Christmas With Dylan

CHRISTMAS WITH DYLAN

Home
Feature

Christmas With Dylan

By Bland Simpson • Photograph by Elliott Landy

“A little more to the left.”

“No. It’s fuller around to the right.”

“Just try it my way and you’ll see.”

“Now the stand’s leaking.”

“Somebody’s liable to get electrocuted.”

“I swear you’ve got the best side to the wall.”

“I thought we’d be through by now.”

“You’re right — it was better back to the left.”

“Oh, God. I’ve already gone and tied it to the wall sconce.”

It was a few days before Christmas, 1968, and my family had gathered. The living room was filled with the intense, clean, resinous smell of the tree. Once we had it hoisted into place, we set about the bristly business of decorating. I was 20, and my mind was full of music. Withdrawing to the sofa, I thought: Bob Dylan wouldn’t be caught dead doing this.

“The angel’s crooked.”

“Let’s not have the angel this year.”

“Not have the angel?!”

I decided to make a pilgrimage to Woodstock, N.Y., to see Dylan. It didn’t slow me down a bit that I had little to tell the man except that I was inspired by his songwriting. To shake Dylan’s hand, that would be Christmas enough.

The next afternoon, with no more than 50 dollars, I set out. I was catching a ride north with two friends from UNC, paying my share of all the 26, cents per gallon gas we’d burn, and coming back south by thumb. Fifty dollars would be plenty.

This was really my second pilgrimage to Dylan and Woodstock. The first I had undertaken several weeks before, during Thanksgiving, and had abandoned outside of East Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. I got cold and lost my nerve on a little-traveled high-ridge country road there, and I turned back. On the way home I caught a ride with a Black schoolteacher, who carried me all the way down 81 through the Shenandoah Valley night. We drank a beer together the last hour before he let me out, and agreed that things might be getting better between the races, or at least we hoped they were.

Then a trucker hauled me from Hillsville down the Blue Ridge Mountains. When we stopped at a Mount Airy diner and I didn’t order anything, he thought I was broke and made me let him buy me a cup of coffee and a chance on a punchboard. Back in the semi, he gave me some liquor, which I drank from a 6-ounce hillbilly souvenir jug he’d stashed under the seat. He let me off at 52 and 40 in Winston-Salem about 4 in the morning.

Immediately a hunter with an enormous buck strapped to the top of his Impala picked me up. A couple minutes later, he said: “Look, I hope this don’t bother you none but I got to hear some music.” He popped an eight-track of Johnny Horton’s Greatest Hits into the tape player, and the car was full of the songs I’d learned to sing by: “Battle of New Orleans” and “Sink The Bismarck!” and “North to Alaska.” The teacher and the trucker and the Horton-loving hunter made me think better of the pilgrimage business. I forgot the Stroudsburg cold and knew I’d try again.

It was several weeks later, the evening of December 10th, when we piled into my friend’s ’65 Rambler and went roaring up the three-laned U.S. 1, which is these days a ghost road just south of the Petersburg Turnpike. On and on, all night, the first of many deep and dreamless long-haul trips up and down the Eastern Seaboard. I was astounded at the size and magnificence of the great bridge at Wilmington, aghast at the dazzling lunar landscape, gas flares and chemical air of north Jersey. One of my more worldly companions gazed upon the scene and remarked with a combination of pride and disgust: “America flexing her muscles!”

From the George Washington Bridge, we looked out over the vast glare of Manhattan. In less than a year it would be my home, but that night it made me feel thoroughly out of place, for a few moments sorry I had even come. Soon it was past, and we were in the dark Connecticut country, and it was snowing lightly. I recovered my spirits; after all, I was on a mission.

They were driving me towards Storrs, Conn., to see the Hickey family, late of Chapel Hill, and coincidentally to perform a flanking maneuver to approach Woodstock from the north and east. The plan had been to leave me in New Haven where the big roads fork, but at the last minute my compatriots, who were bound for Boston, found it in themselves to veer off to the north and take me right into Storrs.

They left me at a gas station at first light, a gray dawning, 6 or 8 inches of snow on the ground and more still coming down. I showed up oafish and unannounced at the Hickeys’ home between 8 and 9 in the morning, four days before Christmas. They masked whatever annoyance they might have felt and greeted me affectionately.

All four daughters in the Hickey family were home for Christmas except the one who drew me there. She wasn’t expected for another 24 hours or so. No matter. The other three were going ice-skating that day, and so, now, was I. Most folks don’t forget their first time on ice-skates, and with good reason.

Sue did finally come home, and we had a lovely New England time that next day. It was brisk, and the sun was bright on the unmelting snow. She got over the surprise of my presence, commiserated with me about the Tower-of-Babel Christmas tree back home, and wondered what I would say to Bob Dylan, himself, when we met. After breakfast the next morning, she drove me out to the highway, and I was soon up at the Massachusetts Turnpike in the company of a Goddard student driving a Volkswagen with skis strapped to the back.

He was on intersession, he told me. He was going somewhere to ski for six or eight weeks, for which he would get academic credit. We drove west towards New York and the Hudson, and, before he left me off at the Saugerties exit, I had seen groves of chalk-white paper birches for the first time.

A couple of artists, a man and a woman, in a dingy old Pontiac, drove me from Saugerties to Woodstock. They said they were friends of Bob’s, and suddenly everything felt very chummy. The artists called themselves Group Two-One-Two, after the route number of the Saugerties-Woodstock road. A few years later, when I was living on the Upper West Side in New York, I would see a notice in the Village Voice about a show they were having down in SoHo and meant to ramble down and take a look. But the notice would stay taped up on the refrigerator until well past the closing of their show, and I would never make the trip.

Group Two-One-Two’s explanation of where exactly Bob Dylan lived was so convoluted that I stepped into a shop in downtown Woodstock, a bakery, and asked them. In moments I was tromping on out of town through a wood and up a hill towards something called “The Old Opera House.” Dylan’s driveway, the bakers said, was right across from it.

It was about 18 or 20 degrees in the middle of the afternoon, and I wasn’t used to such cold. I didn’t feel dressed for it, but I certainly looked like I was. I had on a Marine greatcoat from a surplus store south of Wake Forest, a slouch hat from a surplus store on Granby Street in Norfolk that I’d bought on my way to see Cool Hand Luke with my Virginia cousins, and a pair of snakeproof boots from Rawlins, Wyo., that I’d bought on my way to be a cowboy in eastern Montana. (You, or your beneficiary, said the card in the boot box, got a thousand dollars if you died of snakebite while wearing the boots, providing the snake bit you through the boots.) All this was practical and, back home in North Carolina, warm winter wear, though my mother lamented that I looked like something from the Ninemiles — a remote swamp in Onslow County down east. It hardly mattered here. In Woodstock, everyone looked like something from the Ninemiles.

Without my even thumbing for it, someone offered me a ride, and there I was at The Old Opera House. There turned out to be six or eight driveways next to and across from the place, no names on mailboxes, certainly no sign that said: “This way to Bob Dylan’s house.” I waited. About 20 minutes went by before a thin man in his 30s came striding up the paved road. He would have walked right past me, but I spoke up: “Excuse me, do you know which one of these driveways goes to Bob Dylan’s house?”

“This one.” He pointed at the one he was starting down.

“Thanks.” I fell in beside him, and we walked fifty yards or so before either of us spoke again.

“Is Bob, uh, expecting you?”

“No.”

“Hunh. I don’t know if it’ll be cool for you to just . . . go up to his house.”

This was discouraging, but what could I do? Go back to the bakery and telephone for an appointment? “I’ve come from North Carolina,” I announced.

“Oh.” He gave up, and we kept walking. A few hundred yards into the woods, the road forked, and he pointed towards a long low building of dark logs that looked like a lodge. “That’s Bob’s house.” Then he disappeared down the other fork.

In the driveway at Bob’s house were a ’66 powder blue Mustang and a boxy 1940 something-or-other with the hood up. Two men, one of them small and weedy, the other bulky and bearded, were working on the engine. I stomped up in my snakeproof boots, but neither of them looked up. After a minute or two of staring over their shoulders at the old engine, I finally said, quite familiarly, “Bob around?” The weedy man didn’t respond, but the big fellow gave a head-point at the log lodge and said, “Yeah.”

Sara Dylan answered the door, gave me a blank look, and closed the door. About two minutes later Bob Dylan himself appeared and stepped out onto the small porched entry. He wore blue jeans, a white shirt buttoned all the way up and a black leather vest, and he was very friendly and relaxed.

“Bland. What kind of name is that?”

A family name, I said. Then just to make sure he’d hear me right, he asked me to spell it.

“Bland. Well, I sure won’t forget that.” He talked in person just like he sounded on record in “The Ballad of Frankie Lee And Judas Priest.”

“North Carolina, that’s a long way.”

I agreed, but I wanted to meet him, shake his hand, tell him I admired his work, that I wanted to write songs myself.

“What did you want to do before you got this idea about writing songs?”

“I was going to go to law school.”

“Well,” he said, more serious than not, “country’s gonna need a lot of good lawyers. Maybe you ought to keep thinking ’bout that.”

This wasn’t what I had traveled hundreds of miles to hear. I started asking questions. Did he live in Woodstock all the time? Most of the time, he said, but he was thinking about moving to New Orleans. When would he have a new record out? In the spring — “I’m real happy with this one.” He was talking about “Nashville Skyline,” which he had just finished. I asked about a song of his the Byrds had recorded, a song I’d heard out in Wyoming the summer before. “Yeah, I know the one you mean, but I can’t call the name of it right now — it’s in there somewhere.” The song was the riddle-round “You Ain’t Going Nowhere.”

We talked along like that for almost 45 minutes, during which time I felt the cold acutely. Dylan was dressed in shirtsleeves, but he didn’t seem to notice the cold at all. He must have known my head was full of hero-worship, and he was kind enough to let my time with him be unhurried. The moment of my mission played out as naturally as the tide. I was immensely grateful, am grateful yet.

The pilgrim was ready to go home. I pulled my map out, unfolded it, and while we talked about what the best way to head back south was, the bulky fellow lumbered over from the old car where he and the weedy man had been working all the time. The mechanic ignored me, and I ignored him right back, which was easy enough: I had the entire eastern United States spread out in front of me. My mind was on the road, but I did want one last word or two with Bob Dylan. He gave Dylan a report on all the things that weren’t wrong with car, then said: “I think we can get it started if we hook it up to the battery charger.”

“Okay,” Dylan said. “It’s in the garage.”

“I got it already, and tried to hook it up, but even with that long cord it won’t reach. We need another extension cord.”

