with iridescent dark green back, face and neck. They also sport bright orange legs and feet, which they will flash during confrontations. The females of this species are also drab, mainly brown with the only contrast being a small white cheek patch. Interestingly, bufflehead is the one species of migratory duck that actually mates for life. This is generally a trait found only in the largest of waterfowl: swans and geese.

There are several types of aquatic birds similar to ducks that can be identified if one can get a good look, which usually requires binoculars. Common loons can occasionally be seen diving for fish on larger lakes in winter, and even more so during spring and fall migration. Their size and shape are quite distinctive (as is their yodeling song which, sadly, they do not tend to sing while they are here).

Be aware that we have another visitor that can be confused with loons: the double-crested cormorant. This bird is actually not a duck at all but is (along with its cousin the anhinga) more closely related to seabirds, e.g. boobies and gannets. It is a very proficient diver with a sharply serrated bill adapted for catching fish. It is not uncommon to see cormorants in their “drying” pose. Their feathers are not as waterproof as those of diving ducks, so they only enter water to feed and bathe. Most of their time is spent sitting on a dock or some sort of perch in order to dry out.

Two other species of waterbird can be found regularly at this time of year: pied-billed grebes and American coots. Pied-billed grebes are the smallest of the swimmers we see in winter, with light brown plumage, short thick bills and bright white bottoms. Surprisingly, they are very active swimmers. They can chase down small fish in just about any depth of water. In some years, American coots can be quite abundant. These black, stocky birds with white bills are scavengers, feeding mainly in aquatic vegetation. They can make short dives but are too buoyant to remain submerged for more than a few seconds. Given their long legs and well-developed toes, they are also adept at foraging on foot. You may see them feeding on grasses along the edge of larger bodies of water or even on the edge of golf course water hazards. OH

Susan Campbell would love to hear from you. Feel free to send questions or wildlife observations to susan@ncaves.com.

Wandering Billy

What a Wander-ful World

There’s no place like home for the holiday memories

By Billy Ingram

“I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.” – Douglas Adams

I hope you will indulge me in sharing a few Ingram family holiday customs sprinkled with a couple standalone memories that I recall from growing up here in Greensboro, likely not very different from your own yuletide rituals.

Samson’s Little Helper

Every December, my father bought by the caseload bottles of an obscure hometown original, Samson’s Sauce, from his golfing buddy, Gurney Boren. Dad’s clients very much looked forward to it because that robust, slightly-spicy steak and burger garnish was crafted in minute batches and unavailable in just any store. Since the 1960s, Boren had been brewing his father’s secret recipe in a garage behind his home at 1116 Parish St., along the southern edge of Irving Park. In the mid-1970s, as I recall, Gurney’s love for a sauce of a more spirited variety began to affect production. To make sure that his friends and colleagues didn’t go without, Dad took it upon himself to raise a few cups with Gurney inside that concrete outbuilding while bottling up as much as possible. At least that was the story Mom got after Dad would arrive home, er, sauced himself. While still relatively unheralded, Samson’s Sauce is more popular than ever today. Find it in local Bestway markets, but be sure to look for the comical label and avoid the Town & Country version. Does it taste the same as it did 50 years ago? Yep, you bet . . . and that modest garage where it all started still stands.

Mother’s Gift Book

My mom was all about Christmas, so much so she kept a loose-leaf notebook that served as her voluminous gift list, replete with notations on what she’d gifted everyone over the years. Just to be safe in case she forgot someone, she always set aside a number of presents with blank tags such as cheese straws from Carolyn Todd’s, which, she insisted, carried the only proper cheese straws. It was her favorite shop and had been at least since I was a toddler. I remember fondly that the last bill she received before passing away in January 2014 was for her charge account Christmas purchases at Carolyn Todd’s.

Oyster Stew

First thing Christmas morning, Dad would prepare a boiling pot of buttery oyster stew (not to be confused with chowder) from his mother’s recipe. Consisting of shucked oysters, evaporated milk, whole milk, butter, pepper, and topped with oyster saltines, it was a favorite of my brother and sister, who each devoured it and continue this tradition. I never did partake.

Yankee

After relocating to Springfield to accept a senior position at Mass Mutual, cousin Berk Ingram gifted my parents a yearly subscription to Yankee magazine. We assumed it was a joke that this Southern boy — raised in the country like my Dad — would send us a monthly digest about Yankees. Although we were always amazed at its gorgeous illustrated covers, I don’t think a single copy was ever cracked opened. Because I’m an archivist at heart, I saved a couple of issues. But it wasn’t until decades later that I actually read a copy of Yankee only to discover it was a truly excellent magazine, one of the finest publications of that era, and still is today. Turns out, O.Henry’s founding father, Jim Dodson, wrote for Yankee in the 1980s and ’90s.

