Chaos Theory

CHAOS THEORY

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All Aboard!

A magical ride on the Polar Express

By Cassie Bustamante

The rain pelts us sideways as we stand under a flimsy Ikea umbrella, not meant to withstand North-Pole-in-the-Piedmont winds — or a light breeze, for that matter. I huddle in closely to Chris as our youngest, 5-year-old Wilder, nestles against our legs. Wilder’s rosy cheeks match his cherry-red Nikes and the Santa-suits on his gray fleece pajama pants, which are sopping wet. My own red-and-white, buffalo-check flannel bottoms are also drenched. Chris is high and dry above the waist, thanks to a red raincoat, but he clearly didn’t embrace the Polar Express spirit as Wilder and I did by donning holiday sleepwear. Instead, he wears the fabric of our city — denim. Never a great choice in a rainstorm, but when we’d left the house an hour ago, only a soft drizzle was falling.

A couple of months earlier when I’d booked the Polar Express train ride at the N.C. Transportation Museum in Spencer, it had seemed like a great idea. With two jaded teenagers in the house who snicker at Santa, it’s getting harder and harder for me to conjure up holiday magic each year, even for the little one. In the days leading up to our North Pole excursion, we’d repeatedly read Chris Van Allsburg’s book. Now, “Seeing is believing” keeps echoing in my mind, reminding me why I am here. But standing amid strangers in the mud and muck as we await the arrival of our train, what I’m seeing is anything but magical. And then I remember the rest of the passage: “Seeing is believing, but sometimes the most real things in the world are the things we can’t see.”

“Choooo-choooooo . . . ” the train pulls up to our platform, disrupting my thoughts. The shivering crowd of families, matching pajama sets clinging damply to their bodies, erupts into cheers. Wilder’s face, along with those of the other young children surrounding us, finally begins to glow with excitement. Meanwhile, parents, grandparents and adults alike are thinking how magical a warm and dry passenger car is going to be.

“All aboard!” A behatted conductor yells as a boy dressed in jammies joins him on the platform to act out the late-night boarding scene from the book. Meanwhile the adults in the crowd of cold, wet excursionists await entrance. I hear mutters of what I’m thinking: “Just let us on the train!”

Finally, the gates open. A collective sigh of relief echoes through the cabin as we all find our seats. Along each side of the interior, garlands of popcorn and beads, red mug ornaments and greenery glisten against strings of lights. On each seat sits a golden ticket. Wide-eyed, Wilder holds his up: “A real golden ticket!”

Soon, an attendant asks for our tickets. I reflexively pull my iPhone from my pocket to show our three Etix vouchers. Big, fat, nonbelieving adult mistake. Wilder slaps his forehead. “Mom, not those!” The smiling agent rescues me and repeats: “May I see your tickets,” she says, enunciating that last word as it clicks into place. Wilder, to the rescue, proudly hands it to her.

She goes to town with a paper punch, handing our tickets back, each one featuring the letter “B” cut into it. I lean into Wilder and whisper, “For ‘believe.’” He peers at me through the holes of his ticket, his blue eyes sparkling with wonder.

The train roars to life, chug-chugging along the track. Through its speakers, “Hot Chocolate” begins to sound — Hot! Hot! Ooh, we got it! — as the train’s chefs and attendants perform a lively dance in the aisle, dispensing chunky, chocolate-chip cookies and cups of steaming hot cocoa.

While Wilder nibbles, breaking off bits with the biggest hunks of chocolate first, the gentle voice of a grandfatherly narrator begins reading the book that inspired this ride. A few attendants, holding the largest copies I’ve ever seen, walk up and down the aisle so that everyone can see the illustrations. Though he’s seen the pages a million times, Wilder cranes his neck for a good look, savoring every moment of his personal Polar Express ride.