“Extension cord,” Dylan said, and looked past the big man at the old car. He thought about the request a few moments, then shook his head.

“Gee, Doug,” he said, “I’m afraid we just used the last extension cord on the kids’ Christmas tree.”

Evergreen and Ever-Evolving

EVERGREEN AND EVER-EVOLVING

Home
Feature

Evergreen and Ever-Evolving

Toms Creek Nursery in Denton celebrates 20 years of wreath workshops

By Cassie Bustamante   •   Photographs by John Gessner

Down a winding gravel drive, just past the ducks and several greenhouses on the 400-acre Toms Creek Nursery property, a large, heated greenhouse awaits. Inside, straw wreath forms wrapped in dark green plastic sit two at a table with small tins of greening pins plus pairs of clippers. A few stations throughout the building are loaded with overflowing buckets of greenery and berries in scarlet and plum. And, of course, there’s hot cocoa, coffee and cookies. The only thing you need to bring to this hidden Denton treasure? Yourself and a little spark of holiday spirit.

“The first year, there were probably 10 people,” says horticulturist Jim Carraher, whose idea it was to start these wreath-making workshops, which began 20 years ago in unheated smaller greenhouses. “I’d been to a garden center that was up in Greensboro and they were selling greenery that you could take home and make into wreaths and, I thought, we’ve got hundreds of acres of plant material here.”

Now, in the greenhouse, over 40 people mill about planning their designs for their own wreaths. And that’s just one of many sessions available over a two-and-a-half-week period that begins the day after Thanksgiving. In 2023, the workshop broke 1,000 total attendees. Former nursery manager Brittany Andersen said at the time that their max capacity in a season is around 2,000, a number that depends not only on space but greenery available. The farm has trees that are specifically grown for this workshop. “But,” Andersen, had noted, “we need more trees to have enough greenery.”

This nearly century-old farm did not begin its life as a lush and idyllic setting that would draw mostly well-heeled urbanites for continuing education. But this nursery’s line of owners knows something about growth opportunities.

In 1934, single mother Ovie Henson purchased the property with her own money. Her husband, who’d been older than her and already passed his wealth on to his older children from previous marriages, died early in their marriage, leaving her with a son and not much else.

But Ovie was “tough people,” according to granddaughter Melinda Vaughan, the 70-year-old third-generation proprietress of Toms Creek Nursery. How did Ovie, a single woman with a baby during The Great Depression, manage to purchase the farm she named after its creek? With money she earned from her job as a teacher in a one-room schoolhouse that she’d wisely invested in a little mill close to what would eventually become the N.C. Zoo. She traded off her stake in the mill for the first 200 acres.

“One of the old neighbors was a big farmer,” says Vaughan, “saying, ‘I am going to get that land for nothing because that little lady — she is going to go under.’”

Vaughan, whose blue eyes sparkle as she speaks of her Granny, holds herself proudly, her shining silver hair grazing her shoulders. “She proved him wrong though.” With sheep and chickens, Toms Creek got its start, eventually adding cows. But it soon evolved when Ovie discovered she had a green thumb. Money that was earned from the plant portion of her business was fed right back into the community and given to the Quaker church she belonged to. While the dairy no longer runs, Vaughan recalls getting the cows in their loft before catching the bus for school as a youngster and remembers Granny milking them well into her 60s.

Today, Toms Creek Nursery is home to not only acres and acres of plants, but also its own landscaping and design company, run by Brandon Vaughan, one of Melinda’s sons. In addition to being owner, Vaughan is also the designer. In fact, Carraher, wreath workshop innovator, began on the landscaping crew. He met and married a woman from Denton and moved there with her after earning his B.S. in ornamental horticulture from N.C. State. And, as Vaughan plainly states about the Denton area, “There’s only one nursery big enough to hire a person.” So Carraher put down roots at Toms Creek. That was some 30 years ago.

These days, 67-year-old Carraher’s sole focus is the wreath workshop. In 2021, in fact, the farm purchased a special T-shirt for his role. Pictured on the back of it? Why, a wreath, of course, the words “The Wreath Man” surround it.

Each workshop session runs two hours and change, during which time Carraher roams the greenhouse, answering questions and offering guidance as needed. Otherwise, it’s a free-for-all when it comes to the creation and design. The tools and materials are all provided. There’s an inspiration binder filled with images of wreaths Carraher and customers have created over the last 20 years. And sprinkled throughout the greenhouse, doors of all colors hold wreath hangers, welcoming customers to test their creations.

“Basically there’s no wrong or right way to do it,” says Carraher. “That’s the beauty of it all.” With several types of greenery and berries — Leyland cypress, American boxwood, D.D. Blanchard magnolia, blue Pfitzer juniper, American beautyberry, Norway spruce, Sunkist arborvitae, heavenly bamboo nandina berries, white pine, multiple yews and multiple holly berries — customers can create their own mix. And over two decades of workshops, Carraher has yet to see it all.

“When you mix up all these textures, even after all these years of doing it . . . some of them are just breathtaking,” he says.

For many, the Toms Creek Nursery wreath workshop has become a holiday tradition. Carraher recalls a group of young moms who hit the workshop as a break from their children. Two of those moms still carve out the time for it each year. “One of the two, she was pregnant the first time she came,” he recalls. “And now her son is 16 years old.”

Sue Shumaker has been coming with her friend, Susan Short, and a varying group of women for about a decade. This time, she showed up with a dozen wreath-makers.

“I first came with Little Gate Garden Club in Asheboro and loved it so much, I invited Sue,” says Short. Since those first years at the workshop together, Short has moved to the Charlotte area. “I spent the night in a hotel last night so I could be here first thing this morning. That’s how much I love it!”

With so much experience under their belts, have their wreath-making skills improved over the years? Absolutely. But, according to Shumaker, there’s never been an ugly wreath that came out of this workshop. “Some are Southern Living-beautiful, but they’re all pretty. Every wreath that walks out the door is beautiful.”

The two friends recall a bittersweet memory during the COVID pandemic when a friend was ill and couldn’t attend. “Jim filled up a bag of goodies for me and I drove it to her house and put it on her porch,” says Shumaker. “That’s just like Sue,” adds Short, gazing at her friend.

Carraher also remembers the pandemic-influenced pivots: Tables were spaced out as they are now, but only one person to a table. During that time, he also offered pick-up of all the wreath-making essentials so customers could recreate the experience safely at home.

But today the workshop bustles with activity, the smell of Christmas pine wafting through the air.

“There is just something about a fresh wreath on the door,” says Vickie Whitaker, who’s attending for the second time. “It really makes you think about Christmas when you were young. Years ago, we didn’t go out and buy wreaths or buy decorations. We made them! I think that is part of it. Don’t you?”

“You’re still young!” her friend, first-timer Linda Powell, responds with a laugh. Powell entered the workshop doubting her creative skills. As the workshop progresses and her lush wreath nears completion, you’d never guess it was her first time.

And therein lies the magic. “It’s always that smile on that person’s face who was convinced they couldn’t do it — and they did,” says Carraher. “That’s what really sticks out the most.”

Time Waits for No One but Pauses for You

TIME WAITS FOR NO ONE BUT PAUSES FOR YOU

Home
Feature

The stories within Greensboro History Museum’s stories are seen through an ever-evolving lens

By Billy Ingram   •   Photographs by Bert VanderVeen

One hundred years ago this month, history buff Mrs. Alice Bell founded the Greensboro Historical Museum, at first a purely aspirational effort seeking to canonize treasures of living memory related to the establishment and rapid growth of this then unassuming small town. That objective surely proved challenging for those who followed in Bell’s footsteps, when the 20th century unfolded and Greensboro became synonymous in the minds of too many Americans as being, all too often, most decidedly, on the wrong side of history.

Coinciding with the seventh anniversary of Armistice Day, the Greensboro Historical Museum’s first public showing in 1925 consisted primarily of war era relics (Revolutionary, Spanish-American, Confederate and WWI), along with examples of evolving women’s fashions. Located in the downtown library’s basement, hundreds of historically significant curios salvaged from attics and closets around town neatly presented in five display cases “all that the museum association had funds for.” Admission for the couple of hundred people in attendance then, as it is now, was free.

In 1930, the museum, an all-volunteer, mostly female effort, took up residence in a former schoolhouse on Cypress Street until 1939, when the public library, with the museum and other civic organizations in tow, was installed in the original First Presbyterian Church building facing Summit Avenue. In 1964, the Greensboro Public Library relocated to North Greene Street, where Elon University School of Law is today, allowing the museum to expand into the entire 17,000-square-foot space, since expanded, it still occupies today.

Carol Ghiorsi Hart, director of the Greensboro History Museum for the last 12 years, and Curator of Community History Glenn Perkins walked me through the challenging yet inspiring task involved in weaving relevant and engrossing narratives around our city for limited-run events while simultaneously nurturing and preserving a sanctuary devoted to Greensboro’s pivotal role in major historical events — the fight for our nation’s independence; the ending of the Civil War, sparking an Industrial Revolution in the South; sitting at the forefront of women’s suffrage; being a major military presence during World War II; and, its decades spent suspended on a razor’s edge during the struggle for civil rights and equality.

The staff must be in harmony with whomever it was that said “history gives answers only to those who know how to ask questions.” A fairly recent acquisition, but one of the oldest American artifacts the museum owns, is a knitted cap from the Revolutionary War. “We’ve done some DNA analysis on what may be a blood stain from that cap.” Awaiting the results, Perkins contends that just possessing a historical item is only the beginning of a journey of discovery, but “If you take good care of these things, they’ll continue to tell stories.”

Because of its affiliation with the Smithsonian Institute, not long ago, an original copy of the Emancipation Proclamation signed by Abraham Lincoln was on loan to our museum. Of course, anyone could find a scan of the document online or purchase a reproduction. “But,” Director Hart says, “the number of people who came to be in the presence of something Lincoln signed, who literally wept seeing it, was such a powerful moment.”

Museums in general are struggling, but the key to survival lies in adapting to an ever-shifting culture, with the focus no longer pointing inward. “Although we do have incredibly talented people, very knowledgeable,” Hart emphasizes, “there’s a recognition that, especially for a history museum, members of our community are authorities as well as we are — that we are all working together not only to document history, but to help shape what history looks like.”

That means taking what some might consider to be small family stories and placing them on equal footing with more well-known names around town. “Greensboro’s history is one of arrival,” Hart says. “There’s a reason we’re called The Gate City and why, when people are drawn here for whatever reason, they bring change and vitality to the city.”