Making “Trash”

Before pre-made Chex Mix was introduced in 1985, folks used to concoct their own party mix by combining the three Chex cereals (Rice, Wheat and Corn) with pretzels and whatever else they wanted to toss in (as long as it wasn’t sweet), then bake it. My grandmother’s recipe for what we called “Trash” was a little more involved. Besides the cereals and pretzel sticks, she tossed in peanuts, Cheerios and cashews. Melt a stick of salted butter with 2 tablespoons of Lea & Perrins’ Worcestershire sauce in a roasting pan; add the dry ingredients using a spatula to turn everything over and over until fully coated; then stick that pan into a 200 degree preheated oven for an hour, mixing it all around every 15 minutes.

Turkey Dinner

I spent a single Christmas in Greensboro in the 1980s. By that time my grandmother and older relatives had passed away and the cousins we had over for dinner in years previous now had families of their own. In 1987, although it was a bit pricey and the old man was kind of a cheapskate, Dad sprung for Greensboro Country Club’s complete turkey dinner for a family of five to-go, with all the fixings, including those wonderful walnut sweet rolls their chef made for dessert. Unfortunately, we cut into the turkey and discovered it was raw in the middle, so we popped it into the oven until it was fully cooked. No harm, no fowl. Then again, these were the days when you thawed the bird for a few hours on the kitchen counter. Other families weren’t so lucky and became stricken with food poisoning. It wasn’t the club’s fault: A catering firm supplied the meals and provided a full refund for everyone. Dad couldn’t have been merrier!

Green Hill Cemetery

In the evening on Christmas Day, pretty much the entire family would congregate at Mom and Dad’s place to share stories about what had transpired over the course of what was always an abundant and somewhat magical time. At some point, we’d all pile into cars and head over to Green Hill to pay our respects to beloved, never-forgotten family members. One year the graveyard was padlocked early and we were stuck on the wrong side of the gates — inside not outside! Fortunately, this was in the mid-1990s, when cell phones were just beginning to come into general use. One of us actually had one handy so we were sprung by the GPD pretty quickly.

A Christmas Miracle?

Every holiday, it seems I’m the recipient of what I call a “Christmas miracle.” Nothing major, some unexpected cash when I expected to be broke, hearing one of only two Christmas songs recorded after the early-sixties that I actually enjoy (“Father Christmas” by Emerson, Lake & Palmer and “Christmas Wrapping” by The Waitresses), the rarer-by-the-year white Christmases. Like I said, no big deal, just something that sweetens the season.

Then there was this: The first Christmas Day after my mom died, I was taking a stroll around the neighborhood. It was frigid that afternoon and I thought to myself, “If Mother was alive, she’d be telling me to wear a hat because all of your body heat escapes from your head.” She insisted that this was true, but I’m not so sure. As I was passing the Blandwood Mansion, something caught my eye. Lying atop the lush, green lawn was a brand-new, red knitted cap, price tag still attached. Not something I’d ordinarily wear, but definitely an item my mother would have purchased for me.

We all accept there’s no going home again. The closest we’ll come is at the holiday season, when cherished memories and treasures both great and small may allow for a lingering glow from candles lit long ago. OH

Billy Ingram wishes each and every one of you the happiest holiday season possible.

2023 Department Wandering Billy

O.Henry Ending

The Man, the Myth, the Legendary Santa

A Q&A with the real Kris Kringle

This fall, as Santa prepped his office space for another busy holiday season, he decided it was time for a new-to-him desk, something with an old-world vibe to suit his classic style. Turns out, Santa shops Facebook Marketplace and, as mutual luck would have it, scored the perfect leather-inlaid vintage desk here in Greensboro at the home of our founding editor, Jim Dodson, who put us in touch with the big guy. Since he wasn’t yet in a holly-jolly holi-craze, Santa took a moment to chat with us. We’re going to jump right into the burning questions that everyone wants to know:

OH: Honestly, what holiday treat should we be leaving you on the hearth?

S: I can’t pick out one! Chocolate chip cookies are an all-time favorite. Snickerdoodles are always good, too.

OH: You need to stay in shape to be able to make it around the world so fast, up and down chimneys. What is your own workout regimen like?

S: Ho, ho, ho, ho, besides milk and cookies? Well, I’m not your typical Santa Claus. Nowadays St. Nick is looking out for his health and well-being. I do vigorous training — cardiovascular, weight lifting — along with milk and cookies.

OH: Favorite non-sweet meal?

S: I’d have to say, going back to my German lineage, it would probably be Jaegerschnitzel.

OH: Off season, what do you and Mrs. Claus like to do?

S: We go to the beach. We were in Florida not too long ago. We try to go incognito.

