Omnivorous Reader

Omnivorous Reader

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Against All Odds

Characters living on life’s edge

By Anne Blythe

If you’ve ever felt caught in one of life’s undertows, fighting overwhelming currents seemingly beyond your control, you might find a kindred spirit among the cast of characters in Jared Lemus’ debut short story collection, Guatemalan Rhapsody.

Lemus, a Kenan Visiting Writer at UNC-Chapel Hill, has compiled 12 vignettes portraying men and boys living in Guatemala or the United States. The protagonists are barely making ends meet, either caught in low-paying jobs or living on society’s edges through illicit means. Many of them are struggling to break free from generational poverty, Byzantine bureaucracy and emotional vulnerabilities.

The ache of unfulfilled possibility unites these principal characters — a healer, a van taxi driver, a long-haul trucker, a night busman, an aspiring tattoo artist, a laundryman, a builder, a once-celebrated soccer player turned middling middle school coach, teenage highway robbers and kids left to fend for themselves in this country after their parents were deported or returned home to Guatemala.

There is a machismo and toughness that permeates these protagonists that rarely masks their underlying vulnerability and tenderness. There are females in their orbit, but few are as fleshed out as the central male figures. The women often provide the unvarnished truth with warmhearted mercy.

Lemus shows a flair for different writing styles throughout the collection. In the opening story, “Ofrendas,” he gives readers a taste of Guatemalan pacing and dialogue, using Spanish-style inverted opening and closing marks throughout the lyrical English. The story kicks off the collection with a nod toward indigenous Guatemala and the Mayan tradition of people bringing cigarettes, candies, flowers, alcohol and monetary offerings in search of relief or protection from San Simon, a saint known to be a trickster representing both light and dark. In this story of second chance seekers and human sacrifice, you can almost feel the fires crackling as the healers greet the petitioners at the pits they’ve built and hear the owls hooting their ominous calls in the highlands beyond the gated monastery.

In “Bus Stop Baby,” a story about a busboy/dishwasher who rides a bus all night for warmth because the damp mattress he rented was in an unheated garage attached to a house filled with cocaine addicts, Lemus gives readers a chance to choose their own adventure mapped out in two columns, Option A or Option B.

There’s traditional storytelling, too, always with vivid descriptions. In “Heart Sleeves,” a story of an aspiring tattoo artist seemingly “opting for weed and heartbreak” over fulfilled potential, you can almost hear the bee-like buzz of the tattoo guns.

In “Saint Dismas,” a story of amateur highway robbers scheming for food and motel money, your fists might clench in pain as Lemus describes the rope-burned hands of the teens posing as construction workers whose plans went awry when a car sped through the thick cord they stretched across a Guatemalan road to force passersby to stop.

While it might sound like Guatemalan Rhapsody is all doom and gloom, there is wit and light humor amid the darkness. The collection is a true rhapsody, made up of many different riffs on stories of people swimming against the tide, striving for validation, love and survival.

The most pleasurable note among the variations is how Lemus treats his protagonists with dignity and compassion, traits that could go a long way in the world today. OH

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

Life’s Funny

Life's Funny

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Cycles of Life

To everything, turn, turn, turn

Story & Photograph by Maria Johnson

She’s in the fifth grade.

She wears braces.

She loves math.

And dance.

And if you want to learn how to ride a bicycle, 11-year-old A’laa Boufenouche is your girl.

Half-hearted pedal pushers need not apply.

“You have to have a will to do it,” the brown-eyed, ponytailed A’laa says calmly. “You have to have patience.”

She is folded into a camp chair under a pop-up canopy on an early spring day when the warm sunshine evens out the cool breeze.

Almost every Sunday afternoon, from 1–4 p.m. when the weather is nice, you’ll find A’laa and her family volunteering at the Greensboro Community Bike Shop in Barber Park.

Part walk-in repair garage, part picnic, part bicycle library — all free — the shop is run by volunteers with the Transit Alliance of the Piedmont, a nonprofit group that pushes the power of cycling to boost transportation, health and personal connection.

“People relate to you on a different level when you’re on a bike,” says Treva Whitmoyer, a retired nurse and alliance volunteer.

This month, the alliance plans to open a repair-only bike shop on West Market Street, alongside the Downtown Greenway. The Barber Park site will remain open through this month, longer if the city renews the lease for the bike library where A’laa gives free instruction to beginning cyclists. She works with people of all ages, but the young ones pick up skills the fastest, she says. They’re more open to instruction, less bogged down by ideas of what they can and can’t do, and less afraid of falling.

You wanna learn to ride? You gotta be ready to fall, according to A’laa (pronounced Ah-LAH).

Most important, you gotta be willing to get up and go again.

She knows this from experience.

Back when she was 3 and her family lived in Algeria in Northern Africa, she rode bikes with her mom, dad and older brother. She had a balance bike with no pedals. As long as her feet touched the ground, she was good to go.

Then her family entered an immigration lottery, a chance to come to the United States. Her mom, Fawzia Moussouni, who taught several languages and American civilization to high school and college students, applied on the last day possible.

“I said, ‘OK, I will take this chance,’” says Fawzia.

A few months later, her husband, Mohammed Boufenouche, called her. She was in class, testing students. He told her to leave class for a minute.