Inside the “This Just In” case greeting visitors on the second floor there’s a collection of hair crimpers, turners and curlers used by entrepreneur Pauline Farrar McCain, who attended Maco Beauty College in the late-1940s. “Maco was a Black-owned hair business,” an institution that trained over 1,000 beauticians between 1935 and 1969, Perkins explains, “established by folks who came to this city, the Londons, to make their own fortune.” After graduating, McCain went to work for Foust Beauty Shoppe (“Where There’s Hair There’s Hope”) on East Market, subsequently purchasing it in 1960.

While hairstyles were being set back at her shop in the ’60s, McCain could often be found just blocks away participating in Civil Rights marches. For the last five decades, Foust Beauty Shoppe was located at 414 E. Market, where Mrs. McCain continued to oversee operations until her passing in 2020. “She was a community hub,” says Director Hart. “Often it’s not just about what we have on display, but how we can build on some of these stories and fill in some gaps.”

There was an exhibit 10 years ago on the Warnersville community that not only brought forth “a lot of oral histories, but also photographs and other things we hadn’t collected previously,” Perkins says. “We had another focusing on second generation Asian Americans, another story that goes way back to the turn of last century, and the different businesses that were owned by Chinese immigrants.”

“Voices of a City” is the main attraction on the second floor, an Aladdin’s cave of life-sized, interactive dioramas arranged in a panoramic maze, each corner and corridor along this veritable time tunnel a snapshot of life from pioneer days forward. At the push of a button, excerpts from oral histories and historical testimonies augment the visuals, which are both exhaustive and stunning in their presentation.

For instance, one exhibit in this hall might seem incongruous, but is actually a clever juxtaposition. A familiar metal-and-neon sign that hung for decades in Blumenthal’s clothing store, enticing customers with a free pack of cigarettes if their receipt matched the numbers listed on the sign, that now hangs above an assortment of early contraptions used in denim manufacturing. Near the railroad tracks on South Elm, Blumenthal’s, from 1926 until 2005, was the young folks’ go-to retailer for Levis and Wranglers, while selling cigarettes manufactured locally at cost, even giving smokes away, to boost denim jeans sales.

There’s an alcove devoted to Army Air Force’s (AAF) Basic Training Center No. 10, later designated ORD (Overseas Replacement Depot). Surrounded by colorful propaganda posters enticing folks to “Buy Bonds” is one of the bunk beds tens of thousands of inductees slept in while being trained in ground and air combat for some of the most decisive battles of World War II. The largest U.S. military base located inside the limits of a city was situated down and around East Bessemer Avenue from 1943 until 1946.

“Most people think a history museum is going to be filled with a lot of dusty old stuff and be sort of boring and be all about dates and places,” Hart points out. “So one of the things we’re trying to do is to shift that perception a little bit.”

Where else could one experience the momentary joy of reconnecting with ripples from a past thought to be lost forever? For me, it was seeing once again the Art Deco neon WBIG Radio sign that hung in its studio, beginning in the 1930s, recently restored at great effort — then, hearing the voice of WBIG’s legendary morning show DJ and family friend Bob Poole. A nod to our city’s rich broadcasting legacy, with tributes to George Perry and Sandra Hughes of WFMY-TV, WGHP sportscaster Charlie Harville, and WEAL’s Alfred G. Richard.

A bone of contention for museums lately has been an inadvertent stockpiling of culturally significant items appropriated by amateur archeologists or gathered up unthinkingly on foreign shores as souvenirs. “We sent back a number of things that were treasures of war during World War II that came into the museum.” Consisting of Japanese dog tags, good luck flags and other ephemera that American soldiers brought home with them, Perkins says they realized, “Those don’t belong here. Part of our work is returning things to appropriate places, and that can be part of the inhale-exhale of a museum.”

Making collections more readily accessible to the public is a primary goal moving forward, with transcripts of oral histories and some 15,000 photographs already easily searchable online through UNCG’s Gateway project (gateway.uncg.edu/greensboromuseum).

Bernard Cone’s photo albums from 1900 through the 1910s; The Art Shop owner Charles Farrell’s photographs highlighting the city’s growth from the 1920s into the 1940s; Greensboro Fire Department scrapbooks; maps of Greensboro and Guilford County dating back to the 1870s; documents pertaining to local union organizing; the Abraham H. Peeler Papers, chronicling the evolution of African American education locally; letters, memorabilia and documents belonging to writer William Sydney Porter (O. Henry); these are just an inkling of the museum’s digital footprint.

Greensboro History Museum members receive a twice-a-month digital newsletter, a printed ROAR newsletter, early notice on happenings, plus invitations to members-only gatherings. There are also behind the scenes tours for contributors. “People love to go behind locked doors,” Director Hart says. “We have on the order of 30,000 objects, most are in storage but not in dusty boxes in the basement, they’re well cared for and numbered.”

During one of those “backstage” tours you can view rarities not currently on display or possibly never before seen by the public. Take, for instance, a pristine velvet, silk-lined cloak, embroidered with Indian or Iranian gold stitching from 1805 and gifted to future First Lady Dolley Madison by the first Muslim diplomatic ambassador to visit the United States. This item of clothing is significant for a number of reasons, not the least being that, back in 1789, Morocco was the very first country to recognize the United States as an independent nation, before the Revolutionary War had been won.

Because I have great admiration for our world class GFD, a wooden bucket with a leather strap dated 1828 was brought down from storage for us to photograph, typical of those used by fire brigades long before Greensboro had any form of an organized fire department. Two hundred years ago, first responders (neighbors) would pass one bucketful of water at a time down a line of volunteers, from the well to the flames and back again to refill. Taking great pride in their efforts, those sturdy pails were decorated with the brigade’s logo and other flame-related flourishes.

It’s true, we will never again walk casually through the unencumbered doorways of youth, bathed in the warmth of worlds that long ago ceased revolving. Tipping back into the deepest recesses of memory, connecting even momentarily to people and places associated with what the march of time has mercilessly (or mercifully) bulldozed in its path, is the continuing contribution our Greensboro History Museum offers all of our lives, year in and year out, hopefully for the next 200 years.

A Day at the Museum

A DAY AT THE MUSEUM

Home
Feature

A Day at the Museum

Young minds bring exhibits to life

By Billy Ingram   •   Photographs by Bert VanderVeen

On one otherwise uneventful afternoon, two working moms unleash unleash their three adorable offspring — Owen (6) and Ellie Thompson (3), along with Wilder Bustamante (6) — on the Greensboro History Museum.

We tend to think of museums as being focused on adult interests, so these mothers must wonder if anything they encounter will fully engage with a modern child’s iPad-oriented attention span.

In a stuffy old museum?!?

Wilder and Owen are excited about what discoveries await them. “Some museums have dinosaur bones,” Wilder exclaims. Do the boys secretly hope that, somewhere up ahead, dinosaur skeletons will spring to life at any moment?

By design perhaps, a young mind will instantly recognize museums as safe spaces where imagination flourishes, fueled by their innate curiosity and sense of wonder. Plus, this place has multiple stages for play acting.

“I’ll get it!!!” little miss Ellie shouts as the family telephone rings. It’s Ellie’s new beau calling, asking her out to the Carolina Theatre to see Clara Bow’s latest moving picture. Ellie exclaims, “That’s the cat’s meow!”

Following the picture show, they’ll stroll a few blocks to lean dreamingly over the soda fountain at Fordham’s Drug Store downtown, sharing a lavender malted milkshake — two straws, of course.

They grow up so quickly, don’t they?

Tumbling into another room, our three adventurers happen upon an early mobile fire-fighting vehicle used by our own fire department. Owen informs everyone, “Those fire engines are so old, they must be from the 1980s.” Owen’s mom is actually from the 1980s and lets out a laugh!

At the dawning of the 20th century, this Greensboro fire truck, the General Greene, was yanked into action by a horse named Prince, the most photographed and talked about equine of that time.

Why was that? Because, after dousing the flames, firefighters would get the horse drunk on the most expensive whiskey available. But there’s no reason for these young’uns to know anything about that!

Wilder may be pointing out the many ways these kids are lucky to be living in modern times and not in the days before any form of entertainment they are familiar with was ever even imagined in the wildest science fiction stories.

For a passing moment, a mid-century living room captures their attention, back when the TV set was furniture you couldn’t sit too close to. Why did everything from lounge chairs to refrigerators come in shades of lime green? To this day, no one knows.

Like squaresville, man.

A lone child standing alongside an actual covered wagon from the 1750s accentuates the enormous undertaking pioneer families were faced with, all of their belongings bundled inside, making their way South down the Great Wagon Road in search of a better life.

This road wagon was first class travel for those traversing an untamed wilderness before the advent of railroads.

Li’l sluggers Owen and Wilder enjoy attending games at the nearby baseball stadium, so they’re staring in awe at uniforms and equipment used by both the Greensboro Bats and Grasshoppers. “It looks like toys,” Wilder says about the display they both agree is their favorite in all of the museum.

A simple encapsulation, yet they returned repeatedly because it’s history that relates to their life experience.

Owen positions himself in front of a keyboard, ready to type out tall tales of knights in shining armor slaying fire-breathing dragons, damsels in distress being rescued from watery ponds, or, perhaps, the thrill of hitting a World Series-winning home run?

The possibilities are endless, but, while the letters and numbers on the keys all look familiar, the battery appears to be dead . . . and where did they hide the “send” button?

Kiddos are naturally inquisitive and curious. These boys are just now learning to read, but that’s no hurdle with information at their fingertips. But how would modern kids know which end of the receiver to put to their ears? It’s evolutionary, my dear Watson!

Not all superheroes wear capes. Back in 1957, Josephine Boyd was hassled and bullied constantly in high school, but served as an inspiration to millions of young people by bravely being the first to attend a school where she was unwelcome simply because she was Black. She graduated with honors.

Today, the road in front of that high school is named Josephine Boyd Street.

Wilder instinctively runs toward the Woolworth’s sit-in exhibit. Is it a fascination with the shiny chromed seats and lunch counter accents or the voices of societal change he’s tuned into?

Wilder and Owen went running back into the Voices of a City exhibit to experience what went unnoticed the first time through. They are found, fascinated by broadcast technology from more than 50 years ago, watching George (Old Rebel) Perry, who entertained local kiddies for 25 years on WFMY.

In the ‘60s and ’70s, George Perry would carpool kids from the Hayes-Taylor YMCA to appear in the audience so that viewers at home would see how diverse our community was . . . and still is.

“Time to go!”

Mrs. Thompson calls out. But where are those boys?

All good things must end but these indefatigable imps demand a return visit, despite encountering exactly zero dinosaurs stomping around the grounds.