OH: What does your bathing suit look like?

S: I just wear my regular red and white, suspenders every once in a while and my Hawaiian shirt.

OH: When you drop coal in a stocking, do you feel sad or are you secretly snickering?

S: See, there’s a bad rap about being given coal. Being given coal is an opportunity to improve yourself. If you use coal and compress it, what does it become?

OH: A diamond?

S: Very good. So when we give an individual coal, we’re showing them, “You have potential to become better. Accept this coal in the spirit it was given because I see something better inside your heart.”

OH: We’re going to move on to questions submitted by kids: “Does the Polar Express still exist and can I ride it? I lost my ticket.”

S: Yes, the Polar Express does exist and you can ride on it. [Santa’s no slouch. He whipped out his snow-white iPhone 15-plus and shared this URL: raileventsinc.com/polar-express-train-ride/locations]

OH: How did you get famous?

S: Wow, I guess I can thank Coca-Cola for that back in the 1930s.

OH: How do you make Christmas nightgowns?

S: I leave that up to Mrs. Claus and all the lady elves.

OH: How do the reindeer fly?

S: Magic reindeer corn.

OH: How is it that you never die?

S: I have a son and I’m getting him ready. When I take my final sleigh ride then the Santa Claus job will be passed onto him.

OH: Where do you store all the presents?

S: We have them stored in different locations in different places. Just like Amazon, we have our hubs and locations.

OH: Who are all the Santas at the stores?

S: We have a brotherhood. There’s a worldwide Santa Claus network. There’s anywhere between 6,000 and 10,000 Santa Clauses worldwide that portray me and help me do my job. And we have conference calls and Zoom.

There you have it. Santa’s a modern guy who uses social media, technology, distribution centers, works out, but still enjoys a classic chocolate chip cookie. Hitting the beach after the holidays? Keep your eyes peeled for a svelte, white-bearded man in red-and-white swimming trunks. OH

Got more questions? Visit mjsanta.com or find him on instagram @mj_santaclaus to set up your own Zoom session or in-person meeting.

2023 Department

Life’s Funny

Moon Shadow

A look at the bright side of solar eclipses

By Maria Johnson

His answer was so Gen Z.

When I texted our younger son to ask what it was like to witness October’s solar eclipse in Oregon, he responded with a photo of him crouching and pointing, mouth agape, to the cloudy sky.

His picture, a nod to a popular meme, was a joke. Under Oregon’s seemingly forever overcast dome, he couldn’t see squat. And even though he was in the swath where the moon’s shadow would be the darkest, the skies didn’t seem much dimmer than usual.

Here on the East Coast, we understood from news reports the shade would be almost imperceptible, but the main event should be visible. Technically called an annular eclipse, as opposed to a total eclipse, the moon would glide between us and the sun, appearing to punch a hole in ol’ Sol and making our life-giving star look like a ring of fire for a few minutes.

To get a good look we’d probably need a solar-filtered telescope, so our plan was to drive to Guilford Technical Community College’s Jamestown campus and take a gander through the lenses set up in a parking lot under the guidance of Tom English, director of the school’s Cline Observatory.

In case you don’t know, one of the coolest things about living here is that you can stargaze, for free, through the observatory’s big telescope on most Friday nights with Tom and friends.

The sights — magnified to nearly 200 times what the unaided eye can see — range from close-ups of the Earth’s moon to planets such as Jupiter and Saturn, to the Andromeda galaxy. For big sky doings, like solar eclipses, the observatory folks set up smaller telescopes in open areas. Alas, the October eclipse was mostly a bust here, too. Clouds and rain obscured the view. But on another gloomy day, we got luckier.

It was a little more than six years ago, August 21, 2017, when my husband and I drove to the mountain town of Brevard to experience a total eclipse — one where the moon is so close to the earth it blots out the sun entirely in the same way holding up your hand to block the sun works better if your hand is closer to your face.

It was a Monday. The workday was going to be relatively slow and we were empty-nesters, so why settle for mere dimness in Greensboro when we could drive three hours and be plunged into total darkness at midday? Sounded like a good time. And it was.

Brevard, known for its small liberal-arts college and a world-class summer music festival, was giddy that day. People lined up for free solar-viewing glasses (limit one per person). Some businesses hawked eclipse merch.

We bought two gray T-shirts at the office of the local newspaper. One of its designers had come up with a brilliant graphic — a flaming ring of white, representing the sun’s corona, anchored by a white squirrel, the town’s mascot, sitting at the bottom of the loop.

We grabbed a sandwich at a local cafe, then walked a few blocks and unfolded our camp chairs inside the handsome stone gates of Brevard College, which welcomed the celestial seekers.

