Life’s Funny

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Oh, Baby

Times and diapers, they’re a-changin’

By Maria Johnson

A while back, a friend suggested that we walk together as she pushed her granddaughter’s stroller around the neighborhood where the toddler’s family lives.

The offer lay on the changing table, so to speak, for several months, until one day, over coffee, I resurrected the idea.

My friend set down her blueberry muffin.

“I’d rather wait,” she said.

“For what?” I asked.

“For her to be potty-trained,” she said.

My head tilted in the manner of a dog — or grandchild-less human — who does not understand what she just heard.

My friend explained: Her granddaughter was being toilet-trained in the modern way, with a small portable potty that was to accompany her everywhere she went. Said receptacle was to be planted on any reasonably level surface whenever the baby gave an indication that she needed to go. This was common practice, my friend assured me, adding that some baby johns are so realistic that they appear to have water tanks behind the seat.

“Do they flush?” I asked in jest.

My friend laughed.

“No,” she said, adding under her breath, “not yet.”

My friend further reported that in New York City’s Central Park, it’s not unusual to see families lugging mini-potties around on their daily jaunts, then — when the time comes — scrambling to find privacy for their children’s plastic-lined privies behind rocks or bushes or anywhere one might go for relief in an emergency.

Fine for them, my friend implied, but she was not itching to be known as the pop-up potty lady.

Later, when the subject came up again, this time amongst some newly hatched granny-friends, one astutely observed: “Kinda changes the concept of the stranger lurking in the bushes, doesn’t it? ‘Hey, kid, I got a potty for you over here. Follow me.’” We cackled in the way that every generation hoots at the child-rearing practices of succeeding generations. Our mothers and aunts did the same thing, rolling their eyes at baby monitors and battery-powered bouncy seats.

Now, there’s a whole new crop of baby gadgets and practices to learn. Of course, today’s parents-to-be can turn to a slew of social media channels for tips. Not sure what to do with a newborn? YouTube it. There’s bound to be a Midwesterner who knows how to swaddle with power tools. Then there’s the recently released ninth edition of an old standby, What to Expect When You’re Expecting, the pregnancy bible I used when my at-home test turned pink for the first time in the early ’90s.

I got my mitts on an updated volume. It was oddly reassuring to see that the fundamentals of gestation haven’t changed much in 30 years, though the book reflected societal shifts in life outside the womb: the existence of gender-reveal parties and ultrasound videos; the acknowledgement of unmarried and same-sex partners; and warnings about the use of e-cigs, cannabis and CBD during pregnancy. Heck, there’s even a yellow flag about drinking kombucha.

That got me thinking about another possible niche in pregnancy publishing: a primer for folks my age as we watch our Millennial and Gen Z kids get into the repro game.

So you won’t be clueless at your children’s baby showers and other infant-centric affairs, I give you a pocket version of What to Expect When They’re Expecting.

1. No, that’s not a potholder. That square of fabric with a loop at the corner is a “Twinkle Tent,” which is intended to keep a baby boy from peeing on the person changing his diaper. Same goes for the conical “Pee-pee Teepee.” Eventually, your children — the grown ones — will figure out that by the time the geyser erupts, all you can do is treat it like a Super Soaker, partially block it with your hands, laugh and consider yourself baptized into parenthood. Put on a party hat — the Pee-pee Teepee doubles as one — and celebrate.

2. In related news, a concept called diaper-free, aka naked, potty-training, is making the rounds. According to proponents, when your kids are ready to graduate from nappies, you strip them of their diapers to make them more, um, aware of their bodies. Then you watch their faces for signs that they need to go and hasten them to the proper place, much as you would with a puppy who starts sniffing, scratching and circling the carpet. If you know anyone who plans to try this method, we have two words. OK, technically three words: Kids ’n’ Pets, a stain and odor remover. $5.58 for 27 ounces. But available, with good reason, by the gallon.

3. Blackout is beautiful. Not that our children are trying to raise a generation of vampires, but nursery black-out curtains and black-out tents that stand alone or zip around a crib are officially a thing, supposedly a calming thing because, hey, there’s no light by which to see anything scary. Also German U-boats will never be able to see our coastline, by golly.

4. Pelvic floor trainer. Yes, this is what you think it is. A coach who guides pregnant women through Kegel exercises, mainly, we surmise, so that when they reach our age they will not wet their pants while laughing at the gifts their daughters receive at baby showers.

5. Babymoon. A version of the honeymoon, except this lovey-dovey trip is taken by couples before the baby arrives, usually during the second trimester, before the mama-to-be swells into the stage of Don’t. You. Ever. Touch. Me. Again.

6. Ever.

7. I mean it.

8. Push present. Dang, where was this trend when I was a young mom? The concept is that the new mom deserves some sort of material reward for the physical work she does while having the baby. And no, partners, C-sections do not absolve you. We’re talking baubles. Carats. 14K. Birthstones, at the very least.

Truth: No amount of bling can substitute for what most moms would actually prefer — kindness, admiration and offers of “Here, lemme take the baby while you go out for a while.”