“We won!” he exulted.

A friend vouched for Greensboro as a good place to raise a family, so Mohammed, Fawzia and their kids settled here in 2019.

“I wanted a quiet place,” says Fawzia, who works as a teaching assistant in a middle school. “I love it here.”

A’laa got a new bicycle here, one with training wheels. Her brother, Omar, helped her to get the hang of it. Then Omar took off the training wheels, and they went to a sidewalk near their apartment. A’laa fell. A lot.

“I got mad because I couldn’t do it,” she says.

Her mom put Band-Aids on her scraped knees and elbows.

Her brother told her it would take time and practice.

“I went right back,” A’laa remembers. “If you don’t have patience, you’re probably going to be angry all the time.”

One day, A’laa found her balance. She was riding a bike. By herself.

“I was happy and excited and proud,” she says, beaming from her camp chair. “I felt really optimistic in that moment.”

She wants other people to know that feeling, so when 9-year-old Asher Warfield walks up with his grandmother, Mary Pettway, asking if someone can teach him how to ride a bike, she hops up, gets Asher a helmet and picks out a three-wheel bike for him.

They start on a stretch of asphalt beside the Simkins Indoor Sports Pavilion. The narrow lane leads to the bike shop, a small, brick building that used to house the controls of a sewage treatment plant before Barber Park took its place.

Asher stares at his feet as he pedals.

A’laa encourages him to look up and fix his eyes on where he wants to go.

He turns around, cruises past the shop.

“Grandma, look!” he says.

Other people trickle in. Cars weighed down with bike racks pull in to donate cycles, which the Transit Alliance reconditions and gives to people who need transportation.

Visitors dig into the chicken and rice dish that Fawzia has set on a table; she always brings food and snacks.

Two young women walk by.

“You wanna ride bikes?” says Sheldon “Shel” Herman, who calls himself the “chief bicyclist” of the Transit Alliance.

“Where?” one of the women asks.

“Here,” says Shel.

“How much?”

“Free.”

The women sign release forms, grab helmets and go.

A young man, an engineering student at N.C. A&T, brings his bike by for repair. One tire has a slow leak. Shel shows him how to replace a tube.

Others watch and learn from Shel and the other volunteer bike mechanics. Ten-year-old Nuwaib Farooqui’s father, Shadab, brings him to the bike shop to learn new skills, interact with people and get away from electronic screens.

“Any excuse to take him outside, I’m game for,” says Shadab, who develops apps for mobile phones and admits to a love-hate relationship with technology.

“I want him to know what’s real and what’s not,” he says.

That’s fine with Nuwaib, who just wants to know how to fix his bicycle when it breaks down.

“It’s the closest thing I have to a car until I’m 16,” he says.

It doesn’t take long for Nuwaib and A’laa to connect. They take off on the park loop. As they pedal away, I’m watching more than bicycle wheels turn. I’m watching time turn.

I remember the moment I caught my balance and my dad, who was running beside me, turned loose of the seat of the little red bike that I learned to ride on.

I remember swooping down a hill at Country Park on a Peugeot bike at breakneck speed about 40 years ago and feeling a wave of happiness and freedom.

I remember my first date with the guy who’s now my husband, a bike ride through southeast Guilford County.

I rode, for fun, for almost 60 years.

I stopped a few years ago, after a wreck left me counting my lucky stars and reckoning with the hard truth that I don’t bounce like I used to.

Recently, my husband and I gave our mountain bikes to the Transit Alliance. That’s how I found out about the bike shop and met A’laa.

Now, as I watch her and Nuwaib pedal away, eyes fixed on where they want to go, I feel no regret.

Instead, as A’laa would say, I feel really optimistic in this moment.  OH

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

Chaos Theory

Chaos Theory

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The Stuff of  Dreams

Walking, talking and laughing in our sleep

By Cassie Bustamante

Illustration by Miranda Glyder

From a very young age, I’ve been a very heavy sleeper. My mom has gleefully recounted tales of my sleepwalking as a small child through our little raised ranch, making it back to the safety of my bed, thanks to her guidance. In college once, a friend called me just before midnight and we had a long and soulful chat. At least, according to her. The next day when she recalled our conversation, I had no idea what she was talking about. Apparently, I’d just picked up the receiver in my sleep and gabbed coherently enough to pass for awake. (I’m not sure what that says about my real-life conversational skills.)

And so, many years later when my husband, Chris, and I had kids, they were quickly trained to go to Dad with their middle-of-the-night wake-ups. Mom? Out cold, oblivious. But Dad? He’s sure to hear their pleas. Otherwise, our poor kiddos would be battling nightmares on their own.

In my deep state of sleep, I often have wild, vivid dreams, which I sometimes recount in detail to Chris in the morning. “But what do you think this one means?” I’ll ask.

His response? Typically, a shake of the head, an amused smirk, followed by ”I don’t pretend to know what goes on in that head of yours.” And, unlike me, he doesn’t give his dreams — or mine, for that matter — a second thought.

As a light sleeper, he doesn’t tend to have the intense dreams that I do. I’m no sleep scientist, so that could be a theory of my own making, but it works for me. At any rate, one morning, I found out that he, too, is actually capable of memorable dreams.