On the vast lawn, Frisbees flew, soccer balls bounced. Someone played a banjo as we all waited, not knowing if our efforts would be rewarded.

The sky had pulled a soft gray shawl of clouds over her shoulder.

It was a laughable situation. Humans can predict, to the second, when an eclipse will occur, but if it’s cloudy, game over for a high-resolution view.

There was nothing to do but chill.

The crowd thickened.

The clouds thinned.

Shortly before the eclipse was due, the sun popped out.

It was a small miracle, one that happens almost every day, but in this context it felt personal. The sun and moon would come through for us.

We felt the moon’s shadow gradually, in the way you feel the temperature dip when storm clouds roll in.

Deeper we slid into darkness.

It was about 1:30 in the afternoon.

The automatic streetlights came on.

The night birds chirped.

The crickets, tricked into thinking the day was done, struck up a ringing chant.

Through cardboard glasses with lenses of sun-safe black film, we watched the disc of the moon slide in front of the sun until only the faintest solar halo, the sun’s corona, was visible.

The crowd fell silent, and the sound of clicking cell phone cameras competed with the crickets.

This was big. Bigger than us. Way bigger.

Then something remarkable happened — everyone broke out in spontaneous applause and woo-hoos. A communal standing ovation. It reminded me of watching the sunset at Pass-a-Grille Beach in Florida, where the disappearance of a neon orange ball into the Gulf of Mexico is punctuated by cheers and the ringing of a brass bell on the beach.

Only this was not a practiced response. There was no tradition to be observed. It felt like a visceral gesture of human bonding and gratitude.

Brava you, Mama Earth.

Thanks for making us feel small. In a good way.

On April 8, 2024, another total solar eclipse will be visible in this country. The Path of Totality will arc from Texas to Maine. I hope to be in the dark somewhere.

Tom English of GTCC will be watching, too, either from campus or from somewhere in Ohio, the area nearest Greensboro for lights-out. He hopes to experience the darkness in person, with other people, as he did with a group of students and colleagues who traveled to South Carolina to stand in the moon’s shadow in 2017.

“It’s something you want to do in your life,” he says, noting that the next total eclipses over the U.S. will occur in the 2040s.

Nothing, he says, replaces being right there.

“Have you been to the Grand Canyon? Have you seen pictures of the Grand Canyon. It’s not the same, is it? The whole world is transformed, and if you’re not standing in it, there’s no way to know.” OH

Maria Johnson is a contributing editor of O.Henry magazine. Email her at ohenrymaria@gmail.com. For GTCC’s celestial viewing schedule, go to @gtccastro on X (formerly Twitter) or to the school’s website, gtcc.edu/observatory, which includes a page on upcoming eclipses.

2023 Department Life's Funny

Tea Leaf Astrologer

Sagittarius

(November 22 – December 21)

A little heat goes a long way. When provoked — unwittingly or otherwise — your particular brand of fire belongs on the Scoville scale, ambushing the offender with fits of nausea, abdominal pain and/or any number of unmentionable side effects. Here’s the thing: They’re not out to get you, nor are they trying to hold you back. This month, new opportunities beckon. Best not to let the petty stuff distract you from seeing them.

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

Batten down the hatches.

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

Mind what’s on the back burner.

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Just text them back already.

Aries (March 21 – April 19)

Try fluffing your pillow.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

Salt will enhance the flavor.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

It’s time to clean the mirror.

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

What if the obstacle is the greatest blessing?

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

Consider adding “sun lamp” to your wish list.

Virgo (August 23 – September 22)

You’ll get there when you get there.

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

Abstain from the deviled eggs.

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

You must believe it to achieve it. 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.

2023 Department Tea Leaf Astrologer

Sazerac December 2023

Unsolicited Advice

Our fav cold weather activity is staying inside under a weighted blanket. But in the spirit of celebrating the winter solstice, we’re tossing off the covers and steppin’ out.

According to our partner, we’re always skating on thin ice. May as well test that skill outside on thick ice at Piedmont Winterfest located in LeBauer Park. Don’t miss Tuesday night curling. Just one question — foam or hot rollers?
Heart-pumping exercise always warms us up. How about rushing through local shops while carrying heavy bags? You — and your credit card — will get a workout .
Hot cocoa anyone? Hit up one of Greensboro’s many coffee spots for a mug of steaming milk chocolate with whipped cream. Into chocolate mint? Forget the peppermint crumbles and bring on a hot shot of peppermint schnapps instead.
We’re often told to take a hike when offering friendly advice, and now’s the perfect time. The local trails are sure to be a little less people-y. Just you and nature. And maybe a black bear who’s prepping for winter, too. NBD — bring a trailmate you can outrun.
And the activity we’re looking forward to most? Walking back into our warm home and sending a note of thanks to the heavens for Alice Parker, who patented the first central heating system. Siri, put the fireplace screensaver on TV — we need a little winter ambience.