At the same time, this mother of two (bracelets? earrings?) is totally down with the concept of reparation jewelry.

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Christmas Wishes

Peace on Earth and pickup trucks

By Jim Dodson

Late last summer, my wife Wendy asked what I want for Christmas this year. She’s a woman who likes to plan ahead.

Figuring peace on Earth and good will toward men were probably not in the cards, a couple options came to mind.

“A wheelbarrow and a new Chevy pickup truck.”

She laughed.

“You’ve wanted a new pickup truck for almost as long as I’ve known you,” she said. “I’m not sure either would fit under the Christmas tree.”

She was right, of course. “But if I had a new Chevy pickup truck,” I pointed out, “we could bring home a really big Christmas tree and all kinds of other great stuff.”

“I thought we agreed to start getting rid of stuff we no longer need or want,” she reminded me. “Not bringing more home.”

She was right about that, too. We are de-stuffing our house right and left these days. But an old dude’s perpetual dream of owning a new Chevy pickup truck doesn’t go away easily.

So, I asked what she wanted for Christmas this year.

“I’d like to go to a very nice hotel by myself for a night — and just do nothing,” she said.

I’ll admit, this surprised me, but it shouldn’t have.

Wendy is the most organized, generous, and busiest person I know.

She runs her own custom baking business, keeps the family finances, and does the bookkeeping for both our businesses. She also does most of the grocery shopping, regularly gives blood and platelets, and somehow keeps up with the secret adventures of our far-flung children. Someone is always asking her to do something — volunteer to make pies for church suppers or donate ten dozen exquisite hand-painted cookies for a charity fundraiser. Family, friends and neighbors routinely turn to her for advice on a range of subjects, and then there’s her egg-headed husband who can never find where he left his car keys, eyeglasses, lucky golf cap or favorite ink pens. Somehow, she can find these vital items within seconds — just one of her many superpowers.

That’s a lot of stuff to keep up with, I grant you.

Then there was her sweet mom, Miss Jan, who resided at a lovely assisted care facility in town but spent every weekend at our house. With her dementia growing more apparent by the month, Wendy’s focus on her mom’s comfort and needs ramped up dramatically. Daily visits and doctor appointments filled her calendar, which also included lunches at Jan’s favorite restaurants, and bringing her mom clean clothes and delicious dinners every evening, even as Jan’s appetite began to ebb.

No wonder she fantasized about a quiet night alone at a nice hotel.

“How about two or three nights at the Willcox Hotel for our anniversary?” I proposed as the date approached. The Willcox is in Aiken, South Carolina. It’s our favorite hotel, charmingly quaint, blissfully peaceful and located a mile from our favorite golf course.

She loved the idea and promptly booked us a nice long weekend. She even arranged for Jan’s kind caregiver to look in on her every day while we were gone.

Ironically, our anniversary trip to the Willcox didn’t come off because we couldn’t find someone to look after our three dogs and two cats for the weekend. It was the heart of the summer vacation season, which meant every kennel in town had been booked solid for weeks.

So much for a needed break.

Suddenly, it was middle autumn and life was speeding up dramatically. Wendy was busy baking for the larger crowds at the weekend farmers market where she sells her spectacular baked goods, and I was finishing revisions of my book on the Great Wagon Road, scheduled for a spring publication, and starting a new Substack column.

More importantly, Miss Jan’s condition was worsening by the week. Her physician advised us that she would probably be gone by Christmas.

Early on the morning of November 1, the eve of All Saints’ Day across the world, Jan quietly passed away.

Suddenly, what either of us wanted for Christmas was completely irrelevant.

Losing a beloved parent puts life in a different perspective. In Jan’s case, her quiet passing brought an end to suffering from an insidious disease that cruelly robs its victims of speech and memory. What’s left is a hole in the heart that can never be filled.

Jan’s passing also reminded us that we’re at a stage of life where material things no longer hold much magic. There’s really nothing more we need or want. Except more time with each other.

For Dame Wendy, the simple pleasure of the holiday is finding the perfect live Christmas tree, putting on holiday music, cooking for family and friends and doing small things that make Christmas feel special. Last year, she gave me a sensational pair of wool socks and a nifty garden shovel. I gave her a nice, fuzzy sweater and tickets to a concert at the Tanger Center, along with a jumbo box of Milk Duds, her favorite forbidden pleasure.

This year, I plan to give my amazingly busy wife two nights at the luxury hotel a few miles from our house, where she can put her feet up, drink very good wine, eat Milk Duds to her heart’s content and maybe find peace and joy in doing absolutely nothing. Miss Jan would wholeheartedly approve.

As for me, well, forget the Chevy pickup truck for now. But I figure the wheelbarrow is a cinch to show up beneath the tree.

Botanicus

BOTANICUS

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Sleeping Beauties

If you like poinsettias, go see Jim and Judy Mitchell

By Ross Howell Jr.