As the train eases to a crawl into “The North Pole,” Wilder plasters his face to the window. I stop myself from ruining the magic by scolding him for fingerprints on the glass. His gaze is  locked on an oversized Santa, whose downy beard billows in the wind. And then Santa raises his hand into the air. In it, a sleigh bell. “The first gift of Christmas!” he proclaims before handing it to the pajamaed boy we saw earlier on the platform.

With a basket full of sleigh bells, Santa boards our train car and makes his way down the aisle, handing one to every passenger as the jingling slowly sweeps from front of the car to the rear. Seated in the very back, Wilder’s anticipation mirrors the chiming crescendo. With a white-gloved hand, Santa gently places the very last sleigh bell in my little boy’s clammy palm with a “Merry Christmas.” Words escape Wilder, who, for the next minute, just stares in wonder at the treasure in his grasp.

“Though I’ve grown old, the bell still rings for me, as it does for all who truly believe,” the book concludes. And as our ride ends and we prepare to face the bitter rain, I put my bell in my pocket and take Wilder’s hand in mine. While I came here on a mission to give Wilder something to believe in, I am leaving with more than that. I’m carrying the knowledge that Santa’s spirit and magic are alive and well in this world. Dare I say, I believe.

Poem December 2024

POEM

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Poem December 2024

Winter Solstice

The sun through branches lights

my face. I look through

my eyelashes: prisms.

I close my eyes,

the field glows

warm carmine.

No snow, no

promise of snow.

A crow bark-laughs.

Another clatters its beak like castanets.

Their chatter perhaps

of pecans aplenty

or the simple mad joy

of being alive

in this moment.

It is easy

to love

what is passing.

Debra Kaufman

Sazerac December

SAZERAC

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(Don’t) Wait for It

Who knew that when Jimmie “JJ” Jeter’s mother took him to see a local summer production of Annie as a middle schooler, one woman’s performance would change his entire life? “The woman that played Miss Hannigan gave the performance of her life,” he recalls, almost 20 years later. Jeter, a Winston-Salem native, remembers being awestruck and overcome with a sense of knowing, “I want to do that.” The very next day, his mother reached out to the Community Theatre of Greensboro, where Jeter would become involved in various productions, even landing the lead role of Troy Bolton in High School Musical 2.

Throughout much of his off-stage high school career, Jeter performed for the North Carolina Black Repertory Company’s Teen Theatre, where then artistic director Mabel Robinson introduced him to the late Matt Bulluck, professor emeritus of drama at the University of North Carolina School of the Arts. After witnessing his chops, Bulluck suggested he audition for the school. With Robinson’s guidance, Jeter prepared a monologue and was admitted to its high school program, attending there his senior year. “I had no idea what I was doing and that program completely changed my life,” he says. Following in Bulluck’s footsteps, Jeter went on to study at Juilliard, where he graduated with a fine arts degree in acting in 2016.

Now, Jeter is returning to Greensboro, this time on the Tanger Center stage, as Aaron Burr in the Broadway sensation Hamilton. “This feels like a full-circle moment for me,” he says. “It is an honor to go, ‘My blood, sweat and tears are . . . right here in Greensboro. It’s still there, right there.”

While Jeter has played all seven male principal roles — on Broadway and in the Australian tour — he says that currently, he’s partial to the role he’s in. Jeter once heard the character’s originator, Leslie Odom, say that there are more Burrs than Hamiltons in the world. “There’s a lot that we recognize in him that we see in ourselves, the things that we don’t really talk about or bring up.” Portraying Burr every night, he says, holds him accountable. “Hey, we have to be honest about who we are, right?” Plus, Jeter adds, Burr has the best songs in the show, including his favorite: “The most gut-wrenching song to sing every night — ‘Wait for It.’”

And what’s Jeter willing to wait for? His order from his family’s Winston-Salem restaurant, Simply Sonya’s: mac-n-cheese, collard greens and his mother’s chicken with the secret family sauce. “I can taste it now,” he says, dreaming about his upcoming jaunt through the Triad with the show. “I already told my mom, ‘Go ahead and have my order ready, please!’”