Last Call: O.Henry Essay Contest

Several years ago, readers responded enthusiastically to a contest challenging them to write an essay entitled “My Life in a Thousand Words.” Last year, we revived our challenge with a theme of “The Year That Changed Everything.” And this year, in honor of our namesake, who was known as one of America’s most popular — and highest-paid during his time — short story writers, we’re thrilled to announce that the 2023 O.Henry Essay Contest is all about “The Kindness of Strangers.”

We’ve all had a moment in our lives when someone we didn’t know stopped without hesitation to lend a hand. And now, we want to hear your story — whether you were on the receiving or giving end.

Of course, there are some rules:

Submit no more than 1,000 words in conventional printed form. Essays over 1,000 will be shredded and used in our office hamster’s cage.
Deadline to enter is December 24, 2023.
Top three winners will be contacted via email and will be printed in a spring 2024 issue.
Email entries to cassie@ohenrymag.com

We can’t wait to hear the clickety-clack of keyboards across the Triad as you write your stories — stories that are sure to remind us of all the goodness that exists in the world.

— Cassie Bustamante, editor

Window to the Past

Photograph © Carol W. Martin/Greensboro History Museum Collection

“What kind of tree did you say this was, Betty?”

“It’s a shrub. Just keep stringing it with tinsel and no one will know.”

(Coeds at Greensboro College decorate a Christmas tree in the 1940s.)

Just One Thing

The artist ransome, the full name he goes by, writes on his website (ransomeart.com), “My artwork centers on my African-American lineage, which is traced back to sharecroppers of the American South who migrated to Northern cities along the East Coast.” Born in Rich Square, a tiny town east of Roanoke Rapids, he was raised by his grandmother before moving to New Jersey as part of the Great Migration of African Americans seeking broader economic and educational opportunities. With a B.F.A. from Pratt Institute and an M.F.A. from Lesley University, ransome writes, “My pictorial narratives are personal, yet the symbols I use are universal and interplay with larger social, racial, ancestral, economic and political histories that inform our nation to this day.” His work, “Come Sunday, You Can’t Hide,” 2022, is a collage on exhibit as part of Art on Paper, Weatherspoon’s biennial show that features artists “who demonstrate the breadth of ways in which one can deploy the humble medium of paper to extraordinary ends.”

Sage Gardener

One of my favorite memories of Christmases past is anticipating what gardening tool Wofford Malphrus, my late father-in-law, was going to give me. In the spirit of his generosity and thoughtfulness, the Sage Gardener polled the elite testing unit of gardeners at O.Henry and came up with a list of sugarplums for the naughtiest and nicest gardeners on your list.

Editor Cassie Bustamante was the first to answer: “It’s cheap, fits in a stocking and is a miracle worker on hardworking hands: Badger Balm,” she writes. “I grab mine at Deep Roots. And don’t worry. Not made from real badgers.” In fact, it was “created by Badger Bill to soothe his rough carpenter’s hands during a fierce New England winter,” says the website: www.badgerbalm.com. “It’s packed with antioxidant-rich ingredients like beeswax and extra virgin olive oil and formulated with wintergreen oil.”

O.Henry’s garden writer, Ross Howell Jr., suggests a packet of wildflower seeds from American Meadows, Shelburne, Vermont. Half an hour after typing in www.americanmeadows.com, the idea of a gift for someone else wilted and I couldn’t decide whether I wanted the pollinator wildflower mix, the butterfly-and-hummingbird mix, the Indian blanket seeds or love-lies-bleeding. Plus, I discovered that some people actually BUY and PLANT morning glory seeds. Since I have the greatest abundance of them, maybe I should gift them instead of American Meadows’ carefully curated seeds?

“Life’s Funny,” Maria Johnson reminds us every month, but there’s no funny business about manure from this backyard gardener. She swears by Daddy Pete’s Plant Pleaser’s line of products, deposited right here in North Carolina. Maria gets hers at Guilford Garden Center. Read all about it at www.daddypetes.com/story, as in, “Something that seems to be spent or dead to one, brings life to another. Thus it is with Daddy Pete’s Cow Manure and the belief that we help you grow.” Can you say, Pete and repeat?

Photographer and world traveler Lynn Donovan says, “For the movers and shapers of the gardening world, Felco Pruning Shears are the bomb.” Made in Switzerland and extremely rugged, this could be the last pair of shears you buy. After all, they are guaranteed for life. Cutting to the point, my question always is, my life or the product’s life?