It’s 4 a.m. and I’m suddenly wide awake, a solid hour before my alarm is due to go off, something that happens often in my middle agedness. I slip off the satin eye mask I wear to prevent wrinkles from worsening and stare into the darkness, considering all of my productive options — writing, brainstorming, meditating — and instead reach for my phone. Mindlessly scrolling, I squint at its tiny screen. So much for anything that satin mask may have done for my skin.

A few moments later, a giggle, followed by a contented sigh, escapes Chris’ lips. I know this laugh well and it’s one he delivers with love — for me. But, it’s the middle of the night and my anxious, exhausted brain races with “what if” scenarios. Is he dreaming about me? And, If not, then WHO? Mind you, Chris is totally trustworthy. There is no rational reason for me to doubt him. But who ever said I was rational, especially at 4 a.m.? As far as I’m concerned, he’s guilty until proven innocent.

After sulking for a while, I lace up and put my anxious energy to use outside on the pavement with my dog. The dark stillness of the morning always helps to quiet my thoughts.

Back inside and a little less on the verge of lashing out at Chris for what his dream self may have done, I pour myself a mug of steaming black coffee while contemplating my next move. I keep my back to him as he works on his laptop at our dining table, blissfully unaware that I’m stewing over something he probably didn’t even do in his waking life.

“You know, I woke up at 4 a.m. and could not fall back asleep,” I say as calmly as I can. “Meanwhile, you were over there giggling like a schoolgirl in your sleep.”

I turn to face him, a challenge in my eyes.

He looks up from his computer and smiles at me. “Ah, yes. I was dreaming we were on a dinner date at Machete.”

My tight-lipped expression breaks into a giddy grin and I let out a laugh as every trace of doubt vanishes into thin air. It’s me! I am the girl of his dreams!

“We were having a good time,” he says.

“And I must have said something hilarious,” I retort.

He rolls his eyes because I’m well known around our house full of young adults — and a second-grader— for entertaining myself and no one else.

After a beat, he lets out that laugh, quietly, almost to himself — a soft echo of the one I heard just hours ago.  OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

Alamanc June 2026

Alamanc June 2026​

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Alamanc June 2026

June is a blueberry banquet, a living shrine, a procession of sun-loving pilgrims.

Here they come, with their sun hats and baskets. Wonderstruck and reverent; wide-eyed and ravenous.

There’s no wrong way to worship.

Aging fingers work methodically, rolling over ripe berries as if they were prayer beads on an endless mala. Mothers guide tiny hands from fruits of red to deepest blue. Kitchen mystics pluck to the mantra of blueberry ice cream, blueberry cobbler, blueberries all summer through.

Life buzzes in all directions.

Cat stalks field crickets. Puppy chases swallowtails. Children sneak plump berries from brimming buckets by the handful.

The seekers come and go, each with their simple offerings: bliss, open palms, purple-stained prayers.

At blueberry church, Mmmmmmm is a sacred hymn. A pop of sweetness spells amen.

As balmy morning melts into sun-drenched afternoon, the hum of bees could bring one to their dirt-smudged knees.

Thank you, a berry pilgrim sings, praising the miracle of all creation.

Between the spike of mosquitos and the early fireflies, the birds blurt Glory! Glory!, same as they did at sunrise.

And so it goes, summer day after summer day. Baskets runneth over. Bellies fill with sweetness. All who seek shall find magic at the blueberry jubilee.

And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days.   — James Russell Lowell 

All Warmed Up

It’s not too late to sow some garden magic. Cucumbers, squash, pumpkins and melons. Beets, carrots, chard and scallions. Beans, basil, marigolds and sunflowers. The soil is warm and ready. Plant the seeds. Woo the pollinators. Behold miracles.  OH

Midsummer Nights

Watercolor Strawberry MoonWhat could be dreamier than a day in June? A midsummer night.

The field crickets crackle like warm vinyl. Moonflower and night-blooming jasmine perfume the balmy air. Drink it in. And don’t forget to look up.

According to NASA, the Venus and Jupiter conjunction on June 8 and 9 is one of the most notable astronomical events of the year. Look low in the western sky a half-hour after sunset to see these two luminous planets seemingly close enough to touch, no telescope required.

The strawberry moon — first full moon of summer — will rise on June 29, one week after the solstice (June 21). The Old Farmer’s Almanac notes that Native American Algonquian tribes, and the Ojibwe, Dakota and Lakota peoples, marked this month’s moon by the “ripening of June-bearing strawberries” across the fertile land. Other names for this month’s moon include the berries ripen moon (Haida), the hatching moon (Cree), the honey moon and the mead moon. One could also call it dreamy.

O.Henry Ending

O.Henry Ending

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Uncle Dan’s Quarter

A man who changed the way I saw the world

By Cynthia Adams

Illustration by Harry Blair

My dad bought a 75-acre farm near Reed Gold Mine in Cabarrus County, site of the first documented commercial gold found in 1799, way before the California 49ers struck gold out West. The story goes that Conrad Reed, son of a farmer, discovered a glittery, 17-pound rock in Little Meadow Creek that proved a useful doorstop. Three years later a jeweler in Fayetteville recognized the Reed doorstop was actually a hunk of solid gold. 