After working with Hamilton in some capacity for the last eight years, the next dream is to write and act in his own show, à la Hamilton creator Lin-Manuel Miranda. Perhaps a “zombie musical. It sounds crazy, but it’s going to be so cool!” We’ll be waiting in the wings for that show to hit the Tanger Center, but for now, we’re not throwing away our shot at catching Jeter as Aaron Burr.   — Cassie Bustamante

Just One Thing

We’re nuts about the entire “Life & Times of Charles M. Schulz” exhibit at Alamance Arts in Graham. Known for his entire Peanuts gang — including that blockhead Charlie Brown, plus Snoopy, Schroeder, Linus and so many more moon-faced kiddos  — Schulz published the very first Peanuts comic strip on October 2, 1950, launching what would grow into a phenomenon that includes movies, books, TV specials and a theme park. Still today, Gen Z-ers are snagging merch from Peanuts collaborations with brands such as American Eagle and Pottery Barn. Just last December, Architectural Digest asked, “Will 2024 Be the Year of Snoopy Girls?” While this exhibit features a replica of Schulz’s studio, you’ll also get to see character panels with insight into their personalities. Our pick? Lucy Van Pelt. We know — you’re thinking “Good grief! That bully?” But yes. She knows what she wants — piano man Schroeder and, apparently, real estate — and she’s willing to go after it. Schulz himself said, “Lucy comes from that part of me that’s capable of saying mean and sarcastic things, which is not a good trait to have, so Lucy gives me an outlet.” And don’t we all need a creative outlet for our inner Lucy? When you’re done putting the last ornament on your very own Charlie Brown Christmas tree, hitch a ride with the Red Baron to Alamance Arts to check out this exhibit that’s fun for the whole gang through January 17. Info: alamancearts.org.

Letters

To Cynthia Adams in response to her July 2024 column, “The Dog Who Owned Us”

I just read this article by Cynthia Adams in the July issue. Admit it brought a tear to my eye.

It called to mind this short article on a similar topic I wrote not so long ago. I would appreciate it if you would share it with Cynthia so she might enjoy.  
— Jon Maxwell

An excerpt from “An Ode to Our Family’s ‘BFG,’” published in the Greensboro News & Record, September 2015:

What we failed to appreciate was how much the right dog can teach us all.

From the litter, Gavin picked an energetic white/black female that was apparently the leader, and enforcer, among her siblings. It did not take long to settle upon “Bonnie” as a suitable name for this darling wee lass. When we stopped by my brother’s house for a backyard cookout, Bonnie scrambled from Gavin’s arms and bolted across the yard to my wife Caroline’s lap, where she rested contentedly for most of the afternoon. In one fell swoop, she had effectively neutralized the only potential holdout to her being welcomed into the bosom of our family.

Unsolicited Advice

When the Mayans brewed their first steaming cup of hot chocolate around 500 B.C., it’s likely they never imagined that Tom Hanks would sing a whole song about it in The Polar Express. You know the one: Hey, we got it! Hot! Hot! Say, we got it! Hot chocolate! Of course, they probably also never guessed their concoction of ground-up cocoa seeds, water, cornmeal plus chili peppers would evolved into a milky, creamy dessert-worthy treat. Wondering what to sprinkle on, aside from that sweet dollop of whipped cream or pile of marshmallow pillows melting atop your mug? Say, we got it! Hot chocolate toppers!

Chocolate’s best pairing? Sorry, Cupid, put away the strawberries and wait your turn — it’s more chocolate. Grab a high-quality dark chocolate bar and your veggie peeler to create the cutest, richest curlicues, melting into a bittersweet symphony of flavors The Verve would envy.

Feeling salty? Say seasoning’s greetings with a dash of coarse sea salt. Or indulge in a cinn-ful treat with a sprinkle of cinnamon. How about a nod to its origins by kicking it up a notch with chili powder. Alexa, play “Christmas Wrapping” by the Spice Girls.