My daughter is itching to tell you about Tecnu. Got poison ivy or oak in your yard or garden? (Of course you do.) Tecnu is a specially formulated soap that washes off urushiol, the sticky stuff that makes you look leprous and drives you nuts. The sooner you apply Tecnu, the better it works, but you’ve got up to eight hours! “Don’t be fooled by the power of urushiol!” says the website, teclabsinc.com/product/tecnu-original-outdoor-skin-cleanser. “The resin from poison ivy is incredibly potent and lasts for months, even years on certain items.” I can confirm that, as on car seats.

Me? According to the Farmer’s Almanac, this winter may be colder than usual. I suggest you curl up on the couch with Beautiful Madness: One Man’s Journey Through Other People’s Gardens by no less than Jim Dodson. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Read about exotic day lilies and stolen cuttings from a Founding Father’s shrubbery. Then hang out with Jim as he himself hangs perilously from a limb on the side of a cliff akin to Mount Crumpit in search of rare Southern African plants: www.jamesdodsonauthor.com/beautiful-madness.

Let’s give the last word to Cynthia Adams. And no, she doesn’t draw from her mother’s or father’s gardening experience on the ranchette where she grew up, Hell’s Half-Acre, though she does turn to the theme of pain. “I swear by Willow Balm, a topical painkiller in a tube.” Natureswillow.com/products/willow-balm-pain-relieving-cream, though she gets hers at Tractor Supply. “I carry it with me and use it so often, Jim Dodson once accused me of eating it on toast for breakfast.” Since it contains white willow bark extract, menthol, camphor, eucalyptus oil and geranium oil, we don’t recommend regular consumption, but, says Cindy, “When I’ve overdone repotting, moving heavy pots, digging, this stuff IS the balm. My doc likes it, too.” In no time, that black-and-blue thumb will be green.
— David Claude Bailey

2023 Department Sazerac

Simple Life

Let It Snow

Remembrance of a small Christmas miracle

By Jim Dodson

It’s December and, without fail, I’m thinking about snow.

Thanks to Bing Crosby and Irving Berlin’s Oscar-winning song from the 1942 musical film Holiday Inn, the idea of a “White Christmas” is deeply ingrained in the psyche of anyone who loves the holidays.

I’m no different. I dig everything about Christmas from the ancient story of a savior’s birth to the faux snow of sappy Hallmark holiday movies.

But my love affair with the white stuff goes much deeper than that.

My first taste of snow came in South Carolina in 1959, where my dad worked for a year at a small-town newspaper after he’d lost his own weekly newspaper in Mississippi. Shortly before Christmas, a freak snowstorm shut down the entire town for a couple days.

My mother, who grew up in the Allegheny Mountains of western Maryland, where it snowed heavily every winter, allowed my brother and me to take a large antique serving tray to the nearby golf course, where we would slide down the hill, along with every kid in town. All through town, snowballs flew through the air and snow angels spread their wings. The snow barely lasted a day, but it was nothing short of magical to this wide-eyed kid of 6.

Better yet, we spent that New Year (and many thereafter) in snowy Cumberland, among my mother’s people, a wintry clan of big, blond, German aunts and uncles who seemed to celebrate the snowy season with roaring fires and lively gatherings. I remember going outside during a rowdy family New Year’s Eve party just to stand in the knee-deep snow outside my Aunt Fanny’s house, marveling at the beauty and still silence of the falling snow.

Not long after we moved to Greensboro in January 1960, it snowed there, too. My dad took me to Western Auto and bought me a Flexible Flyer sled. Our hilly neighborhood street got blocked off and briefly turned into a miniature Olympic bobsled run.

In those days, long before global warming was a concern, it seemed to snow at least two or three times every winter across North Carolina’s Piedmont. This fact was confirmed at my recent 50th high school reunion, where the shared memory of several deep snows during the 1960s and ’70s seemed to be a popular topic of discussion. “I remember how exciting it was to go to bed when a snowstorm was predicted,” remembered my friend, Cindy. “Waking up to find it had snowed and school was cancelled was like Christmas morning all over again.”

It was during those years that I made a silent vow to someday live in snow country. This idea was probably put into my head by my English teacher, Miss Elizabeth Smith, who gave me the Collected Poems of Robert Frost for winning the city’s O.Henry Award for short-story writing. The poet’s very name said winter and whispered to me like a siren call from Homer. Whose woods these are I think I know / His house is in the village though / He will not see me stopping here / To watch his woods fill up with snow.

Someday, I told myself, that fellow will be me.