On a September afternoon, I follow the King-Tobaccoville exit off U.S. Route 52 and ask Siri to take me to Mitchell’s Nursery & Greenhouse. I’d been told that for spectacular poinsettias, Mitchell’s is the place to go.

Pulling off Dalton Road into a newly graveled parking area, I can see brand-new greenhouses — some still under construction. I spot a building with an “Office” sign and park nearby. A petite, sun-tanned woman greets me inside.

That’s Judy. She founded the nursery with her husband, Jim.

They had been growing poinsettias for a while when Judy got the idea to approach a breeder about getting cuttings for a “trial.” Such trials provide breeders with feedback on the performance and desirability of different varieties.

The breeder agreed to participate.

“That first year, we had 30-some different types,” Judy says.

And this year?

“We have 80-some poinsettia varieties,” she answers. “We raise 12,000 of ’em.”

That sounds like a big number. Judy grins when I give her the side-eye.

“Let’s go see,” she says.

We hop on a golf cart and head out. There are rows of trees and shrubs in containers. Beyond the graveled area are alleys of pansies in flats. We pass a greenhouse full of Boston ferns.

When we pull up at a big greenhouse complex, Judy gestures for me to walk in first.

And there are the poinsettias, a vast quilt of varying shades of green. The plants are grouped by type and height — each one individually potted, some with plastic rings to support their branches.

I can only imagine the splendor when all 12,000 are bursting with vivid holiday colors of red, white, dappled, pink and more.

Judy explains the process.

In August, cuttings arrive from the breeders, set in strips about 2 feet long — 13 cuttings per strip — and the cuttings are individually potted. At the end of August, their tops are pinched off by hand to enhance branching and manage height.

Fertilized automatically by irrigation, the poinsettias grow in the greenhouse through September, shaded only if the sun raises the greenhouse temperature too much. It’s important that the plants receive plenty of natural light.

By October, nights have grown longer than daylight periods. On cooler nights, the greenhouses are heated — poinsettias, indigenous to Mexico and Central America, will not survive the cold temps at our latitude.

“Everybody is real careful to cut off their headlights when they turn in to come to work,” Judy says. “We don’t want the plants to think it’s daylight!”

As the poinsettias acclimate to these longer, sleepy nights, their bracts begin to show their beautiful colors.

Judy tells me poinsettia customers start showing up in early November.

“But Thanksgiving is when we really get going,” she adds with a smile.

Judy and Jim met at N.C. State as students and, by the time they graduated with degrees in horticulture, they were a married couple.

After Jim took a job as a pesticide inspector with the N.C. Department of Agriculture, the couple bought a house in King.

In 1979, the Mitchells purchased a lot next to their house and started their business.

Over a span of 45 years, Jim and Judy’s nursery has moved and expanded to some 13 greenhouses, with additional property nearby for a potting shed and growing area.

Their son, Jay, joined the nursery in 2001, after working at a large greenhouse operation in Raleigh. His wife, Melissa, a math teacher, updates Judy’s spreadsheets and balances the company checkbook. And there are grandkids.

When I ask Judy if she and Jim are ready to kick back, maybe do some traveling, she laughs.

She tells me they’ve already seen a good bit of the world, traveling in their off months — January and July.

She surveys the greenhouses.

“Besides,” Judy adds, “when you have this beauty to see every day, why would you want to go anywhere else?”

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

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Thrush in the Brush

The subtle beauty of the hermit thrush

By Susan Campbell

As the temperature and leaves drop, many birds return to their wintering haunts here in the Piedmont of North Carolina. After spending the breeding season up north, seedeaters such as finches and sparrows reappear in gardens across the area. But we have several species that are easily overlooked due to their cryptic coloration and secretive behavior. One of these is the hermit thrush. As its name implies, it tends to be solitary most of the year and also tends to lurk in the undergrowth.

However, this thrush is one of subtle beauty. The males and females are identical. They’re about 6 inches in length with an olive-brown back and a reddish tail. The hermit has brown breast spots, a trait shared by all of the thrush species (including juvenile American robins and Eastern bluebirds, who are familiar members of this group). At close range, it may be possible to see this bird’s white throat, pale bill and pink legs. Extended observation will no doubt reveal the hermit thrush’s distinctive behavior of raising its tail and then slowly dropping it when it comes to a stop.

Since one is far more likely to hear an individual than to see one, recognizing the hermit thrush’s call is important. It gives a quiet “chuck” note frequently as it moves along the forest floor. These birds can be found not only along creeks, at places like Weymouth Woods and Haw River State Park, but along roadsides, the edges of golf courses and scrubby borders of farms throughout the region. It is not unusual for birders to count 40 or 50 individuals on local Audubon Christmas Bird Counts. However, they feed on fruits and insects so are not readily attracted to bird feeders. Over the years, I’ve had a few that managed to find my peanut butter-suet feeder, competing with the nuthatches and woodpeckers for the sweet, protein-rich treat. This tends to be after the dogwoods, beautyberry, pyracantha and the like have been stripped of their berries.