Did your confectionary delights turn out less than delightful? Don’t toss those cookies! Crumble ‘em up and rebrand them as ganache garnishes.

Take your holiday rage out — say, we got it — by placing a candy cane in a plastic baggie and smashing it to smithereens. Sprinkle atop your hot cocoa for a chocolate and peppermint delight that’s winter’s answer to mint chocolate chip ice cream.

But our go-to? Peppermint schnapps. All the mint chocolate goodness plus a delightful buzz. Leave this treat out for Santa and you’re bound to get on the last-minute nice list. Or find Santa snoozin’ in your easy chair on Christmas morn.

Sage Gardener

Cranberries are weird. They are grown beneath layers of peat, sand and clay covered by water and are harvested by combing the floaters off the surface. As anyone who’s unearthed a bag left over from Thanksgiving knows, they are slow to go bad, so much so that sailing vessels of yore stored them in barrels on long sea voyages to stave off scurvy. When dropped, they bounce like a ball. In fact, early cranberry farmers bounced them down staircases, discarding the ones that didn’t make it to the bottom. No evidence suggests that the Pilgrims ate them at the first turkey throw down. Nobody knows where the name came from, maybe from low German kraanbere because the flower’s stamen looks like a crane beak. American Indians called them sassamenesh, which English speakers thankfully ignored. Indians used them to make pemmican, a winter staple made by mixing fat, pounded, dried meat and often dried fruit. Cranberries, by the way, grow on vines, not bushes, and belong to the same genus as blueberries, Vaccinium, derived from the Latin word for cow, vacca — maybe because cattle gobble them up. Native to North America and northern Europe, they grow wild from Nova Scotia to North Carolina. Rather tart in flavor, some people “carve” the jellied cranberry straight from the can and feature jiggling slices of it on a serving platter. NPR diva Susan Stamberg goes on and on about her mother’s cranberry relish, which includes onion and horseradish. Me? I’ll stick to my own mama’s unjiggling cranberry relish, made with bouncy fresh berries, orange segments and grated rind.
— David Claude Bailey

And the Award Goes to . . .

Earlier this year, we were honored by the N.C. Press Association with the following editorial awards:

First Place in Feature Writing:
Cynthia Adams for “Wine Not Now”

Third Place in Feature Writing:
Billy Ingram for “Greensboro’s Jeanaissance”

Third Place in Profile Feature:
Cassie Bustamante and Bert VanderVeen for “Minding Her Business”

Second Place in Lighter Columns:
Cassie Bustamante for “Chaos Theory”

Third Place in Lighter Columns:
Jim Dodson for “Simple Life”

And in the advertising sector:

First Place in both Special Sections and Real Estate Ads

Second Place in Retail Ads

Third Place in Advertising Campaigns

We’d also like to congratulate our sister publications — PineStraw, SouthPark and Walter — who each took home awards as well. And a special shoutout to the team at Walter for snagging the award for general excellence. O.Henry is proud to be part of The Pilot’s team of stellar publications and digital offerings. We look forward to bringing you more stories highlighting the “Art & Soul of Greensboro” in 2025.

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

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Magnificent Migration

The splendor of snow geese

By Susan Campbell

Here in central North Carolina, when someone says “goose,” we tend to think Canada goose. Canadas are everywhere — year-round — large, brown and white, often noisy and hard to dissuade from our yards, ponds and parks. Like it or not, they congregate in the dozens after breeding season ends in mid-summer. But these are not the only geese in our state during the cooler months. If you travel east, you will find snow geese — and not just a few dozen but flocks numbering in the thousands.

As their name implies, snow geese are mainly white in color. Their wing tips are black but their bills, legs and feet are pink. There is also, at close range, a black “grin patch” on their bills. Size-wise, snows are a bit smaller than Canada geese but their voices are, unquestionably, louder. They produce a single-syllable honk which is repeated no matter whether they are in flight or on the ground, day or night.