After six years in Atlanta covering crime, politics and social mayhem for the oldest Sunday magazine in the nation, I turned down a job as a reporter in Washington, D.C., that for years I yearned for and took a job as the first senior writer for Yankee Magazine, moving to a bend of the Green River outside of Brattleboro, Vermont. The snow was already falling when I got there in late November 1983, taking possession of a tidy two-room cabin heated only by a wood stove. I promptly got myself a retriever pup from the Windham County Humane Society and spent a glorious winter reading every poem, philosopher and piece of literature I could lay hands on. Walking with my dog in the blue dusk of an arctic evening, I came to love the brilliance of the winter stars and finally got to see the Northern lights.

It was the most solitary and wonderful winter of my life.

No surprise, I suppose, that my first wife and I eventually built a post-and-beam house on a forested hilltop near the coast of Maine, where we raised our babies to be outdoor adventurers, especially in winter when the deep snows came. My daughter, Maggie, was born at dawn after an overnight blizzard. I remember driving home to feed the dogs at our cottage on Bailey Island as the sun came out, illuminating a world made pure and peaceful by blankets of snow. I’d never been happier.

On particularly clear and frigid nights, I would put on my red wool Elmer Fudd jacket and tote a large bag of sorghum pellets though the knee-deep snow to the edge of the forest, where a family of whitetail deer and other forest creatures could often be seen feeding in the moonlight. That became the source of many bedtime stories I made up for my young adventurers. They still mention those silly winter tales to this day.

One year, however, there was no snow on the ground right up to Christmas Eve. Our Episcopal church decided to hold its evening service in the Settlemeyer family’s barn. Maggie and her brother Jack played a sheep and a cow, respectively, in the annual Christmas Pageant and I was asked to bring along my guitar and play “Silent Night” to conclude the service.

A large crowd in parkas and snowsuits turned out to fill the barn, shivering among the sheep pens as the ancient story of a savior’s birth was retold. At one point Maggie asked with a whisper if I thought it might snow that night. I assured her it probably would because Santa needed snow for his sleigh.

The candles were lit and I played the beloved Christmas hymn, first performed in Austria on Christmas Eve 1818, in the aftermath of the Napoleonic Wars. Since that time, the hymn has been translated into 300 languages.

That night, as we all huddled together with the barn door firmly shut against a sharp northern wind, a Christmas miracle of sorts took place outside.

When the doors were opened and we all filed out, pausing to exchange hugs and wish each other “Merry Christmas,” someone suddenly cried with a voice of pure childlike wonder: “Oh, look . . . it’s snowing!”

Indeed it was — big, dreamy flakes floating down as if on cue from either Bing Crosby or Heaven itself, like an answered prayer.

Whichever it was, by the time we reached our wooded hilltop, the world was pure white and the night was very silent indeed. We woke to two feet of fresh snow the next morning.

No Christmas since has come without remembering that magical Christmas Eve.

And that’s why I still hold out hope for snow every December. OH

Jim Dodson is the founding editor of O.Henry.

2023 Department Simple Life

Chaos Theory

Breaking the Friendship (Blow) Mold

A tacky piece of nostalgia glows in remembrance

By Cassie Bustamante

As a former vintage home store owner, I love all things vintage Christmas. Atomic-era tinsel trees? Yes, please! Shiny Bright ornaments? My attic screams, “Got those!” Bottlebrush trees? I have as many as Ariel has thingamabobs: 20. Actually, probably more. But one quintessential decoration that dominated the ’50s and ’60s holiday scene I’ve never been terribly fond of: blow molds. That is, until recently. As it turns out, the tackiest tchotchke can light up the temporal lobe of your brain, where the fondest memories live, long after a loss.

What are blow molds, you ask? The tawdriest of yuletide kitsch, they are generally large, hollow, plastic figurines, designed to be used outside on lawns, porches or rooftops, in the shape of snowmen, Santa, angels, candy canes, you name it. And, you guessed it, they’re illuminated from within, like glowworms.

Sarah, my shop co-owner, and I agreed on most things. In fact, in our almost five-year partnership, we never had a real dispute and we understood the rarity of that. What we did have was a mutual sarcastic, dark sense of humor. We shared snarky inside jokes that only we understood; 10-hour road trips to the beach, just the two of us and our combined lot of four kids; a love for ’80s songs. Without fail, every time she walked in the shop’s front door, I’d serenade her with Jefferson Starship’s “Sara.”

We were not exactly twins. Physically, Sarah, whose sandy-brown hair cascaded in natural waves, was much shorter. When we’d try to move furniture around the shop together, she’d remind me that she had “T-rex arms” and couldn’t wrap herself around long dressers like I could with my own, which are unusually long. While we both valued fitness, she was devoted to her gym routine and lifted weights, and I relished in long, solo runs.