On the way out, our two moms drop a few dollars into the donation box. “Anything keeping our Energizer bunnies entertained for an hour or two gets a big tip from us!”

The Family Meal

THE FAMILY MEAL

Home
Feature

The Family Meal

Gather ’round the table and serve up one of Greensboro’s global chefs’ favorite dishes

By Cassie Bustamante   •   Photographs by Amy Freeman

In the spirit of celebratory feasts, we asked four local chefs — whose roots lie elsewhere around the world — to share a dish that’s a favorite around their own family tables. With so much to be grateful for in the Gate City, our bellies are especially thankful for the rich diversity of world-class hospitality and global fare available without having to travel far.

Jorge Castillo and daughter Jennifer, Embur Fire Fusion

“Food is a symphony,” says Embur chef-owner Jorge Castillo. “Everything that is in the dish, you have to put together in order to feel that.” Castillo, who trained at the Culinary Institute of America’s New York campus, originally hails from the Peruvian coast, where fresh seafood is abundant. “You ever sit with Peruvian people?” he asks. “They eat!” And much of what they eat is a Japanese-Peruvian fusion cuisine known as Nikkei. His youngest daughter, Jennifer, who is working with her father until she attends law school next year, notes that Peru is home to a large number of Japanese immigrants who have influenced the culture. This dish, homemade Peruvian Nikkei-style fish, is a blend of veggies — snow peas, zucchini, peppers, Napa cabbage and bean sprouts — paired with fish and rice. When the smell of Castillo’s homemade sweet-and-sour sauce bristling with fresh spices tickles her nose, Jennifer says, “Oh, there’s about to be a big ol’ feast here!”

Homemade Peruvian
Nikkei-Style Fish for Two

12-ounces white fish fillet
(Chef Jorge recommends grouper) 

3/4–1 cup broccoli, chopped

1/2 cup cauliflower, chopped

1/2 cup green beans (cut into thirds) 

1/2 cup snow peas

1 green bell pepper, chopped

1 red bell pepper, chopped

2 cups Napa cabbage, chopped into small pieces

1 handful of bean sprouts

1 teaspoon fresh minced ginger, divided

1 teaspoon minced garlic, divided 

1 tablespoon oyster sauce, plus more for drizzling

1/2 tablespoon soy sauce, plus more for drizzling

1–1 1/2 tablespoons olive oil, plus more for drizzling

1 teaspoon sweet and sour sauce 

1 teaspoon sesame oil 

Salt and pepper, to taste 

Red chili flakes, to taste

1 cup any choice of cooked rice (white rice preferably), divided into two servings

Directions: 

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. 

Bring a large pot of lightly salted water to a boil. Once the water has started boiling, add the broccoli and cauliflower and cook for about two minutes. (If using green beans instead of snow peas, boil them now as well). Then remove the broccoli and cauliflower, place into an ice water bath and set aside. After a few minutes, drain the water. Cut the 12-ounce fish fillet into two pieces. Place in a bowl and add salt, pepper, 1/2 teaspoon of minced ginger and 1/2 teaspoon of garlic. Drizzle equal parts of soy sauce and oyster sauce, and then add olive oil. 

Heat a large nonstick pan over medium heat. Place the seasoned fish on the pan. Cook until lightly golden-brown on one side, about two minutes. Turn the fish over and repeat to the other side. Place the fish in a baking dish or keep in oven-safe pan.

In the preheated oven, bake the fish in the oven for about five minutes. (Time can vary depending on fish used, but the internal temperature should be 135 degrees Fahrenheit). 

Meanwhile, in a separate pan, heat about 1–1 1/2 tablespoons of olive oil in a large pan over high heat. Add the bell peppers and snow peas (or prepared green beans if used). Sauté for 30–45 seconds and then add 1/2 teaspoon of minced garlic. 

Once the garlic is lightly golden, add the cauliflower, broccoli, Napa cabbage and bean sprouts to the pan with the bell peppers and snow peas/greens beans. Sauté for another minute.

Add 1 tablespoon oyster sauce and 1/2 tablespoon soy sauce to the vegetables and toss together. 

Remove the pan from heat. Add sweet and sour sauce, sesame oil and red chili flakes. Toss and set aside. 

Divide fish among two plates, top it with the vegetables and serve with choice of rice.

Ginah & Mike Soufia, Wallstreet Deli & Catering

“My sister-in-law, who is American, calls this purple chicken,” says Ginah Soufia. A first-generation Palestinian American, Gina has owned Wallstreet Deli & Catering for 26 years with her Palestinian-born husband, Mike. “The aroma . . .  it takes me back to my childhood,” she says, recalling the scent of sizzling, sumac-infused onions and golden-toasted pine nuts that drifted through the modest three-bedroom home. The table was always loaded with food and family — three generations living under one roof. To this day, she believes in setting a longer table to make room for others. “The great thing about the Palestinian culture is our hospitality — it is unmatched.” Musakhan, the national dish of Palestine, is often prepared at home by Ginah, with Mike — “the baker” — making the flatbread, Taboon, which sops up the flavor. What tradition does she hope to pass on to her own three grown children? “I want my kids to know that no matter what, your family will be there for you,” she says. “No matter what, your family is your family.”

Musakhan

Without chicken:

8 large red onions, medium-chopped

2 cups extra virgin olive oil

Chicken bouillon powder, to taste

1/3 cup good-quality sumac (a bright-red spice made from ground dried sumac berries), plus more for sprinkling

6 Taboon or plain naan bread pieces

Pine nuts, fried or roasted

With chicken (same as above, plus):

3 small chickens

1/4 cup olive oil

1 tablespoon sumac

1 tablespoon seven spices

1 tablespoon ground coriander

1 tablespoon garlic powder

2 tablespoons salt

Without chicken:

Heat olive oil over low heat. Add onions to pan and sauté. Keep mixing until the onions become soft, have a bright pink color to them and have released all their water.

Continue to mix and add bouillon powder and sumac.

Spread onion mixture on each piece of bread and sprinkle with pine nuts and a little more sumac. Repeat and layer as you go, creating a stack.

With chicken:

Preheat oven to 450 degrees Fahrenheit.

Cut each chicken into either two halves or four pieces. Pat dry with paper towel.

Mix the olive oil and spices in a small bowl then brush on chicken from all sides. Place on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper, allowing room between each piece of chicken.

Cover with aluminum foil and bake for about one hour, then uncover and bake an additional 5–10 minutes until the skin is crispy and golden-brown.

Follow steps 1–3 from the vegetarian version above. Layer as many pieces of bread and onion mixture as you’d like, followed by a piece of chicken on top. For a single serving, one piece of bread topped with onions and one piece of chicken is recommended.

Joseph Ozbey, Cugino Forno

Born and raised in Turkey, Cugino Forno Pizzeria co-owner Joseph Ozbey has fond recollections of family meals centered around Lahmacun, aka Turkish pizza. “Every time I have this dish, it reminds me of our Sundays when I was a little kid.” Armed with the toppings his mother had prepared and some pocket change, Ozbey would go to the local baker, who would put the topping on crusts and bake. When Ozbey returned home with the fragrant, steaming Lahmacun, the table would be prepared — with salads, herbs, tomatoes, yogurt drinks — and the family would eat together. Soon, God willing, he will have a few of his own little ones sitting around the family table and he can share the rich history of his Turkish heritage. “Even a simple dish,” he says, “reminds you of your culture, reminds you of your roots.”

Lahmacun (Turkish Pizza)

Makes six 10-inch pizzas

For the crust:

2 cups all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons kosher salt

1 1/2 teaspoons cane sugar

2 teaspoons dried instant yeast

1 2/3 cups water

For the topping:

1/3 cup small red bell pepper

1/2 cup onion

1/3 cup parsley

2 cloves garlic

1 teaspoon dried oregano

1/2 teaspoon dried mint

1 teaspoon cumin

1/4 teaspoon black pepper

2 tablespoons Turkish red pepper paste (can substitute tomato paste with a dash of hot sauce)

1/2 pound ground beef

For the crust:

Combine all of the dry ingredients in a large mixing bowl. Whisk together.

Add the water and fold and mix until a ball of dough forms. Allow to rise for about one hour.

Transfer the dough to a floured surface. Cut the dough into six even pieces. Shape each piece by hand and then use a rolling pin to create a thin circular shape. (Add additional flour to the surface, to your hands and to the rolling pin when necessary.)

For the topping:

Fine-dice the red peppers and onion, mince the garlic and finely chop the parsley. Aim for tiny pieces of everything — the tinier, the better. Add the chopped and minced ingredients, the rest of the seasonings and the red pepper paste to the ground beef. Massage and mix with your hands for no less than five minutes,

Evenly spread the meat mixture on your prepared crusts. Bake for 20–25 minutes in an oven preheated to 350 degrees Fahrenheit.

Aurelio Ruiz and daughter Alondra Ruiz Fowler,
Kiosco Mexican Grill

“Every tamale is different,” says 25-year-old Alondra Ruiz Fowler, eldest daughter of Kiosco owner and chef Aurelio Ruiz. “Every family makes them differently.” Her own grandmother, who lived with them when Fowler was a child, still, to this day, insists on thoroughly mixing the masa dough by hand. “I am never fast enough to do it,” Fowler admits. As for the accompanying chili sauce, she says that Mexicans make their own by burning the chilis, releasing a come-hither-if-you-like-spicy aroma throughout the home. “The worse my throat hurts, the hotter it’s going to be,” she says with a laugh. This dish, a tradition at big get-togethers, is one that Fowler hopes to keep alive for future generations. As for the restaurant, her dad talks about one day passing that on, too. “But he’s a workaholic, so he’s going to be here until he can’t walk anymore!” Either way, Fowler says she can’t ever imagine the 35-year-old restaurant not being there. Just another part of the family legacy..

Tamales

Corn

1 pack of corn husks 

Masa

1 cup manteca (lard)

1 teaspoon baking powder 

Salt to taste 

5-pounds “masa para tamales” (pre-packaged dough found at local Mexican markets)

1 cup of broth from cooked meat 

Chicken 

1 1/2 pound chicken breast, cut into cubes 

1/2 white onion, peeled

2 1/2 cloves garlic, peeled 

1 teaspoon ground cumin 

1 teaspoon kosher salt 

1 teaspoon chicken bouillon 

1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper 

Chile Sauce 

3 ancho chiles* 

3 guajillo chiles* 

2 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon manteca

2 1/2 cloves garlic, peeled 

1/2 teaspoon kosher salt 

1 teaspoon chicken bouillon 

1/2 teaspoon ground cumin 

1/4 teaspoon black pepper 

*Remove chile seeds to tone down the spiciness

Directions: 

Husks: Soak husks in a large bowl with hot water while cooking, ensuring they stay completely immersed for about 75 minutes. Dry thoroughly after soaking.