During the summer months, hermit thrushes can be found at elevation in New England and up to the coniferous forests of eastern Canada. A few pairs can even be found near the top of Mount Mitchell here in North Carolina (given the elevation) during May and June. The males have a beautiful flute-like song that gives them away in spite of their camouflage. They nest either on the ground or low in pines or spruces, and mainly feed their young caterpillars and other slow-moving insects.

As with so many migrant species, these thrushes are as faithful to their wintering areas as their breeding spot. I have had several very familiar individuals over the years along James Creek. Keep in mind that if a hermit thrush finds good habitat, he or she may return year after year. With a bit of thick cover, water not far off, and berries and bugs around, there is a good chance many of us will be hosting these handsome birds over the coming months — whether we know it or not.

Sazerac November 2024

SAZERAC NOVEMBER 2024

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Sage Gardener

As I’m writing this, most Americans are a lot more interested in who will be president than what sort of garden they’ll plant.

Not Marta McDowell, who penned All The Presidents’ Gardens in 2016. From George Washington to Barack Obama, she digs up the dirt, so to speak, about who had a perennial obsession with plants. George and Martha Washington, John and Abigail Adams, along with Thomas Jefferson, had gardens and ambitious plans for plants — before the British burned down the White House in 1814 (after the U.S. Army burned down what became Toronto). At the very least, presidents had vegetable gardens since expenses for family food and banquets came out of their own pockets.

James Monroe moved into a mansion under construction, inheriting a yard with the sort of mucky mess that accompanies reconstruction projects. It was John Quincy Adams, McDowell points out, who, faced with a tumultuous presidency and the death of his father, sought solace in, as he described it, “botany, the natural lighting of trees and the purpose of naturalizing exotics.”

As I’m writing this, most Americans are a lot more interested in who will be president than what sort of garden they’ll plant.

Not Marta McDowell, who penned All The Presidents’ Gardens in 2016. From George Washington to Barack Obama, she digs up the dirt, so to speak, about who had a perennial obsession with plants. George and Martha Washington, John and Abigail Adams, along with Thomas Jefferson, had gardens and ambitious plans for plants — before the British burned down the White House in 1814 (after the U.S. Army burned down what became Toronto). At the very least, presidents had vegetable gardens since expenses for family food and banquets came out of their own pockets.

James Monroe moved into a mansion under construction, inheriting a yard with the sort of mucky mess that accompanies reconstruction projects. It was John Quincy Adams, McDowell points out, who, faced with a tumultuous presidency and the death of his father, sought solace in, as he described it, “botany, the natural lighting of trees and the purpose of naturalizing exotics.” To give you an idea of what Adams had to work with, McDowell writes, “To keep the lawns at least roughly trimmed, he arranged for mowers with scythes to cut the long grass for hay, and sometimes borrowed flocks of sheep.” Adams did have a full-time gardener to help him, John Ousley, an Irish immigrant. Following a plan that the plant-and-garden-crazed Jefferson had drafted, the duo got down and dirty. Each morning, after a brisk swim in the nearby Potomac, Adams spent several hours in his garden to “persevere in seeking health by laborious exercise.” McDowell writes, “His was a garden of celebrated variety.” In the two acres he carved out, Adams boasted that you would find “forest and fruit trees, shrubs, herbs, esculent (edible) vegetables, kitchen and medicinal herbs, hot-house plants, flowers — and weeds,” he added, revealing how honest a gardener he was. Adams also collected white oaks, chestnuts, elms and other native trees with an environmental objective: “to preserve the precious plants native to our country from the certain destruction to which they are tending.”

As the latest occupant — and gardener — moves into the White House in January, may I suggest that McDowell’s book might serve as a soothing antidote to the inevitable drama of nightly news and daily headlines.
— David Claude Bailey

That Computes

We say “data boy” to Patrick Fannes, who freely offers his time and knowledge to turning tech trash into treasure. Caching a collection of Windows- and Mac-based tablets, laptops and desktop computers (no more than seven years old), Fannes wipes them clean of all private data, refurbishing as needed before placing them in the hands of disadvantaged children. Though he holds a degree in computer science, he says, “In life I am a lay, ordained Buddhist monk and a doctor of Chinese medicine, serving my community to make this world a better and kinder place.” His friends and associates call him Shifu, the Chinese word for master or teacher, a term of respect. Through Big Brothers Big Sisters, Shifu has worked to provide 200 computers over the last 15 years. If you have an old computer collecting dust, let him give it a second life. And don’t worry — “Your private data will be erased from the computer hard drive and a binary code will be written across the entire surface of the drive nine times so that retrieving any information is impossible.” By donating your tech trash, you’ll not only make your house and the Earth cleaner; you’ll be giving a local child the necessary tools to set them up for success in life. To donate, email Fannes: onecodebreaker@gmail.com.