Conrad’s father, John, eventually developed a bona fide mining operation, encouraged by the discovery of a 28-pound nugget a few years after the doorstop find. Other mines in neighboring counties opened and flourished, including one with a thriving town dubbed Gold Hill.

Gold Hill eventually produced sufficient gold to result in the establishment of the Charlotte Mint. Charlotte city fathers fretted, wishing the Queen City would thrive like Gold Hill seemed to be doing. It is more than a little ironic that Charlotte’s present-day fortunes were built upon cold, hard cash.

Mining in the state continued until the Civil War claimed able-bodied men, and underground mining ceased altogether at Reed Mine in 1912. Most North Carolina mines were shuttered, even after Cornish miners immigrated there seeking their fortunes once tin mining was exhausted in Cornwall.

Another doorstop never surfaced. But the hope never died. There were rumors, always, of small nuggets found in the Rocky River, which threaded through Cabarrus County past our family farm. 

Frequently, my dad would muse that our horses and livestock were probably making their deposits on top of veins of gold.

As kids, we would climb down the weedy banks into the swift river current, risking snapping turtles and water moccasins to pretend we were panning for gold.

We even knew a prospector, Uncle Dan, who lived in a dirt-floored shack on a dirt road, which lacked electricity or running water well into the 1960s. He was a hermit, a raggedy-looking man, and a source of fascination to all the children in our small community.

Uncle Dan spent most of his days panning in the river, hoping to find a nugget. Unbeknownst to our parents, we would knock at his rickety door and visit. I was too young to attend school, and, in that time, we were allowed to play and roam freely with the understanding we were to be home for meals and bath time. If he was home, we would delightedly crowd into his dark shack, with the only light shining through the boards and the open door as the primary illumination.

Uncle Dan, painfully shy and pitifully poor, was gentle and always kind to us. He was our friend. Sometimes he would show us minute bits of gold and we would gawk.

We children wished him luck and hoped he would have a windfall.

Once, as I played outside busily outlining a playhouse in the dirt with sticks, Uncle Dan passed by the chain link fence separating our farm from the neighbors. “Morning,” I called to him. He stopped. 

“Morning, Miss Cindy,” he answered.

This exchange felt very grown-up, having an adult friend. I grinned a toothy grin — the Tooth Fairy had recently visited — showing the gap in my teeth.

His sun-battered face, wrinkled and dry, spread into a smile. Uncle Dan reached into his pocket and offered something. I stepped closer. He pushed a quarter to me through the fence.

I thanked him and pocketed the prize. Now I had two quarters — one from the Tooth Fairy and one from Uncle Dan!

Were there any coins left for him to feed himself? Even we kids noticed the cans in his shack of pork-and-beans and Vienna sausages.

Quarters still remind me of this moment. A man who had nothing to give freely offered something that was most likely needed and precious to him. 

And that act opened something in me that has never closed. OH

Sazerac May 2026

SAZERAC

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JOI DE VIVRE

What would Mama do?: The other day, I stood next to my mom and realized we’re the same height. Five feet and four inches. Mama, who once towered over little Joi, now struggles to meet me eye to eye while scolding me about getting my car tags renewed. We’re a lot alike these days — but not when it comes to boring obligations such as car maintenance. If you asked her about me, she’d say, “she’s my mini me,” even though we’re the same height, weight, width and shoe size — there’s not much “mini” left in me. Growing up, I would follow her everywhere, like a duckling to a duck. To the bathroom so she could braid my hair, the kitchen for some seasoned pretzels and even to the front porch to water her half-dead flowers — my grandma’s green thumb skipped a generation. Nowadays, since we don’t live under the same roof, instead of following her around the house, I try to follow her thought process. “What would Mama do?” enters my head any time I’m stuck in a sticky situation. No, Mama wouldn’t scream in a fit of rage because Nelly, my greedy cat, scarfed down my hamburger when I wasn’t looking — yet again. She would simply make another one — I may have inherited my mother’s looks but I did not gain her patience. One day when I’m older, I hope to be half as wise as her so that I don’t have to search my brain and wonder “what would Mama do?” I can simply just do it.

Window on the Past

An extravagant pageant, lively games and a crown fit for a queen. In 1912, being May Day queen at State Normal and Industrial College (now UNCG) was the highest honor and typically bestowed upon a senior elected by her peers. Only the noblest, bravest warriors were tasked with protecting her court train from the dangers of the freshly cut grass blades.

Unsolicited Advice

When it comes to wordplay, we love figures of speech as much as the next person. “Shoot for the stars” and “go the extra mile” are a couple we keep in our arsenal anytime we need to spice up a conversation. They can be motivational and used to cheer one up when down in the dumps. While some bring good intentions, others can be misunderstood because of their fragmentation. No one likes a half-baked quote shoved down their throat — but we will gladly scarf down a gooey, half-baked cookie. Whether it’s to inspire or just for some good, playful writing, we’d bet our bottom dollar you don’t know the whole shebang. So, if you know someone in a blue funk and they’re in need of some encouraging words, here are some apt idioms you can roll out to bring their spirits up.