Chicken: Place chicken in a pot of water to boil. Add white onion, garlic, ground cumin, kosher salt, chicken bouillon and ground black pepper. Allow the pot to boil, then simmer for 75 minutes. Throughout this process, remove the foam that rises to the top of the pot. Once the chicken is cool, shred it all and place in a bowl, removing the bones. Reserve one cup of broth for Masa step. If using a different part of the chicken, shred and remove all the bones prior to assembling tamale. 

Chile Sauce: In a pan, fry the chile and garlic in 2 tablespoons manteca for about three minutes. Once fried, add chiles to a pot of 1 1/2 cups of boiling water. Allow the chiles to boil for about 10–15 minutes. After 15 minutes, remove chiles plus a cup of the boiling water used and add to a blender. Add seasonings and blend until mixture reaches a paste consistency. Fry mixture in a pan with 1 teaspoon of manteca over medium heat. Add about 1 cup of water and allow it to simmer for about 20 minutes until thick. Be careful not to burn the sauce during this step. Once thick, add to the bowl of shredded chicken and combine. 

Masa: In a large, clean, open counter space, mix the manteca and baking powder together. Once mixed, add half of the amount of salt. As you are consistently kneading the mix, add your Masa. Do not add Masa all at once. Add it in parts. Continuously kneading the mixture, work in the one cup of chicken broth. Add remaining salt and mix. Taste Masa and add salt if needed at this step. 

Assemble Tamales: Using a dry corn husk, spread about 3–4 tablespoons of the masa on the smooth part of the husk. You want to make about a 3 x 3 inch square that leaves about 1/2 of an inch at the bottom of the husk. Once your masa is spread on husk, put about 2–3 spoonfuls of the chicken and sauce mixture in the middle of the masa. Fold one long side of the corn husk, then fold the other long side over top. Finally, fold the bottom of the corn husk upward. You can secure the tamale by placing the folding side of the tamale downwards in the steaming pot in the next step or you can shred an unused corn husk into pieces to use as string, tying a knot over the tamale. 

Cooking Tamales: Using a stockpot with water in it and a steamer on top, distribute the tamales evenly and upright. The water should be low enough where the steamer basket can be inserted without touching the water. You want to place your tamales in the steamer basket upright where the tamale is exposed. Once you have evenly spread the tamales in the steamer basket, cover the pot and let it steam on medium for about 75 to 90 minutes. Water may need to be added periodically, depending on the depth; always make sure it is not touching the steamer basket. Once you can see that the corn husks are easily removed, your tamales are fully cooked. 

Serving: Remove the corn husk from cooked tamale and place on a plate. Garnish with shredded lettuce, chopped tomato, sour cream and a crumble of queso fresco. Take a bite and enjoy a delicious taste of a traditional Mexican meal! 

From High Fashion to Home Furnishings

FROM HIGH FASHION TO HOME FURNISHINGS

Home
Feature

From High Fashion to Home Furnishings

A passage to India leads to design inspiration

By Cynthia Adams  
Photographs by Amy Freeman

Elizabeth Wicker’s home renovation is a living laboratory, where she tinkers with sophisticated, restrained design, luxe wallpapers and sparkling touches. And yet there is a disciplined approach, and no clutter.

In her dining room/home office, she recently created a credenza in her role as a Chelsea House designer. The piece, newly arrived, could be popped between the two new bookcases of her design, or be used elsewhere, she says. A small, blown-glass bull on the shelf was purchased at Modern 214 in High Point, however, redolent of her time in Spain, and is not her design. She holds it in her hand, thoughtfully weighing it.

An ethereal Douglas Freeman painting hangs between the two bookcases.

The dining table, doing double duty as her work table, is a glamorous Hollywood Regency style also found at Modern 214. “It’s the first place I go when I get to market.” 

The wall color used throughout much of the upstairs is a pale Benjamin Moore gray, number 1611, a favorite, trimmed with Decorator’s White in high gloss — a serene backdrop to art and furnishings. If it reads too blue with different light, she tweaks the tint.

“This is my house. My passion project.”

The graphic wallpapers Wicker chose 10 years ago when she first moved in still work. 

Cranes wallpaper by Cole & Son in the foyer is a favorite. Her older brother walked in as the house was being renovated and stopped. “Beeb” (her nickname), she recalls him saying, “this wallpaper reminds me of something from our house growing up.” She laughs and shrugs. (But privately, she’d wondered, had something in her past inspired the choice?)

Wicker’s home, however beautiful, is equally spotless. 

She enthusiastically describes snuggling on the neutral living room sofa with her poodle-Cavalier King Charles mix, Sienna Rose. (The settees and sofas are all custom-sized to fit each niche and space, a benefit of working in the industry.) “Only if she has her blanket,” Wicker qualifies. 

She sheepishly continues.

“I’m a little OCD about cleanliness.” Her friends tease her with a barrage of questions: “Do I have shoes for her to wear if it gets really muddy?” Yes. “Do I make her wear them all the time?” No. “But did I try when she was a puppy?” Yes.

“Sienna Rose has been the best thing for me.”

Wicker moves through her home, picking up objects to illustrate her design style. A line of mother-of-pearl boxes are personal favorites. Sales reps told her they were a little pricey, but she stood her ground. 

“Well,” she told them, “Let’s see if you can do it!” The boxes wound up being a best seller, she says proudly. But that is not always the case. Home furnishings sales are mercurial, with variables such as bad weather, poor market attendance or poor buyer traffic at any given market. A white cachepot of her design has remained a best seller for Chelsea House. She has another one out, and two new trays are styled on kitchen counters, one using mother-of-pearl. 

Among the 100 or so pieces she designs each year are personal favorites that don’t make it into production. If this disappoints her, Wicker doesn’t complain. Rarely, too, is she disappointed by a design’s execution in manufacturing.

Wicker pauses before a large Art Deco-style mirror template she taped to the wall behind her desk. She studies the physical pattern a moment while scrutinizing the computerized version on one of two work screens. Details consume her and must be exact.

“This is the reason I bought the house,” she says, leading downstairs, shot with abundant natural light and luxuriant space. 

The basement level is a revelation. Equally restrained, it is also light, youthful and fun, designed for comfort and also further design experimentation. Wicker camouflaged an unfortunately placed fireplace with antique mirrors and reconfigured the large space, where she formerly worked. 

She points out Chelsea House designs used in the decor here.

“Down here is a bestselling cocktail table, lacquered, originally detailed in gold leaf.” Wicker personally favors small cocktail tables with heft, which she says are useful when entertaining, substantial enough to not tip over.

A side table in crisp white with brass accent is a signature Wicker design.

The glamorous basement powder room featuring a graphic wallpaper and a “Material Girl”-era Madonna photograph is much appreciated by her close friend, lawyer Andrew Spainhour. He teases Wicker, saying, “Pardon me, I’m going to go visit Madonna.” 

He has dubbed Wicker’s downstairs her “Genie room.”

“Like I dream of I Dream of Jennie, where she went to the bottom of her genie bottle?” Wicker explains. She’s piled cushy pillows around the sectional sofa. 

A framed collection of vintage Vogue illustrations is a nod to Wicker’s fashion background. 

The basement opens onto a covered outdoor entertaining area with a louvered privacy wall of her design that includes a hidden jib door. There’s ample space for Sienna Rose to run, she adds, nodding towards the large yard. Here, too, Wicker’s neatnik nature is on full display. Dog toys are neatly stacked as her pooch visits Wicker’s parents.

“I sit at the end of that step,” she shares, clearly besotted by her pet. “Sienna Rose gets to the fourth step and tends to look back to be sure I’m still there.”

Upstairs, she describes having revamped bathrooms, then transforming spaces by hanging papers selectively for graphic punch. By claiming much of the primary bedroom’s closet, Wicker expanded a formerly cramped en suite bath. 

Striking details, like the impressive brass pulls on custom bathroom cabinetry, reveal a little more genie-style magic. 

“They’re actually tie-backs,” Wicker says.

An antique French settee in her bedroom fits her maxim: You “must mix the old with the new.” Wicker lacquered a vintage credenza to make it read more of the moment.

The artwork she acquired fits with elegant restraint. Nothing competes with anything else. She mentions two favorites — eye-catching, large canvases. One hangs directly in front of her work table.

Both are by Freeman, an admired artist and her friend.

“When he brought this over, he said he wanted this in the hallway.” Wicker was hesitant as workmen were still on site; she didn’t want it harmed. Freeman was insistent, hanging it where it remains today. It is all the more meaningful to her as he subsequently died.

She smiles wistfully; it is a grace note.

“It’s my little labor of love, and I love my home,” she repeats, then flashes an enormous smile.

When Elizabeth Wicker was profiled as a Triad boomeranger — those ultimately returning home — it still surprised even her. She never expected a return to Greensboro after a career-making move to the Big Apple, where she worked for fashion maven Nanette Lepore. 

Today, she sees a beautiful symmetry to her trajectory and believes here is exactly where she is meant to be.

“I’m a boomerang and I’m all down for it,” Wicker says. “Cecelia Thomspon [executive director of Action Greensboro] is one of my best friends here.” Thompson conceived the very idea of Boomerang Greensboro, which promotes those who formerly lived here returning.

Initially, a series of unfortunate events brought Wicker back in 2014.

A creative pivot from fashion to furnishings design was unexpectedly easy for Wicker. 

Years perfecting dressmaker finishes and finer details for haute couture lent itself to the granular detail she now applies when designing for home furnishings giant Chelsea House. At 44, she is enjoying a challenging career working with home appointments versus high fashion. 

Wicker is among 10 designers working independently for Chelsea House, which celebrates its 50th anniversary this year. 

How her reset unfolded is one part fairy tale and ten parts hard work. Her design evolution also involved a revelatory business trip to India. When Wicker returned to Greensboro, those parts meshed in a transformative way.

She was always an independent, free spirit, remembers friend Sara Jane Gibson, who has known Wicker “since we were in diapers in the same play group. I tuned into this in high school.” She noticed her friend’s unique dress style and eye for design. Wicker’s bedroom was pasted with a collage of varied photographs from ceiling to floor—anything that she fancied. “She had stickers on the interior roof of her car.”

It presaged her home, which became a personal design laboratory.

In her early years, Wicker was influenced by family travels. She observed how her grandmother “sewed everything,” and soon grew passionate about sewing and creating, even as a teenager. 