Booked for a Cause

In Asheville author Robert Beatty’s latest book, Sylvia Doe and the 100-Year Flood, Sylvia Doe doesn’t know where she was born or the people she came from. She doesn’t even know her real last name. When Hurricane Jessamine causes the remote mountain valley where she lives to flood, Sylvia must rescue her beloved horses. But she begins to encounter strange and wondrous things floating down the river. Glittering gemstones and wild animals that don’t belong — everything’s out of place. Then she spots an unconscious boy floating in the water. As she fights to rescue the boy — and their adventure together begins — Sylvia wonders who he is and where he came from. And why does she feel such a strong connection to this mysterious boy?

Known for his Serafina series, Beatty will be donating 100 percent of his earned royalties from Sylvia Doe and the 100-Year Flood — a story he’s been writing for several years — to the people impacted by the catastrophic floods caused by Hurricane Helene in Asheville, North Carolina where he lives. The real-life 100-year flood struck at the same time the book was scheduled to launch. (Ages 8 -12.)

When the photographer says, "Look tough," but there's always that one guy who's trying not to crack a smile.
N.C. A&T's football team, circa late 1930s.

Simple Life

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The Sacred Month

A time to go inside

By Jim Dodson

Long ago, I decided that November is the most sacred month.

To my way of thinking, on so many levels, no other holds as much mystery, beauty and spiritual meaning as the 11th month of the calendar.

The landscape gardener in me is always relieved when the weather turns sharply cooler and there’s an end to the constant fever of pruning and weeding, plus fretting over plants struggling from the heat and drought of a summer that seems to grow more punishing each year.

Once the leaves are gathered up, and everything is cut back and mulched for the winter, not only does my planning “mind” kick in with what’s to be done for next year, but the beautifully bare contours of the Earth around me become a living symbol — and annual reminder — of life’s bittersweet circularity and the relative brevity of our journey through it.

The hilly old neighborhood where we reside is called Starmount Forest for good reason, owing to the mammoth oaks and sprawling maples that kindly shelter us with shade in summer and stand like druid guardians throughout the year, season after season. Beginning this month, the skies become clearer and the nighttime stars glimmer like diamonds on black velvet through their bare and mighty arms, hence the neighborhood’s name: a “mount” where the “stars” shine at night.

Of course, there is risk living among such monarchs of the forest. Every now and then, one of these elderly giants drops a large limb or, worse, topples over, proving their own mortality, sometimes taking out part of a house or a garage, or just blocking the street until work crews arrive with chainsaws. As far as I know, no one has ever been seriously injured or killed by our neighborhood trees, though the growing intensity of summer storms seems to elevate the danger. Lately, some neighborhood newcomers, prefiguring catastrophe, have taken to cutting down their largest oaks as an extra measure of security in a world where, as actuaries and sages agree, there really is no guaranteed thing. In the meantime, the rest of us have made something of a Faustian bargain with these soulful giants for the privilege of living among them. We care for them and (sometimes) they don’t fall on us.

Speaking of “soul,” no month spiritually embodies it better than November.

All Souls’ Day, also called The Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed, comes on the second day of the 11th month, a day of prayer and remembrance for the faithful departed observed by Christians for centuries. The day before All Souls’ is All Saints’ Day, also known as All Hallows’ Day or the Feast of All Saints, a celebration in honor of all the saints of the church, whether they are known or unknown.

Every four years, the first Tuesday that follows the first Monday of November is our national Election Day, a day considered sacred by citizens who believe in the right to vote their conscience and tend the garden of democracy.

Congress established this curious weekday of voting in 1845 on the theory that, since a majority of Americans were (at that moment) farmers or residents of rural communities, their harvests would generally have been completed, with severe winter weather yet to arrive that could impede travel. Tuesday was also chosen so that voters could attend church on Sunday and have a full day to travel to and from their polling place on Monday, arriving home on Wednesday, just in time for traditional market day across America.

Like daylight saving time (which, by the way, ends Sunday, Nov. 3) some critics believe “Tuesday voting” is a relic of a bygone time, requiring modern voters to balance a busy workday with the sacred obligation of voting. For what it’s worth, I tend to fall into the camp that advocates a newly established voting “holiday weekend” that would begin with the first Friday that follows the first Thursday of November, allowing three full days to exercise one’s civic obligation, throw a nice neighborhood cookout and mow the lawn for the last time.

While we’re in the spirit of reforming the calendar, would someone please ditch daylight saving time, a genuine relic of the past that totally wrecks the human body’s natural circadian rhythms? Farmers had it right: Rise with the sun and go to bed when it sets.

Next up in November’s parade of sacred moments is Veterans Day, which arrives on the 11th, a historic federal holiday that honors military veterans of the U.S. Armed Forces, established in the aftermath of World War I with the signing of the Armistice with Germany that went into effect at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918. In 1954, Armistice Day was renamed Veterans Day at the urging of major U.S. military organizations. 

November’s gentler sunlight — at least here in the Northern Hemisphere — feels like a benediction falling across the leafless landscape, quite fitting for a month where we go “inside” literally and figuratively to celebrate the bounty of living on Earth. In the Celtic mind, late autumn is the time of the “inner harvest,” when gratitude and memory yield their own kind of fertility.