These beautiful birds are, like all waterfowl, long-distance migrants. As days shorten in the fall, snow geese gather and head almost due south before cold air settles in. Migration finds them high overhead, arranged in “V” formations and flying mainly at night, when conditions are cooler. They may stop and feed at staging areas along the way, staying in the same longitude for the most part. When flocks finally arrive in North Carolina, it will be in the early morning hours along our coast. These will be individuals from Eastern populations — birds that have come all the way from western Greenland and the eastern Canadian Maritimes.

During the winter, snow geese remain in large aggregations that move from well-known roosting locations, which are usually larger lakes, to nearby feeding areas that provide an abundance of vegetation — seeds as well as shoots and roots of nutrient-rich plants. These are likely to include native aquatic vegetation as well as agricultural crops such as corn and soybeans. As they move from place to place, even if it is a short distance, the birds will swirl up and into formation, honking all the while, and then swirling dramatically again as they descend. It is a sight to behold!

These distinctive birds can sometimes be found inland in the cooler months, though they are most likely to show up alone or in small numbers, mixed in with local Canadas. You might find the odd snow goose or two in a farm pond, playing field or agricultural area in the Triad or Sandhills.

To fully appreciate the splendor of these beautiful birds, it is worth a trip east in early-to-mid-January. For the best viewing, try the large agricultural fields adjacent to, or on, Pocosin Lakes National Wildlife Refuge. You also may find birds moving to or from the lake at Lake Mattamuskeet National Wildlife Refuge. Pea Island National Wildlife Refuge on the coast holds a smaller number of snow geese in December. They can be seen feeding along N.C. 12 until the wild pea plants there — one of their favorite foods — are spent.

Wandering Billy

WANDERING BILLY

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Circling Back to the Psychic on the Corner

By Billy Ingram

“I used to be psychic, but I drank my way out of it.” — Mark E. Smith

For nearly a quarter-century, there’s been a psychic living on or next door to the corner of Cornwallis and Lawndale Drive, a modest sign in the window advertising her supernatural services. Her name is Dorine and it’s been exactly four years since I impulsively dropped in for a crystal reading and then wrote all about it in “Wandering Billy.” I decided a return visit was in order.

I consider myself a skeptic but with an inclination to believe that it’s possible for someone to possess psychic powers. An interest was sparked when Mrs. Jean Newman, an English teacher at Page High School in the 1970s (she’d previously taught at Grimsley and later at Smith), decided to forgo her planned Shakespeare lesson, and instead regaled us with stories about transcribing clairvoyant sessions conducted by Edgar Cayce (1877-1945), known as “The Sleeping Prophet.” In subsequent research, I could find no record of her involvement, but it may be telling that Cayce’s lifelong transcriber and unmarried collaborator’s last name was Davis, Mrs. Newman’s maiden name.

My own personal interactions with psychics are limited but not totally lacking. In Los Angeles in the early-1980s, I worked on a two-week long TV pilot for a daily Entertainment Tonight-style program centered around unexplained phenomenon. One of my assignments was to ferry “psychic” Sylvia Browne — that flatulent phony Montel Williams foisted on his audience of shut-ins in the 1990s — to and from the studio. Afternoon television’s Aunt Hagatha, her future forecasting and accuracy when it came to pinpointing missing persons was about as precise as that of a toddler straddling a toilet. I was the only person that would have anything to do with that arrogant gasbag, while everyone else on set avoided her like the plague she became. Whether they were previously acquainted with Sylvia Browne or that was just a visceral reaction, either way, it was perfectly understandable.

During those two weeks, I relished this rarefied opportunity to delve daily into every one of the Whitman’s Sampler of astrologers, tarot card slappers, clairvoyants, palm readers, fortune-tellers and prognosticators serving as the production’s on-site consultants. Shades of Paddy Chayefsky’s Network, the program even had a soothsayer predicting next week’s headlines. Truthfully, most of those freelancers I conversed with on that project came across as very credible, genuinely gifted in their particular mastery of the mystic arts.