Wicker pursued fashion design at N.C. State after graduating from Page High School and studied abroad in Spain. Still in college, she produced handbags and clutches under her own brand, Isabaya by Elizabeth Wicker. “I didn’t keep up with the trademark,” she says.

When the televised design competition Project Runway began its popular run, watching the pace stressed her out, she recalls. Then a student, she couldn’t believe the show’s contestants made designs so quickly. 

Despite all that, Wicker confesses imagining she’d eventually study law and follow her father, Robert Wicker, in becoming an attorney.   

Yet design opportunity opened. She won an internship with Lepore in New York, where she remained for six years. This led to Lepore employing Wicker as a liaison between design and production. 

“Lepore was known for her details, embellishments,” Wicker says with admiration. “Intricate designs. Nothing was just basic.” The free-spirited designer matched Wicker’s own enthusiasms — “a little gypsy” spirit. “I loved working with her; it was so much fun, and living in New York was fantastic.” 

But a series of setbacks for the design house hit. (The designer no longer owns the brand and has since shuttered her studio.) Then Wicker’s rent escalation forced her to give up her apartment in March 2008. 

Yet she hadn’t contemplated returning to her hometown. “I’d had all these great experiences — it felt; ah, am I ready for that?” Then her parents ran into her former soccer coach, who works in the textiles industry.  He relayed a message to Wicker: “Tell her to send me her resume.”

She relocated to Greensboro and joined underwear-and-hosiery manufacturer Kayser-Roth. After a year, she met and joined Triad designer Bradshaw Orrell, partner of the late Freeman, and began working with his clients and, ultimately, managing the business. 

Orrell was already designing for Chelsea House. In the process of the firm working on their High Point showroom, Wicker had begun ghost-designing for Chelsea House, too, “which isn’t odd at all in the design world.” 

Then, a misadventure changed her career once again. 

Orrell asked Wicker to join him on a business junket visiting 26 India manufacturers for Chelsea House. She only knew they would be “seeing their capabilities and seeing products that were already in the works that we had designed.” 

Arriving in New Delhi in January of 2020, Wicker quickly cleared customs. Orrell did not. She watched helplessly through a glass panel with mounting alarm as he was turned back by customs officials. 

“They sent him back that night because his visa was not up to date . . . and I’m just his sidekick going on this trip!” Although she was familiar with the process of how furniture pieces are made, “I had never been in India, and didn’t know exactly what Chelsea House wanted and what we were to do.”

Wicker didn’t even know any contact names of those they were meeting.

Their prearranged agent, Parik, met her at the airport with knowledge of the itinerary. She realized she had to go to four appointments the next day, unsure of what was expected, nor how to navigate expectations. 

Gibson, who lives in Charlotte, called Wicker five times when she learned her friend was there alone.    

“I just knew she was going with her boss . . . she’s savvy and could have navigated, but I was just worried about her.” Gibson adds, “She’s always had a big personality . . . She’s a leader and a woman on a mission.” 

“It was mind blowing. Amazing. But I got so sick,” Wicker recalls. She had packed basics for stomach upsets and headaches that did little for her symptoms. Her whole body ached. 

“My throat closed up. It wasn’t until about six months later that I realized it was COVID.”

Wicker isn’t an adventurous eater at best, and now she had no sense of taste nor smell. Parik diplomatically told everyone she only “ate dry food.” She munched on crackers and granola bars. And kept going. Wicker never smelled the rich curries and spices that are the stars of Indian cuisine.

After that first day in India, she thought, “I can do this!” She had moved from “I have to do this” to “I can do it!” At night, she would collapse in bed, sweating and ill. She lost her voice and could barely communicate. But she soldiered on.

Factory managers would ask Wicker whether she liked things they presented, carefully waiting for her to speak. “I wasn’t supposed to be the main person, but they wanted to show me what they could do. Everyone was so respectful.” She could absorb the sensory richness — textiles and architecture — of India if not the foods and aromas. “The colors! I loved it all!”

With Parik’s help, Wicker completed the entire 12-day agenda on her own. 

“I loved it,” she repeats.  And her creativity ignited.

She had feverishly “designed about 75 pieces while in India in collaboration with the people at the factories.” 

She flew back on a Sunday, her health improving. By Tuesday morning she was back at work, sending out new designs.

Wicker was exhausted. Elated. And changed.

She also turned 40 that summer, celebrating with a group of friends who have long been in her life. Wicker walks over to a bookshelf and picks up a magnifying glass she designed for friends as a party favor. It echoed her love of some of the nostalgic family items she values.

After returning from India, Chelsea House’s executives called Wicker to express support. By November, their new president contacted her about creating another line of furniture — in two weeks. She managed while still working full-time with Orrell.  She continued both until 2022.

“I learned so much there,” she says of her 12 instructive years with Orrell.

But India had changed “my thinking and career . . . It was the turning point.” 

Her designs are also plucked from personal references and life experiences. An alabaster apple she designed from one of the reeded-front bookshelves literally reflects her time in New York, the real Big Apple.

This includes both furniture and “the jewelry” — her term for the accessories she designs, such as trays and cachepots.

“I put pressure on myself to give as many details as possible.” 

What is the narrative thread in Elizabeth Wicker’s design life? 

“Outside influences,” she answers. She went out into the world, like a design explorer, and brought it all back to her studio. New York City, Spain and then India became touchstone places.

Her Instagram page describes her as “chasing everything creative.” 

“It’s a matter of letting yourself go. You may not be great at something — but you find your way. Your mind, your heart, everything will tell you where to go. It will lead you, for sure. That happened to me.”

Random, even mundane things, can mean an epiphany.

“I found packaging — this piece of cardboard! The way it was cut out and folded, I opened it and thought, hmmm. This would be a great body of the lamp. A base!”

Or, while eating out West on vacation: “There was the coolest design on the end of the fork. Something I’d never seen before.” Her fellow diners were amazed she noticed.

“It’s definitely not one-two-three” she says. The design process is different every time. But she firmly believes in routines.

Up at 7, she religiously makes her bed and jumps in the shower. “I do things for myself. Alone time. Get up and moving, and Sienna Rose sometimes goes to doggie daycare or stays here with me.” Wicker is, failing calamity, working by 9:30.

“You’ve got to get in a routine, and I learned that long before COVID.”

There are long hours, too, she admits, “when you ask ‘What did I even get done?’”

Two weeks earlier, Wicker was on a getaway with girlfriends in Darien, Connecticut. While browsing the shops, she spotted one of her designs and had a moment. “This has never happened to me,” she insists. “The girls started saying, in high-pitched voices, ‘Oh my gosh!’”

The store owner asked Wicker’s name. “I turned beet red.” They requested a photograph of her with the piece. “It was a really cool experience. Then I looked over and spotted another of my pieces.” Her heart lifted.

What feeds her? Her parents were “guiding light people,” she praises. They gave her tools of self-reliance.

“They gave me the freedom to explore my creative side and to travel. No limitations set on me in the sense, I never remember their saying stop doing that.”

So she hasn’t.

Rituals for enhancing creativity? Noticing things. It may not inspire a new product idea. But perhaps the texture of a leaf, or the undulation of packing material, the mundane, pricks the subconscious inspiring a new finish. 

Sometimes just walking along a path does the trick. 

“Get a dog,” she winks.

Clubhouse Rules

CLUBHOUSE RULES

Home
Feature

Clubhouse Rules

You can have anything you want, as long as it’s salad

By Maria Johnson   •   Photographs by Bert VanderVeen

Gracious hostess that she is, my neighbor, Olivia Bonino, ushers me into her kitchen, the birthplace of many meals that she serves to guests who frequent the airy abode she shares with her younger brother, Connor.

Connor doesn’t cook much, but he does add a certain dinosaur-fueled pizzazz to the place.

Sitting at her plywood island, Olivia continues on the subject of food.

“This is where we prep it. Then they eat it. Some of it,” she says, explaining that her specialty is salad made from store-bought fruit such as blueberries, blackberries and grapes, along with “cucamelon,” a small hybrid cucumber that grows in her yard, plus a “secret ingredient.”

With that, she reaches out, grabs a branch of a scraggly plant growing at the edge of her kitchen, and pulls it closer to indicate that this is the good stuff.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Not sure,” Olivia says, adding that a guest once tasted it, and “he did not throw up or get sick,” so it has been a staple of her salads ever since.

A first-grader, Olivia saunters out of the kitchen to show off more features of her domicile, which she breezily calls a “clubhouse.” Others might call it a playhouse. Or a tree fort.

Call it what you will. It is her home away from home — like, 40 feet away from her official home — but it’s as much a refuge as any home, anywhere, at any price point.

The tour proceeds.

Here on the south side of the house, she explains, we have the climbing wall.

Here, on the north side, we have the wavy slide. She grabs a cord that dangles above the slide and demonstrates how, after descending, one might pull oneself back up the slide for another go, or, if she took a notion, rappel down the slide backward.

“That’s my favorite thing to do: walk backward,” she says.

We ascend the stairs to the second level, part the beaded curtains made from recycled ball-pit balls, and step into the 9-by-11-foot great room.

The view is stunning, taking in the emerald green outfield and part of the red clay infield of Greensboro Day School’s baseball diamond.

This was the home-run view that the builders — Olivia’s parents, Dominic Bonino of Greensboro’s Bonino Construction and his wife, Laura — wanted to highlight when they started making Olivia and Connor’s rustic haven in the fall of 2022, two years after moving into their home off Lake Brandt Road.

Olivia was 2 when the family relocated and Connor was not yet born, but Laura already had designs on a backyard getaway for the kids — and, occasionally, for the adults.

She was tickled to live next to a baseball field, given her family history. Her grandfather on her father’s side, Ken Keiper, was a well-known player, coach and scout in Western Pennsylvania. He was inducted into the University of Pittsburgh-Johnstown’s sports hall of fame in 2014. Laura remembers attending games as a child.

Moving in next to a baseball field as an adult, she was excited about watching games with her own young family. A couple of years after Connor was born, she pitched her idea to Dominic.

He had a blueprint in his head. It called for a deck, lofted and braced on three corners. The fourth corner would be bolted to a mature maple tree. Floating 6 feet above ground — high enough to see over the privacy fence — the deck would feature proper stairs, double-framed railings inset with welded wire and a gabled roof pierced by one of the maple’s limbs.

In the span of four months, mostly on fair-weather weekends, Dominic roughed in the perch. He asked his roofing subcontractor to send over a crew to shingle the gable and make it watertight around the branch. He asked several times.

“I think he was wondering if it was some kind of janky thing that wouldn’t support their weight,” says Dominic, who finally sent pictures of his craftsmanship.