“Correspondingly, when it is autumn in your life, the things that happened in the past, the experiences that were sown in the clay of your heart, almost unknown to you, now yield their fruit,” writes the late Irish poet John O’Donohue.

First shared by Squanto and the pilgrims in 1621, Thanksgiving was decreed  “a day of public Thanksgiving and Prayer” on November  26, 1789, by George Washington. Then it was proclaimed a national holiday on the last Thursday of November by Abe Lincoln. Finally, during the Great Depression in 1939, it was moved to the third Thursday of the month by Franklin Roosevelt to extend Christmas shopping days. But for most folks, the observance of Thanksgiving embodies, I suspect, many of the things we hold sacred in life:

The gathering of families, memories of loved ones, lots of laughter, good food and friendly debates over football and politics.

I give extra thanks for Thanksgiving every year, especially the day after when some who hold bargain-hunting on “Black Friday” a sacred ritual thankfully disappear and I am free to enjoy my favorite “loaded” turkey sandwich and take a nice long afternoon nap by the fire to celebrate my favorite holiday.

O.Henry Ending

O.HENRY ENDING

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Fleischmann for President!

A man with real intelligence

By Richie Zweigenhaft

Not long ago, one of my geezer b-ball buddies sent me an article about pick-up basketball. I liked it, and I also liked the 31 comments that followed from various readers. I decided to add my own. A few minutes after I submitted it, I received a message telling me it had been denied — either because of inappropriate wording or because I had otherwise not followed the guidelines. I was told I could appeal. So I did, asking what I naively thought was a person just why it had been rejected. 

Too long? I asked. Or was it because I had (shamelessly) included a URL promoting my book about our pickup basketball game? Or was it some other transgression (I was unable to find their guidelines online)? Ten minutes later, I was told my appeal had been rejected, and my question about the cause of the rejection remained unanswered. 

Stubbornly, I attempted to submit my comment twice more, first taking out the URL, and then shortening the comment. Both times, it was rejected. Then I removed “geezer” and, presto, it was accepted. The term “geezer,” which I use affectionately, clearly was not acceptable based on the algorithm. It dawned on me that I had been “communicating” with a machine. 

Subsequently, I had a radically different experience when I submitted an email to Phillip Fleischmann, the director of Greensboro’s Parks & Recreation. I addressed a fairly long (and somewhat rambling) message to him, asking him to forward it to the right person. The gist?  Just some observations I had made on my regular bike rides about the tennis courts, ball fields, basketball courts and the skateboard park I frequently ride by. It also included a query about the removal of planted areas along Buffalo Creek, plus about some renovations near the Latham Park tennis courts. And then I boldly suggested that some pickleball courts be added to the changes taking place in Latham Park. I even included a parenthetical comment informing him that, in 1975, as I was about to leave for a vacation, I had sent the Parks & Recreation department a letter encouraging them to build a basketball court in my Lake Daniel neighborhood. When I got back three weeks later, there was a court.   

I had no idea if I would hear back this time either from a human or via artificial intelligence.

The response was quite human, and more than I could have hoped for. He responded to every issue I raised, with explanations about the tennis courts — why some had pickleball lines but others did not — the reason for the removal of the planted areas along Buffalo Creek, the department’s hopes to increase the number of pickleball courts, and why some basketball courts allow for full court and others don’t. He even congratulated me for my 1975 letter: “Seeing the use of the basketball court at Lake Daniel, it is evident that your suggestion to Parks & Recreation in the 1970s was an impactful one!”

When I shared this email with a friend, his response was “Fleischmann for President!”

It was reassuring, especially in light of my earlier online experience trading emails with a machine. The incursion of artificial intelligence may be inevitable, and may feel like it is pervasive, so responses like the one I got from Phil Fleischmann are increasingly valuable, especially to geezers like me who still value the printed word — written by humans.

Tea Leaf Astrologer

TEA LEAF ASTROLOGER

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Scorpio

(October 23 – November 21)

Nothing like an old sweater, huh? So comfy and familiar. But so not doing you any favors. This month, self-worth is the name of the game. And here’s the thing: You’re destined to win. It’s simply a matter of ditching the security blanket — be that a threadbare sweater or an outdated (read, self-effacing) MO. Oh, and when Juno enters your sign on Nov. 3, get ready for a next-level soul connection. We’re talking oceanic depths. How do you feel about whale songs?

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Throw out the candy.

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

Get ready for a boon.

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

Turn the dial just a hair.

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

More root vegetables.

Aries (March 21 – April 19) 

Try softening your gaze.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

Just ask for directions.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

Lay off the caffeine for a bit.

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

Someone’s got your back.

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

Get cozy with the silence.

Virgo (August 23 – September 22)

Worrying won’t help.

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

Don’t be a doormat.

Home Grown

12 DAYS OF CHRISTMAS

Home
Department

Helping Mrs. Davis

The sunset days of an elderly neighbor

By Cynthia Adams

Ethel Davis questioned my pen and note-taking.