Some say “the early bird catches the worm,” which implies that the sooner you chase the opportunity, the better advantage you will have over others. While agreeable, it could be argued that waiting could also be a better bet. The full phrase “the early bird catches the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese,” implies that an opportunity could be disguised as bait. Granted, worms and cheese may not be your snack of choice, it’s still a good reminder that the first opportunities could come with higher risks and sometimes second place can put you ahead of the game. So before you chase, stop and assess whether you’re about to be rewarded or about to bite the bait.

If starting a new hobby consists of finding something you’re interested in, getting really engaged in it and then letting it go then don’t worry about being called a quitter. It takes a lot of courage to start something new, but it takes a lot more courage to quit when something isn’t working out for you. Our bag of idioms tells us that a Jack of all trades is a master of none, though oftentimes better than a master of one. Being a master of none isn’t always bad. It means you possess knowledge across multiple fields. For example, a hotdog expert couldn’t tell you squat about how to make a good burger but, with the extra knowledge you have, you’ll be able to whip up — or better yet, flip up — something juicy and savory.

As a child you were probably taught to suppress your curiosity and to keep your questions at bay. But, in a world of “follow the leader,” we could use more curious thinkers. Innovators and their inventions all started with a thirst for knowledge. Sure, people say “Curiosity killed the cat,” but the full, often overlooked version of the idiom is “Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.” Follow your nose, ask questions and impress your inner child with your inquisitiveness — but use caution, you don’t have eight more lives to spare.   

Our 2026 Essay Contest

Sun’s out, pen’s out. It’s time for our annual writing contest and this time we want you to think back on all those “How I spent my summer vacation” assignments of your elementary school youth. Whether it’s about a vacay or a staycay, we want an essay. Tell us about a true tale as remembered by you about a trip to the beach or about the time you took a week off to meditate for hours a day wearing nothing but your socks and a bedsheet. As always, there are ground rules:

Submit no more than 600 words in conventional form — a PDF, Google document, or a word or pages file works well. Please no secret code that requires a decoder ring. We’ve misplaced said ring. Email entries to cassie@ohenrymag.com.

One entry per writer.

Deadline to enter is September 30, 2026.

Top three winners will be contacted via email, awarded a monetary prize and their essay printed in a forthcoming issue of O.Henry.

Art to Heart

For some, disorder and mayhem may stifle their artistic abilities, but, for art historian and artist Will South, chaos serves as a muse for his paintings. “So, it all started with the pandemic,” says South. “Then, next thing you know, the pieces became directly inspired by a lot of the troubles in the world.” After his 2020 retirement from serving as chief curator for the Dayton Art Institute in Ohio, he moved to Greensboro. South saw the pandemonium that resulted from the COVID-19 pandemic and, like many creatives at the time, decided to dust his palette off and paint, which led him to fill canvas after canvas, until he created the collection for his present exhibit, Catastrophic Times: Paintings by Will South. South uses his art to speak for the people who can’t speak for themselves and says that making images is his way of engaging with the world. “Now, we have these other conflicts going around, so I started painting things that were directly related to them.” What started out as a reaction to a tumultuous time evolved into a response to the larger issues that arose after — like, he says, the murder of innocent African Americans through police brutality. Though South most recently uses his art to reflect on current events, he has also been known to dig into the past. He is the author of many books, including Henry Ossawa Tanner: Artist in the Lion’s Den, which explains and seeks to correct the myths surrounding 19th-century artist Henry Ossawa Tanner, who was the first African American artist to reach international acclaim. He hopes that by sharing his own art with the world, it will gently move the needle toward global equality and encourage kindness toward those going through troubled times. “When you see something in life, you cannot unsee it,” South says.

You can find Catastrophic Times: Paintings by Will South in Gallery 1250 at Revolution Mill, on display through June 26, and hear directly from South a 2 p.m., Saturday, May 16. Info: revolutionmillgreensboro.com.

Tiny Tale

TINY TALE

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Memorial Day

A flag for the forgotten

By James Celano

Teddy got tired of throwing stones at a tree and called out: “Ya wanna go get some flags?” Without answering, I started through the woods towards the cemetery. It was the Saturday after Memorial Day. Janet said it was going to rain cats and dogs on Sunday. Sisters always say things like that. Teddy and I would have just said it was going to rain a lot. However you said it, the flags were going to get all wet and would probably get thrown out. So why not let us kids have some? After all, people take down Halloween and Christmas decorations, so what’s the difference? That’s the way we saw it, but the caretaker didn’t. The year before, he had ambushed us in his pickup. “What are you boys doing with those flags?”

“We thought it’d be OK to take them now,” I said.

“Yeah, well, it’s not. Put them in the truck.”

Teddy held up a blue flag with a cool insignia, a real prize. “Can I keep this one?”

“Put it in the truck!”

Our Lady of Mercy was a big woman, a little over 60 acres. Freight trains ran just beyond her left side. Grandmom said the trains carried the souls of the dead away. Sometimes in bed at night, I could hear the trains rumbling over the tracks and wondered where all those souls were going. Maybe one way was to heaven and the other way was to hell.

The gate at the south end was locked, but a section of chain-link fence torn away from a post was just wide enough for our skinny bodies to squeeze through. Red, white and blue waved all over the land of free flags. Teddy and I began running all over the place, snatching up stars-and-stripes and being careful not to step on any graves. No kid needs that kind of bad luck. Neither of us found one of those blue flags with the cool insignia, and, boy, did we ever look. Teddy still simmered a little over the one he lost.