“If I’m gonna do it, I’m gonna do it right,” he says. “I wanted it to be sound enough to where, if we wanted to get 10 adults up there, we could.”

Convinced, the roofer dispatched a crew. They gave the clubhouse a proper roof and used a vent boot and flashing tape to seal the hole around the tree branch, giving the maple room to sway and grow.

Soon, a wavy slide and climbing wall sprouted at the sides of the clubhouse. Laura gathered furniture and accessories, picking up pieces from family, dollar stores and the local Buy Nothing Project, an app that promotes member giveaways.

So far, her haul includes colorful handholds and footholds for the climbing wall.

Small plastic tables and chairs.

A couple of pillows that say “Relax.”

A thermometer that promises “Butterfly Kisses and Rose Petal Wishes.”

A plastic mirror salvaged from a baby’s crib.

A string of star-shaped lights, solar powered.

A dinner bell.

An eight-note xylophone for a doorbell.

A pouch-style mailbox.

A couple of John Deere license plates from her grandparents’ farm.

And a set of gymnastics mats, which Olivia, Connor and their friends pitch as an A-frame hut used chiefly for spying, Olivia says.

“By the way,” she says, nodding toward my yard. “Your bird feeder looks pretty low on food.”

When Olivia, her brother, and a constantly rising and falling tide of neighborhood kids are not spying and serving salads, they are often sitting at small tables, working on art projects. Sometimes, their creativity spills over to the deck railings, which are decorated with rainbows, illustrated menu items and other childhood hieroglyphics rendered in crayon and colored pencil.

And, oh, they watch baseball games.

They pull for the home team, the Bengals, during their spring season.

“Ben-GALS, Ben-GALS, Ben-GALS,” the pint-sized fans chant.

Once in a rare while, if they like the opposing team’s uniforms, they’ll allow a cheer for the visitors.

But they’re a heavily partisan group. If the Bengals are down, they have been known to heckle the other side.

“Your pitcher has a big butt,” they taunt.

Occasionally, Laura and Dominic call down their charges.

But that rarely happens because of the house rules, which Olivia distills to their essence:

1. No jumping or name-calling from the platform.

2. No ratting out people who break Rule 1.

Seated in tiny Adirondack chairs approximately 4 inches off the ground— I’ll worry about how to stand up later — Olivia and I take in the extraordinary view from her living area late one summer afternoon.

Cumulus clouds climb in the distance.

Traffic swishes by on a nearby road.

A breeze sighs through the leaves, casting a filigree of shadows on the pressure treated boards before our feet.

Does Olivia wish for more in her home?

Of course.

An elevator would be nice, she says.

And refrigerator.

And a bathroom.

And a zip line.

Still, these 99 square feet —198 if you count the ground-floor kitchen — give her what she needs.

A place to rest.

A place to create.

A place to wonder.

“It’s my mini-home,” she says.

Glorious Restoration

GLORIOUS RESTORATION

Home
Feature

Glorious Restoration

A remade Reynolda landmark is beautiful to behold

By Ross Howell Jr.   •   Photographs by Amy Freeman

On a steamy August day, I’m driving along leafy Silas Creek Parkway in Winston-Salem, headed for Reynolda, the storied estate that is now part of Wake Forest University.

I’ve been invited to have a look at the top-to-bottom restoration of Reynolda’s gleaming, glass conservatory — the very first structure built on the property — before it opens to the public in October.

I turn at the entrance and pass the retail shops and eateries of Reynolda Village. Facing the parking area is a big sign that announces the impending opening of the “Brown Family Conservatory and Reynolda Welcome Center.” Just beyond the sign, I glimpse the glittering top of the structure formerly known as the palm house and greenhouse.

Work on the restoration has been going on for nearly a year, all made possible by a gift from longtime Reynolda supporters, Malcolm and Patricia Brown, who have three generations of family living in Winston-Salem.

I continue along a narrow drive, past walkers and joggers, and pull into a parking lot near the Reynolda House Museum of American Art. Completed in 1917 as the home of the R.J. Reynolds family, the museum now houses a permanent collection of three centuries of American art and sculpture, along with special rotating exhibitions and extensive online galleries.

I’m greeted at the museum entrance by Brittany Norton, director of marketing and communications. With Norton is the director of archives and library, Bari Helms. Prior to coming to Reynolda, she was an archivist at the Library of Virginia in Richmond. Finally, there’s Phil Archer, deputy director of Reynolda House. A native of Pennsylvania, he attended Wake Forest University for both undergrad and grad school, and has been with Reynolda for more than 20 years.

Helms has put together some materials, so we head for the archives. There, she directs our attention to a large rendering produced by Lord and Burnham, the premier builder of glasshouses in America during the mid-19th and early 20th century.

Helms slides the rendering toward Archer.

“Have you ever seen this?” she asks. “I found it in some boxes.”

Archer shakes his head, touching a finger to the edge of the drawing.

“I don’t think so,” he says. “Not with those perpendicular wings.”

“A little too ‘Versailles’ for Katharine, isn’t it?” Archer asks. He, Helms and Norton exchange knowing smiles.

Helms shows us a letter from a certain “Katharine” to Lord and Burnham, dated May 27, 1912. In it, Katharine details what she wants the conservatory to include — a palm room, a “good-sized” grapery, a tomato section, a large vegetable section, a propagating room and a “nice workroom.”

When Lord and Burnham responded with their plans and perspectives, and their quote for $7,147, Katharine wrote back that it was too much money. The greenhouse additions in the rendering were removed.

“In all her correspondence, you get a sense of how direct, hands-on and detail-oriented Katharine was,” Helms says. I don’t want to show my ignorance by wondering aloud who Katharine is, so I let them go on.

In December 1912, Helms resumes, Katharine wrote a letter to Lord and Burnham, complaining that the workers they’d promised had not yet arrived on site. In January 1913, she wrote again, noting that parts of the conservatory were not being built to her specifications.

“Katharine was very polite about it,” Helms says. “But insisted that she was making Lord and Burnham aware of the issue so they would fix it.”

No doubt they did.

And here I am, still wondering, “Who was Katharine?”

Those of you who know Reynolda just muttered, “Well, bless his heart.”

In my two decades living in Greensboro, until my visit today, I’d been to the estate only once, bumbling around Monkee’s of the Village, a boutique, while my wife, Mary Leigh, picked out a pair of Tory Burch boots.

So, for those of you as benighted as I was, here’s a quick study.

Born in Mount Airy in 1880, Katharine Smith Reynolds was a daughter of America’s Gilded Age and a wife in the Progressive Era of the industrialized New South. In the period photographs at Reynolda, she’s the young woman in the gorgeous outfits who doesn’t seem to be looking at the camera, but, rather, directly into your soul.

To this day, her spirit and determination inform every aspect of Reynolda.

Leaving her home in Mount Airy in 1897 to attend the State Normal and Industrial School — now UNCG — she later withdrew because of a typhoid epidemic and finished her studies at Sullins College in Bristol, Virginia. In 1902, Katharine joined the R.J. Reynolds Tobacco Company in Winston-Salem, where she served as personal secretary to the owner, R.J., a distant cousin who was 30 years her senior. In 1905, Katharine and R.J. married.

Between 1906 and 1911, Katharine gave birth to four children — at grave personal risk, according to her physicians, since she had been plagued with heart problems that started in childhood.

By all accounts, the Reynolds marriage was a happy one, and R.J. was confident in his young wife’s abilities, often consulting her on business matters.

Backed by her husband’s increasing wealth, Katharine began to purchase tracts of land near Winston-Salem. She would eventually acquire more than 1,000 acres, each parcel deeded in her name alone. Her idea was a Progressive one — to create a self-sufficient estate that included a country house, a farm utilizing the latest in technology and agricultural practices, a dairy, recreational facilities and a school.

The Reynolda conservatory was an integral part of Katharine’s design.

OK, class dismissed.

Archer and I leave the archives and head outside. As we approach the conservatory, he points out details — the iron skeleton of the structure, though all the glass and aluminum fittings are new; the foundations, built from fieldstones found on the property; the locations where the electrical lines are buried, hidden, just as they were when the village was being built.

“Katherine wanted the estate to look and feel like an old English hamlet,” Archer says.

“Burying utilities was high-tech for Katharine’s time,” he adds. “But that’s what she wanted.”

At the conservatory, I’m greeted by Jon Roethling, the director of Reynolda Gardens. He joined the estate in 2018, after serving as curator of grounds for the Mariana H. Qubein Botanical Gardens at High Point University. He has served in public horticulture and landscaping for more than 30 years.

Roethling’s been leading the restoration project.

He tells me that the work has been done by Cincinnati-based Rough Brothers (pronounced rauh), now a subsidiary of Prospiant.

“Rough Brothers has access to actual Lord and Burnham plans and molds,” Roethling says.

So, for the Reynolda restoration, the company could use templates on hand, extruding aluminum pieces to match the originals.

The tinted glass needed for the restoration was made by another company. Since it’s so specialized, the company only manufactures it twice a year. That was a big setback to Roethling’s schedule and delayed completion by months.

But the wait was worth it because the unsightly aluminum shutters added to the palm house and greenhouses in a previous renovation could be removed. Moreover, the manufacturer had the equipment to produce curved glass. This meant that the elegant shape of the original architecture — supplanted by the use of flat glass panes in a previous renovation — could be restored.

“When I walk into the palm house now, the architecture just sings,” Roethling says.

And there were the challenges of heating and ventilation — critical to a conservatory.

“We stayed with the original concept of radiant heat,” Roethling explains, “though the new system is very sophisticated.”

Ventilation was a trickier issue, since the conservatory is vented throughout — foundations, walls and roof. From the time the conservatory was built until this restoration, these many vents had to be cranked open or shut by hand.

“You have to strike this balance of having architecture that reflects 1913, but also having the convenience and efficiency of systems that are modern-day,” Roethling says.

“Knowing Katharine, one of the most progressive women of her time, I was sure there was no way she would want us to be hand cranking vents in this day and age,” Roethling continues. “So we made the jump to automated.”

The new system automatically responds to wind flow, wind speed and precipitation, adjusting ventilation as needed. Adjustments can also be made remotely, using Wi-Fi.

Recently, when Roethling noticed a thunderstorm developing nearby, he went to the conservatory to see how the system would respond.

“As the wind rose and the storm started rolling through, I watched the vents immediately close a bit,” he says. “When the wind grew stronger, the vents shut completely, protecting the greenhouses.”