I’ve had more than a few profound occurrences in my lifetime that can only be explained by some form of sixth sense at play. So I entered into my Friday afternoon session with Dorine, our psychic on the corner, with an open — but cautious — mindset. Asked what medium (so to speak) she excelled in, Dorine insisted that she doesn’t communicate with the spirit world; hers, she says, is an intuitive gift.

Being a somewhat spiritual and self-aware individual, just about everything she told me about myself was spot on, corresponding precisely with her reading four years ago. I am, after all, the same person, so a radically different assessment would have been troubling.

Could she have recognized that I had written about her years ago? She only had my cell number and the name “William.” That was also the case last time. Practically the first thing she asked was, “Have you ever thought about being a writer?” But then she went on —  just five minutes after meeting me — to detail traits about myself that I’m convinced no-one could possibly detect or infer from anything I’ve ever written. Maybe I do walk around with my heart on my sleeve at times, but I went sleeveless that day.

As much as I was leaning into the experience, I was determined to remain impartial, stubbornly so. When Dorine asked what my question was to her, I straight-up expressed a desire to understand whether or not she actually possessed psychic abilities. “I feel like I’m under a microscope,” she said at one point. “You are — I apologize!” was my response, attempting to quell any resulting negativity that I might be inadvertently harboring. What she expressed to me, and I agree wholeheartedly, is that, if a person is not receptive, she can’t possibly do what she does. The reluctant subject throws a block in the pathway, so to speak. Therein lies the conundrum underlying any psychic reading.

In our first meeting four years earlier, Dorine informed me I would be entering into a relationship in the next year, likely with a physician, that would involve extensive traveling. No such luck. This time it was predicted that traveling to New York is in my near future — not outside the realm of possibility. She indicated money was not a problem for me and, I suppose when you don’t have any, it isn’t much of a bother. Suggesting that I had been a healer in a previous lifetime, she wondered if that had manifested itself in this existence? Possibly so, but if she had intuited instead that I was once a corny 1930s’ nightclub lounge act, that would have resonated more clearly.

It was more hit than miss, however. “So what are you doing with art?” Dorine asked. I was preparing a canvas that day to do a painting, only the second time I’ve done so in the last 20 years. I do feel she accurately described the painting I completed a few months ago, which is difficult, given that it’s an abstract. That genuinely impressed me. And when it came to identifying who I am at the core of my being, she was amazingly dead on.

What should one expect from a psychic reading? The Oracle of Delphi or a modern day Edgar Cayce connecting to God’s messengers on the other side? Is keen insightfulness, which this lady clearly possesses loads of, proof of clairvoyance? What impressed me most was that, when told she was wrong, she didn’t equivocate or try to say, “Maybe that’s true of someone close to you.” She simply said, “Well, that’s what I’m picking up.”

If you’ve never sat for a psychic reading and you’re psy-curious, or, even if you have, Dorine seems like the real deal? She definitely doesn’t come across as a con artist or huckster. And I’d know because I had a glancing dance with one of those shady characters decades ago, not to mention witnessing Sylvia Browne’s naked fakery on display. Dorine’s advice to me was exactly what I needed to hear, what I had been telling myself, in fact. Of course, take this with a grain of for-entertainment-purposes-only salt.

Now that I think about it, more than two decades ago, right about the time Dorine began her paranormal practice on the corner of Cornwallis and Lawndale, that parcel of land had been rumored to be the site of a Walgreens or some other big box store that would complement Lawndale Shopping Center, deeply upsetting the residents of that genteel Kirkwood acreage perimeter. Given how quickly the dominoes fell under Friendly Center’s encroachment into its surrounding neighborhoods, could there be an otherworldly explanation for the vanishing of that retail expansion project?

Or maybe, just maybe, I’ve been watching too many episodes of Unsolved Mysteries.

Life’s Funny

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.

Simple Life

SIMPLE LIFE

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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.