“I’m a retired English teacher,” she said, eyes sharp. “Mrs. Davis.” Pause. “And you are?” 

So began a friendship lasting well beyond a community project that brought me to her door. A year later, she asked that I help with ending her life.

Mrs. Davis lived near the 1911 house we were reviving. Her own home was in a death rattle. Leaves idled on a rickety porch. Inside, paint peeled from the ceilings, surrendering to the tropical heat she preferred. Rugs, curtains, and upholstery dry rotted. 

Mrs. Davis and her house were aging in sync. Her bony elbows jutted through a sweater which she pulled closer as I shucked mine off.

When I brought clothing, she protested. “But, my dear, I have so many beautiful clothes!” I brought food, too, which she accepted protesting, “Oh, Mary could prepare something.”

“Mary?”

“My housekeeper.” Having never seen another soul in the house, day nor night, Mary was either a ruse or imagined helpmate. My heart twisted at her fierce pride.

I grew increasingly anxious for the feisty 95-year-old. The mysterious “Mary” had just left or was late, according to Mrs. Davis, who subsisted upon Campbell’s soup. A sleeve of Ritz crackers sat alongside crossword puzzles, pencil stubs, paper clips, rubber bands and an ancient flash light.

If I brought treats, she insisted, “I’ve plenty, my dear.” Mrs. Davis had a well-supplied imagination.

“My sweet Herman visited last night! He stood right there!” She mentioned nocturnal visits from a long dead sister, too. These apparitions comforted her while alarming me. Was the membrane between life and death dissolving? 

Reciting Tennyson’s “Crossing the Bar,” she taped it to her headboard, warbling, “Sunset and evening star, and one clear call for me!”

Whenever she didn’t answer, I circled outside, calling her name. One autumn afternoon, colorful leaves fluttering onto her porch, Mrs. Davis peered from a cloudy window as I arrived unannounced. 

“My dear,” she asked in her mannered way, “could you possibly take me banking?” Donning an ancient wool coat and dishwater gray scarf, she carried a clutch purse dated to the Eisenhower administration.

Entering the bank, she trilled “Hello, Helpers!” pulling out a passbook wrapped by 10 rubber bands. 

An eager banker bounded up. “Let’s go to my office!” 

Discombobulated, I mumbled, “I’ll wait.” She reemerged, regal, like the aristocrat she was. 

We crisscrossed Friendly Shopping Center, where banks safeguarded the widow’s wealth. “My Herman always said, ‘Count the pennies and the dollars take care of themselves.’” She patted the purse filled with passbooks. “My daughter wants her hands on his money.”

Mrs. Davis had a daughter?

At the drugstore counter she ordered soup and water, inquiring if crackers were complimentary.

Studying a flier, she brightened. “A treat for us! Danish cookies are on sale for $1.99! Or, would you prefer an alarm clock?”

“My dear,” she ventured mid-spoonful, “I’ve decided I’m ready to join Mr. Davis.”   

My pulse swooshed in my ears — Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark!

“Will you help me?”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet. But, my dear, will you?”

Over dinner, my husband’s jaw tightened. “What does she want exactly? Look, you cannot kill Mrs. Davis!”

“Of course not,” I agreed.

Days later, I banged on her door. Silence. I circled the house. Nothing. Mrs. Davis finally answered her ancient rotary phone, murmuring, “Sorry, dear, I was in the back talking to Mary.”

Soon, her hearing dimmed. She grew even thinner. She recited Tennyson, discussed her ghostly visitors — never again mentioning euthanasia. 

One afternoon she failed to answer the doorbell or my phone calls. After a sleepless night, I went to a neighbor. Her daughter had arrived the prior morning in a U-Haul, collecting a visibly upset Mrs. Davis and some furniture. 

No number. No forwarding address.

And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark.

Leaves, darkening with mildew, cluttered her porch alongside fliers advertising Danish cookies and alarm clocks. I paused there on walks as dinner smells wafted through the neighborhood and stars blinked on.

Sunset and evening star, I mouthed softly.

Winter deepened. And mysteries, too, of life or its absence.

Wandering Billy

WANDERING BILLY

Home
Department

Finding Otto

How stalwarts of justice became stewards of style

By Billy Ingram

For 30 years, beginning in 1950, Otto Zenke was one of the nation’s most respected interior designers. Based in Greensboro with offices in Palm Beach and London, he created spectacular environments for the finest homes along the East Coast including the mansion of the late Julian Price in Irving Park and Reynolda House in Winston-Salem. A year from now, however, a major portion of Zenke’s legacy will be erased forever when his former home and showroom is demolished for a parking lot.

Bridging the lifestyle gap between the old and new South, Zenke lent his 18th-century-influenced stateliness to residences surrounding golf courses in Pinehurst; country manors in Virginia and South Carolina; seaside abodes in Palm Beach; estates in Newport and Los Angeles; and homes appearing on covers and in photo spreads for House Beautiful and Architectural Digest. “Elegance and beauty were his trademark,” declared Connoisseur magazine.