And Christmas? We both whole-heartedly loved the season — the music, the vintage decor, the cozy wool sweaters. We ran full-speed-ahead when it came to decorating our shop for the holidays. Bowls were filled with shimmering ornaments. Lights were strung throughout, draping over gilded gesso mirrors and winding around vintage flocked trees. And every year in the late summer and early fall, we’d roll up in our SUVs, trunks full of holiday finds to sprinkle throughout. Much to my dismay — Sarah’s truck would always haul in a stash of blow molds.

Sarah would walk in and sheepishly grin at me, knowing the disdain I held for their cheap, plastic aura. But, I knew, this store was not mine — it was ours. And while nothing, of course, comes to mind, I probably brought in some dreck Sarah wasn’t especially fond of. Maybe.

In 2016, both of us ready to move on, we made the tough decision to sell our store. She wanted to get back to the career she’d abandoned when she’d had her kids. And I wanted to add another babe to my own brood. With gratitude for what we’d built together, we let it go, selling it to a pair of sisters who’ve taken it farther than we’d ever hoped.

Of course, we stayed in touch and got together when her work schedule allowed. She came to my shower when I did, indeed, carry another baby, Wilder, in my belly and she gave me some of my favorite onesies, complete with humorous wordplay: “gangsta napper,” for example. Shortly after he was born, we moved to Greensboro. Again, Sarah and I kept in touch as time allowed, often via texts laced with those jokes that only we would understand.

Then, in October of 2021, Sarah died suddenly. And though my iPhone incessantly tells me I need to clean out or upgrade my storage, I keep our text chain. One message, in particular, stands out.

Me: “Just wanted to say hi and I miss you — I think of you more than I make the effort to message you. Sweet Clover [our shop] feels like another lifetime.”

Sarah: “I could have written this text, too. Think of you all the time and our hijinks.”

As Christmas approaches this year, I spend many evenings cruising my Starmount neighborhood with my family, admiring the blinking and glittering lights and yard decorations throughout. And every time we pass a vintage blow mold, its warm glow of red, white and green mocks me with the playful sarcasm of a close friend. OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

2023 Chaos Theory Department

Almanac December 2023

December is a waltz with what’s still here; a slowing down; warmth from new directions.

These frigid mornings, dawn lingers.

Through the kitchen window, soft light unveils a council of leafless trees, silhouettes of cottontails, a frost-laced landscape.

As steam rises from the mug in your hands, you feel the sudden swell of loss. The sting of what’s not here. The emptiness of winter.

You deepen your breath, allowing the wave of grief to pass almost as quickly as it arrived.

Unexpectedly, a surge of joy follows.

When resident birds pierce the rose-pink silence with their silvery warbles and trills, you look toward the swinging feeders, eager to honor your end of the deal.

The agreement is simple: You offer sustenance; they offer life. You set down the mug for the bundling ritual.

Outside, the cold air enlivens you. Toting the bag of seed, you follow your breath to the wee, suspended altars. The winged ones disperse.

Despite the crunch of frozen earth, the starkness of the skyline, the withering garden, a softness cradles these early winter days.

Nature doesn’t mourn what’s gone like we do.

As you refill the feeders, a cardinal whistles from a nearby holly; chickadees sing among towering pines.

Winter isn’t empty, you remember. Nor is it quiet. It simply offers space for deeper listening.

Light of Arthur

Days are getting shorter. On December 21, the winter solstice marks the shortest day — and longest night — of the year.

Ancient cultures birthed countless myths and legends about the solstice. Scots attributed the darkening days to a giant hag-goddess named Cailleach, queen of winter. Finnish myth tells of a shape-shifting witch who steals the sun and moon. Nordic people called the solstice “Mother’s Night,” believing that their goddesses gave birth at the season’s darkest hour to offer more light.

In Druidic tradition, the Wheel of the Year now revolves to Alban Arthan, a winter solstice festival that celebrates the light of King Arthur, symbolically reborn as the Mabon (sun child).

This much is true: From darkness comes light. May we trust the grand unfolding, honoring the journey from winter to spring again and again. OH

In a way Winter is the real Spring — the time when the inner things happen, the resurgence of nature. — Edna O’Brien

River in the Sky

The winter sky is a stargazer’s dream. These crystalline nights, don’t let the cold air stop you from getting intimate with Orion and company.

Among the best-seen constellations this month — Aries (the ram), Triangulum (the triangle), Fornax (the furnace), Horologium (the clock) and Perseus — is a vast celestial river that begins at the footstool of the Hunter and meanders down, down, down to the southern horizon and Achernar, the constellation’s brightest star.

Among the 48 original constellations catalogued by Greek astronomer Claudius Ptolemy, Eridanus requires a dark sky. It may be faint, but if you’re able to spot this massive star cluster — home to the so-called Eridanus supervoid and the Witch Head Nebula — surely you won’t regret the extra effort.

2023 Almanac Department