The south end was also where the little kids were buried. Tall trees, growing just outside the fence, shaded small plots on either side of the gate. It was the creepiest part of the cemetery, so we never left without giving it a good going-over. Since the only legitimate way into the cemetery was the north gate, the kids lay at the far end of anyone else’s sympathy. But in our own way, in the way we marveled at their brief life and sudden death, we, at least, mourned them.

One shiny granite slab jumped out.

Gabriela “Gabby” Minelski

Born: February 2, 1960

Died: April 25, 1962 

“Hey Teddy, check this out. This little girl just died.”

Except for the new kid’s, the stones looked neglected and sad. It didn’t look like anyone ever visited. No flowers, no flags. But a kid wouldn’t want flowers. Better to leave a toy. But there weren’t any toys either. Someone would probably swipe them. Probably one of us.

Out of nowhere, a picture of Gabby down there in the dark popped into my head, her hair mussed and knotted, and her eyes full of ants. I have a good imagination . . . too good, and sometimes the pictures in my head give me the jeebies.

“Our Angel” was all one stone said, and this:

Born: November 9, 1952

Died: November 12, 1952

“Jeez,” I said, “this kid only lived three days.”

A layer of fuzzy moss that Teddy said looked like green hair covered the top of “Our Angel’s” gravestone, and smack-dab in the middle was a black acorn. That one threw us for a loop. It couldn’t have fallen from a tree without bouncing off and onto the ground. Maybe a squirrel stashed it there for later and forgot about it. He might have spent half the winter wondering, “Now, where did I leave that acorn?”

I told you I have a good imagination. “Someday that imagination of yours is gonna get you in trouble,” my mother told me, but so far, so good.

Another grave had two names, a boy and a girl, born one day, dead two weeks later. Teddy wondered if they were in the same coffin, or if one was on top of the other. “It would be better if they were in the same coffin,” I said. “Their mom and dad could save some money that way.”

“It’d be better if they were in the same coffin, anyway,” Teddy said. “Then they could play together in heaven.”

It was OK for Teddy to say that, being only 7 years old and all. Of course, if they weren’t baptized, the dead kids couldn’t get into heaven. Limbo was the best they could do. I didn’t like to think about that. It didn’t seem fair. It wasn’t their fault, after all. But, even though limbo wasn’t as good as heaven, it was a heck of a sight better than purgatory or hell.

One small grave lay at the far end, separate from the rest. Henry Liddle — 4 years old. Maybe Henry was one of those quiet kids who preferred his own company. A crouching angel with sad eyes and a chipped nose prayed over Henry. The stone was a little cockeyed, as if the angel’s grief had become too big a burden and knocked the whole thing out of kilter. The granite on Henry’s marker was stained with green moss, too.

“Well, I got my flags,” I said, turning my back on little Henry. “I’m getting outta here.” It was when I reached the hole in the fence that I saw Teddy crouching behind the angel with the chipped nose. “C’mon,” I yelled back, “I don’t want that guy to catch us again.”

On the way home, I asked Teddy how many flags he had.

“Five.”

“I thought you got six, like me?”

“Nah,” he said, “I only took five.”

O.Henry Ending

O.HENRY ENDING

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Spice Relief

Handling jalapeño pain

By Walt Pilcher

I may not be a cultural cuisine aficionado, but I have a nose for Mexican food.

Smoky scents from carne asada or grilled chicken in citrus and spices. The earthy heat of roasted jalapeños or chipotles. Mildly nutty corn or wheat tortillas. The savory sizzle of refried beans. Rice sautéed with onions and garlic. Zesty cilantro and lime. Stale cerveza (beer). Uniquely familiar aromas. I’ll know I’ve stepped into a taqueria even if there’s no telltale mariachi music. And with good reason.

Return with me now to the summer of 1965, where I am about to experience both a startling cultural trauma and a culinary revelation of world-class magnitude. My new wife, Carol, and I are driving cross-country to California for grad school and work. Late one evening, we stop for dinner in lonesome Wagon Mound, New Mexico, population 695. Not much is there except the iconic butte the town is named for and what appears to be the only restaurant, a Mexican establishment, the name of which, as far as we can tell, is the single word on a neon sign: “EAT.” We are starving.  

We place our orders. Carol wisely chooses a cheeseburger, but I must show off my machismo and try something adventurous, a spicy Mexican dish with a baffling name now lost to memory. The food comes and it smells good. As Carol savors the first bite of her burger and I am just about to dig into my mystery meal, I notice the kitchen staff surreptitiously peering out as if to see how the gringo (me) will react to what they have prepared. Undaunted, I fork a mouthful.  

¡Madre mía! First my lips burn. Then my tongue does a Mexican “hot” dance. My nose runs. Soon my throat is a tunnel of fire. Gulping my icy Coke does nothing to relieve the pain. I dare not look at the kitchen staff lest they reap satisfaction from their little joke. Quickly, in an almost involuntary reaction as when one claps a protective hand on a fresh wound, I grab the tortilla that accompanies my meal and slap it on the flames. Amazingly, the pain stops! ¡Qué sorpresa! The gringo has prevailed!