Georgian fireplaces, cut-glass chandeliers hung from high ceilings, gabled archways and boldly carved pilasters were just a few of Zenke’s signature touches. For select clients, lavishly illustrated, hand-painted murals of pastoral splendor or sprawling foxhunting scenes and delicately rendered chinoiserie panels adorned dining and living room walls. It’s doubtful most of those murals survive today but I’d heard rumors that one was extant, oddly enough, in the Guilford County Sheriff’s office.

In 1968, Zenke constructed a 3,000-square-foot home and showroom on the corner of Washington and Eugene Streets after the city had appropriated — by eminent domain — his extraordinarily beautiful residence and workspace across Eugene for use as the Governmental Center. The L-shaped English Regency-style complex he developed in ’68 was joined to, and fronted by, a two-story, New Orleans-inspired dwelling built in the late-1800s, one of the oldest houses still standing in downtown Greensboro.

After Zenke’s death in 1984, the county purchased the property and, today, within those hallowed walls, Guilford County Sheriff Danny H. Rogers presides over one of the largest sheriff’s offices in the state with 557 employees split between operations and detention bureaus.

Elected in 2018, Rogers is Guilford County’s first Black sheriff. Growing up in High Point in the 1960s, the few African American law enforcement officers that existed locally were an inspiration to the very young Rogers, who learned by observing them — both how to interact with people and to “be who I am.”

In 1985 Sheriff Jim Proffitt allowed Rogers to work as a non-sworn detention officer. “The county had frozen the positions for sworn officers. Well, on my first day as a non-sworn detention officer, there were two of my white counterparts and they were sworn. I asked, ‘How long have you guys been here?’ Turns out their hire dates were the same as mine. I questioned it. I worked with the sheriff’s office for a little over a year and a half, then I went to the High Point Police Department, where they gave me an opportunity to be sworn and paid me to go to school. I was there for a little over three and a half years before coming back to the sheriff’s office.” After another three years or so, he was released from the department; it wasn’t until roughly 25 years later that he ran for and became sheriff for Guilford County.

During his time away from the sheriff’s office, Rogers earned a master’s degree in criminal justice and a theology degree. An open Bible sits on a shelf behind his desk. “I had a chance to understand the community from a different perspective,” Rogers says about his well-spent time away. “Getting out there, meeting the people and walking the streets was key when I first started.”

Whenever a new administrator takes over an organization, pushback inevitably follows. “There’s always a lot of behind the scenes conversation,” Rogers says about the transition after becoming sheriff. Those who want to stay will stay. Those who want to leave will leave.

“A positive change began within myself,” Rogers says. “But the real positive change began in the mindset of the men and women who work here, so they can go out in the community and help bring about that positive change. And it’s working. It’s not working like a grand slam or the perfect engine, but it’s working at the pace that it needs to.”

Naturally, I was curious to have a look around Zenke’s former showroom, imaging what you might see on modern TV police dramas, when detectives paste photos of hapless victims on the walls with a cat’s cradle of string tying them to some unknown serial killer. I could not have been more mistaken.

Rogers’ office, once the designer’s living room, is enshrined in 130-year old wood paneling embedded with 15-foot high, built-in floor-to-ceiling bookcases framed in intricately carved crown molding. The bathroom is equipped with an unused sunken marble tub.

Zenke’s stylistic fingerprints are everywhere throughout this palatial domain: entranceways topped with half-moon transom windows; individually painted tiles in the kitchen; a restroom swathed in emboldened Asian-flavored floral wallpaper — all in pristine condition after more than half a century. Touring these offices a few years ago, one former North Carolina chief executive remarked that it was nicer than the governor’s mansion.

Surrounding the largest open space, to my delight and surprise, unscathed and perfectly preserved, was a panoramic hand-painted mural replicating the verdant patio of an Italian villa opening to the unspoiled countryside with realistically rendered black urns perched on either side. Nearly hidden in one corner, a peasant boy is relieving himself in the bushes, a naughty detail Zenke no doubt delighted clients with privately.

Atop another room’s mahogany bookcase is a marble inlay centered by a nobleman’s face. It has an unintended design element — a pronounced bullet hole piercing an interior glass door, shattered three years ago after gunfire erupted across the street. Soon after, all exterior windows were made bulletproof.

After visiting Zenke’s former digs, photographer Lynn Donovan and I were chatting as she packed cameras into the trunk of her car. A female detention center deputy stopped to question what a couple of suspicious-looking customers like us were doing meandering in the parking lot. “Oh, we’re here to shoot the sheriff,” I replied. That wasn’t a smile crossing the deputy’s lips as one hand inched closer to her baton. Donovan explained that we just wrapped up a photoshoot with the county’s top lawman. While we had, in fact, shot the sheriff, after the jailer moved on Donovan noted, “we did not shoot the deputy.”

After completion of the new Guilford County Sheriff’s Law Enforcement Administration Building in 2025, Otto Zenke’s former home/showroom next door will be demolished for a parking lot — naughty peasant boy and all.