I do not leave a generous tip.

But maybe I should have. It turns out tortillas and other wheat-based foods contain starch and sometimes a bit of fat, both of which can help absorb capsaicin, the compound that causes the burning sensation. A possible contributing factor is that wheat contains traces of humulene and myrcene, terpene compounds that fool the brain into not feeling the topical discomfort. Flour tortillas, bread, dinner rolls, pita and all sorts of grainy foods seem to extinguish the fire. Foods made from hops, like beer and sauces, are richer in the terpenes and potentially have even more of this soothing effect. Science aside, I only know when I touched the tortilla to my lips, the pain went away. Knowing wheat-based foods are an antidote for spice pain has proven quite useful to me and to friends with whom I’ve shared this knowledge during travels worldwide and in the wide range of ethnic eateries here at home.  

Whenever I inhale the distinctive aromas of Mexican cuisine, my thoughts return to Wagon Mound and the prank-turned-epiphany that changed my life. How pleasurable eating spicy food has become since that transformative experience. And now I know why beer washes down Mexican so well.

I have not gone back to Wagon Mound other than in my mind. I wonder if the EAT restaurant is still there. Has it become a chain? I have seen other EAT signs in my travels, so maybe.

If it has, I hope the staff is still pranking the gringos. 

Life’s Funny

LIFE'S FUNNY

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My Two Cents

The changing nature of cool

By Maria Johnson

I really wanted those penny loafers.

They were displayed near the oxfords in the children’s shoe store where my mom took us for “good shoes” when I was growing up.

The place smelled like new leather and Sunday school. Stiff and uncomfortable, in both cases.

Which brings us back to the loafers.

I had flat feet, and someone — maybe my mom, maybe a doctor — decided that I needed to wear “orthopedic shoes,” which meant lace-up oxfords with built-in arch support.

They might as well have said, “Shoes that are ugly as all get-out, not to mention uncool,” because they were both.

I was around kindergarten age, old enough to have a budding idea of what was considered desirable outside of my family. Orthopedic shoes from Howard Curry Shoes in Lexington, Kentucky, were not on the list.

The only good thing about that store, in my mind, was The Talking Tree.

You don’t know about The Talking Tree?

Well, on the right wall as you walked in, there was a sculpted tree with a human face, like the trees in The Wizard of Oz, only this one was smiling.

Near The Talking Tree, there was a small wooden bridge that you walked over. It was all very storybook-y. The most enchanting thing was that when you walked out with your new shoes, The Talking Tree would call you by name, saying something like, “Enjoy your pretty new shoes, Maria.”

Even in my 5-year-old mind, as I carried out my dorky shoes, I’d be thinking, “Yeah, right.”

Which means I believed in The Talking Tree somewhat, even though I thought it was full of sap.

It took me a few years to figure out that The Talking Tree never called my name on the way in, only on the way out, after my mom had dropped a wad on my supposedly pretty shoes.

I remember the first time The Talking Tree bade me farewell, and I turned and waved at the sales lady who was talking into a microphone at the counter behind me.

Busted.

Never again did I think seriously about owning a pair of real-deal penny loafers until recently, when I read a glowing review of some “affordable Italian penny loafers,” which is a little like saying an “affordable Italian sports car”.

Something in me was rekindled.

I had to have penny loafers. Not the pricey Italian model, mind you. Rather, a supple (sorry, Bass Weejuns) and reasonably priced version. With actual pennies stuck in the slots because, to go all Honest Abe on you, I’m mourning the penny.

Unless you’ve been living under a Coinstar machine, you probably know that the U.S. penny went out of production last November. I get why. It cost 4 cents to make a 1-cent piece of currency.

But like many people, I have pockets full of memories associated with pennies, which were made with 95 percent copper when I was a kid.

That’s why they weathered to a green patina.

That’s why some people used them to “fix” a glitchy lightbulb or replace a blown fuse. Don’t ask these people for snapshots to document the practices; their photographs likely burned in house fires.

In my own childhood home, one electrical outlet was fried by a child — there were only two of us, and neither will cop to this — who wondered what would happen if you stuck a penny, vertically, into an outlet, as if you were playing the slots in Vegas.

Answer: ZZZZZTTT!!!

I can only surmise that whoever tried this dangerous (in retrospect) stunt was gripping the penny with a pair of rubber-handled pliers, or only one of us would be left with any credible deniability.

A more common practice of the time was putting pennies on railroad tracks, waiting for a train to go by, then marveling that a locomotive weighing more than 100 tons, could flatten a penny into a faceless disc.

This, too, was treacherous, not only because it brought kids into close proximity with diesel locomotives, but because apparently — and I learned this only recently — a train’s fast-moving wheels can spit out a penny as a deadly projectile.

On a lighter, less lethal note, pennies had wholesome uses, too.

We could toss a penny into a public fountain and make a wish.

We could pick up a found penny — something I still do without thinking — for good luck, especially if it were heads-up.

We could slip a couple of new pennies into our loafers. Looking at you, Talking Tree.

We could feed a penny into a bubble-headed candy machine, twist the crank and get a handful of awful chewing gum or those godforsaken Boston Baked Beans.

Sensible people collected pennies. My maternal grandmother was a well-known penny pincher who turned loose only for a good cause. She tied a couple of pennies into the corners of handkerchiefs for my mom and my aunt to take to Sunday school as their offering during the Great Depression.

Later, when I was a kid, my grandmother coached us to be on the lookout for what she called “wheat pennies,” which had two wheat stalks, pictured like parentheses, on the backside.

The proper name was Lincoln wheat pennies. They were made from 1901 to 1958, and my grandmother seemed to think they were valuable post-production.

She was somewhat correct.

Today, a 1933-D (“D” for the Denver mint) wheat penny is worth more than $2.

A 1931-S (“S” for the San Francisco mint) is worth more than $40.

Put that in your loafers and stroll it.

Pennies also became an emblem: a symbol for the least among us that nevertheless held worth, especially when amassed.

This principle was foundational to the most basic form of childhood fundraising: Dump a coffee can full of coins on the floor and get to sorting.

It took forever to assemble a decent chunk of change in paper wrappers. But it added up. That was the beauty of the penny. It was little, but it mattered. A lot of them mattered a lot.

On May 7, Sanctuary House, a Greensboro nonprofit serving people who experience mental health issues, will hold a weekday lunchtime event called Mile of Pennies.

Why pennies? Because Abe Lincoln, who is pictured on every cent, suffered from depression. He certainly wasn’t the last president to struggle with mental health problems, but he was open about it, referring to his melancholy as his “black dog.”

Plastic cup by plastic cup, event organizers will hand out a mile’s worth of pennies — 84,480 to be exact — and invite people to use the coins to create designs and messages on the steps, pavers, sidewalks and stone walls around the group’s “clubhouse” at 518 N. Elm St.

The goal — other than providing a place for people to be artistic, eat a food-truck lunch, and enjoy live music — is to get folks talking about mental health; about 1 in 5 people will experience a diagnosable mental health challenge in any given year, according to Terri Jackson, Sanctuary House’s chief philanthropy officer.

She stresses that every person, every conversation and every donation matters.

There’s that idea again: The power of one.

It’s a reassuring message, a different kind of cool, some 60 years after my first crush on penny loafers. Incidentally, my feet aren’t as flat as they used to be, thanks partly to decades of exercise in supportive, lace-up tennis shoes. That’s why I’m willing to spend some shoe leather tracking down the right pair of loafers, size 8 or 8.5, if you happen to trip over a pair.

I can hear the tinny voice of The Talking Tree now.

“Enjoy your pretty shoes, Maria.”

I will.

I think I’ve finally grown into them.

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

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A Fascinating Little Bird

The trickery of the killdeer

By Susan Campbell

The killdeer is a small, brown-and-white shorebird that breeds in the Sandhills and Piedmont of North Carolina. The species can be found here year-round in the right habitat — and it need not be all that wet. Widespread in North America, most of the killdeer population lives away from the water’s edge. In fact, for egg laying, the drier the spot, the better. In truth, our sandy soil is not unlike the beaches where one would expect to find a shorebird.

This robin-sized bird gets its name from its call: a loud “kill-deer, kill-deer,” which can be heard day or night. During migration, individuals frequently vocalize on the wing, high in the air. In early spring adults will circle above their territory calling incessantly.

On the ground, killdeer are a challenge to spot. They blend in well with the dark ground, hidden against the mottled surface of a tilled field or a gravel covering. Killdeer employ a “run-and-stop” foraging strategy searching for insect prey on the ground. As they run, they may stir up insects, which will be gobbled up as the birds come to a quick halt. Although they live in close proximity to humans, killdeer are quite shy and more likely to run than fly if approached. When alarmed, they frequently use a quick head bob or two, likely a strategy to make the birds appear larger than they are.

During the winter months, flocks of killdeer concentrate in open, insect-rich habitat such as ball fields, golf courses or harvested croplands. Come spring, pairs will search out drier substrates, preferring sandy or rocky areas for nesting. They may even use flat, gravel rooftops. The female merely scrapes a slight depression where she lays four to six speckled eggs that blend in with the surroundings. She will sit perfectly still on her nest and incubate the eggs for three to four weeks. If disturbed by a potential predator, the female killdeer will employ distraction displays to draw the intruder away from the eggs, going so far as to feign a broken wing. The mother bird will call loudly and with her tail spread — to be as noticeable as possible — limp along dragging a wing on the ground. This “broken wing act” can be very convincing, giving the predator the idea that following the female will result in an easy meal. Once away from the nest, the killdeer will fly off, not returning to the eggs until she is convinced the coast is clear. Should distractions by the adults not be effective, the pair will find a new nesting location and begin again. A very determined nester, killdeer are capable of producing up to three broods in a summer.

When the eggs hatch, it will be a synchronous affair. As soon as they have dried off, the downy, long-legged young will immediately follow their mother away from the nest to a safer, more protected area nearby. They will follow her, being fed and brooded along the way, for several weeks. Once they are fully feathered, the young will have learned not only how to escape danger but how and where to find food.

So, if you hear a “kill-deer” over the next couple of months, stop and look closely. You may be rewarded with a peek into the summer life of this fascinating little bird.