We take a quick look at the welcome center, which is adjacent to the conservatory. It will be the orientation point for the facility. There are cabinet doors still to be hung and counters to be finished. In the future it will include plants, Reynolda-branded merchandise and historical information.

Leaving the welcome center, we step into the high-ceilinged palm room. The new tinted glass is working. While the area is warm, it’s not nearly as hot as I thought it would be on this sweltering summer day.

Walking outdoors to the open area in front of the conservatory, we have a full view of the central structure and greenhouses flanking it. The span, end-to-end, is more than 300 feet.

Sod has been laid the entire length. This will be a walking path for visitors. Between the edge of the sod and the foundations of the greenhouses are newly prepared planting beds, about 8 feet wide.

Roethling tells me that Reynolda has long been recognized for its peonies.

“The problem is, once the peonies bloomed out, that was pretty much it, visually,” he says.

With the restoration ongoing, Roethling wanted to do something significant about the peony beds.

“I needed someone who could do something amazing,” he says.

Roethling reached out to Jenks Farmer, a plantsman in Columbia, S.C. A published horticultural writer, Farmer served as director of Riverbanks Botanical Garden in West Columbia and was the founding horticulturist of Moore Farms Botanical Gardens in Lake City, both in South Carolina.

Farmer created a design for the peony beds incorporating other perennials that will provide visual interest throughout the growing season.

“Jenks is great,” Roethling says. “He loves balancing history with what’s relevant today. When he gets up here in a few days, we’ll lay out the beds and throw a team at them to get all the plants in the ground.”

Roethling smiles.

“It’s been a little bit like a three-ring circus,” he says. “I’ll breathe a sigh of relief when we open in October.”

Now he directs my attention to the conservatory.

“Each bay will have a different theme,” Roethling says. “This first bay will be in the spirit of an orangerie, which represents the birth of greenhouses.” (For the uninitiated, an “orangerie” is just what it sounds like, a greenhouse where orange trees are grown).  He explains that it will be filled with citrus trees, much like the original 17th-century orangeries in England and throughout Europe. The bay will also feature olive trees and other fruiting plants and will be used to illustrate a narrative history of the development of greenhouse structures over the centuries.

The next bay will be an arid greenhouse, featuring the five Mediterranean climates of the world — Southern California, the Mediterranean Basin, South Australia, South Africa’s cape area and central Chile.

“This will be a fun thing to educate kids,” Roethling says. “To explore with them how the plant palette changes, how the plants adapt.”

The central palm house will be elegant in its features. In big containers, there will be sealing wax palms with their deep red canes and tall Bismarck palms with their silver fronds.

“There will be a lot of texture — greens, whites and silvers,” Roethling adds. Visitors will be able to compare the broad texture of a palm frond to, say, the fine texture of a fern.

The next greenhouse bay will feature bromeliads, orchids and other flora that thrive in the tropics. And it will be about color — abundant, dramatic color. Listening to Roethling talk about this greenhouse, you hear his self-professed “plant geek” revealed.

“In here, I want to have freaky things that visitors walk up to and ask, ‘What is that?’” He smiles broadly.

The final bay will serve as a holding house for orchids that are resting. The plants will be organized by types, with interpretative signage.

“Even though the orchids won’t be in bloom there,” Roethling says, “that greenhouse will still be beautiful and educational.”

Just as Katharine would have expected.

The Gathering Barn

THE GATHERING BARN

Home
Feature

The Gathering Barn

A family creates a haven for togetherness and healing

By Cassie Bustamante • Photographs by Amy Freeman

On a 100-acre woodland in Meadows of Dan, Virginia, a newly constructed barn sits in an open field, nestled against the edge of the Blue Ridge Mountains. While on the outside it appears to be a standard barn, beyond its sliding doors sits the makings of an apartment, a sleeping loft, a garage and a breezeway made for entertaining. Rayhaven, as Greensboro residents David and Allison Ray have dubbed it, is a place they’ve built for gathering and healing, both for their family and others.

In 2020, amidst a global pandemic, Allison and David recognized that their 16-year-old daughter, Savanna, a competitive rower, was showing symptoms of a heart condition. How did they know? A pulse oximeter.

Because Savana’s grandparents are getting on in years and live nearby, they’d purchased one to check their own readings before visits to protect everyone against COVID. One day, they thought it would be fun to see just how low Savanna’s resting heart rate would be as an elite athlete. The result? “Her pulse was around 110,” recalls Allison. Dumbfounded, they went around the circle — Allison, David, younger son Luke (now 16), then back to Savannah. Again, 110 beats per minute. Plus, Allison says, Savanna had been experiencing some dizziness, which they attributed to the extremity of her sport: “In rowing it’s very intense. Kids row and puke in a bucket and keep rowing. Grit is kind of a thing!”

A visit to her doctor confirmed that there were some unusual things happening in Savanna’s body. Her doctor immediately ordered an echocardiogram and, from there, she was sent to get an MRI. The results did not provide the Rays the answers they desperately needed.

“There was a lot of mystery surrounding it,” says Allison. “And the only thing you can really do is just wait.” That wait would be three to four months filled with uncertainty. “As a parent, there’s nothing worse.”

Almost overwhelmed by the magnitude of what she had just learned, she turned to something that had helped her so often before: the solace and solitude that, in the past, a stroll around Country Park had offered. There, surrounded by nature, she allowed herself time to weep and collect her thoughts.

“I was getting so caught up in work and superficial things,” she admits. While much of the world’s workforce had found their jobs coming to a halt, as a busy CPA, Allison was still tackling spreadsheets, no end in sight. “OK, if this is a lesson for me,” she recalls saying to the powers that be, “don’t use her to teach me . . . If this is my wake-up call, I am awake.”

Determined not to overthink or overreact, she stepped away from the computer, tuned out the noise of the world around her and leaned into what her heart told her to do. “I just remember thinking, well, either my daughter is dying and I have to be the best version of myself because this is precious time. Or we’re going to be fine and I need to — in gratitude — be the best version of myself.” Either way, she says, “the answer was the same.”

For Allison, that meant slowing down and shifting her focus to “what matters — it’s family and love.”

She needed exactly what Country Park offered her that day — nature and a place to hike without people all around her. But as so many people sought a safe escape from home in the early pandemic days, trails became overloaded. And, with potentially two mystery illnesses on their hands — COVID and whatever was attacking Savanna’s heart — the Ray family decided to find a property where they could walk their own trails and spend time together.

With Allison’s ability to crunch the numbers financially and David’s work in residential real estate — everything from brokerage to rental property ownership — the idea of owning another property didn’t scare them. The couple spent months looking, which helped them really hone in on what was precious to them. Not only that, but their road trips to look for land offered a distraction from a potentially grim reality.

David says, it helped “to be looking to the future” — one that included their family wading in rivers, encountering woodland critters and stargazing beside a fire pit.

After looking as far as West Virginia, the couple realized they wanted something closer that they could easily get to for even something so short as a day trip. In Meadows of Dan, only 76 miles from Greensboro, they discovered a listing for 40 acres.

With the help of their Realtor, Karen Wilson of Five Star Mountain Realty, who knew the land and each parcel’s owners, the Rays were able to purchase several pieces around that original property, acquiring a total of 100 acres. “Our most premium piece was landlocked,” recalls David. “And we unlocked it by combining it with the things around it.” Now they have unfettered right of way and one mile of river frontage.

“The Dan River is known particularly for turning and this is a particularly tight turn, which is why we have so much frontage,” says David. Plus, he adds, another border features a tributary creek.

“It really came together nicely,” says David of the total property.

“It felt kind of heaven sent,” Allison chimes in.

And right around the time they closed on their new property, they received what David calls their “first not bad news.” Savanna’s heart did not seem to be failing. She was making progress in the right direction.

“It was a very optimistic day,” says Allison. “But in all of this, nothing is definitive.” They’d have to await a second positive report before the doctors would definitively say that she had really improved.

They found that family trips to the land, including with their Brittany spaniel, Winter, brought them much needed joy.

David sits on the sofa of their New Irving Park home, Winter’s copper-and-white head lazily resting in his lap. “You want to see this lump on the couch turn into a real dog,” he says, “all you gotta do is take her up there.”

“She’s kind of a mini-human in Greensboro,” adds Allison. “And at Rayhaven, Winter is a dog.” Generally shy of lakes and pools, the family pet jumps gleefully into the Dan River, her exhilaration contagious.

“We would just all laugh,” Allison says about watching their beloved dog come into her intrinsic nature. “And we needed to laugh.”

What appealed to Winter the most was also what appealed to them — the freedom to roam riverside. And in the river — waders on or barefooted. While the property had once been owned by a logger who’d forged many paths, they needed cleaning up. “I have a chainsaw now!” Allison says proudly.

“Clearing trails,” she adds, “there’s a meditation in it.”

Once, the couple rode their ATV along a trail to continue clearing work, turned a corner and discovered that a large tree had fallen. Standing there, looking at the huge tree that blocked their path, they suddenly began to draw parallels with what their family was facing. “It’s not your plan,” says Allison, “but you lean into it and pace yourself.”

Of course, they knew that finding a builder in a small moun tainside community to create a rough barn-style home would be another challenge. Again, their solution seemingly came through divine intervention.

“We’re walking in the meadow on our property and our neighbor comes out and we start talking,” Allison recalls.

“And when we say neighbor, you can’t see his house,” adds David. “He comes through the woods because he’s wondering who’s trouping through the woods next to his house.”

That neighbor was Bonssi Vincenti, a commercial and residential builder who’d actually worked with Greensboro’s Landmark Construction for years and now ran his own business in Meadows of Dan. Just like that, they had their builder.

“He commuted in his tractor!” David says with a chuckle.

The Rays put a lot of thought into planning their barn, which they’d dubbed “The Gathering Barn.” Almost like a mud room, the entire structure had concrete floors throughout that accommodated wheelchairs and were dog-friendly. Rough sleeping accommodation were provided for stay-over family and friends and there’s even a sink for cleaning fish: “Purpose-built for gathering,” says Allison.

“For us, financially this was a big leap of faith,” says David, adding that the couple decided to occasionally rent it, but mainly use it for themselves.

“A friend brought her youth group and they did their retreat up there,” says Allison. And, on Easter weekend this past spring, a young couple booked the property to tie the knot. Allison’s chocolate eyes sparkle at thoughts of her own daughter’s future. “Savanna said, ‘Maybe one day I will have my wedding or rehearsal dinner there.’”

Overall, the barn is approximately 60 feet wide and 40 feet deep, divvied up into 20-foot-wide segments. On one side, tucked away behind sliding glass doors off the breezeway, sits much more than one would expect, essentially the makings of an apartment: two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a living room, kitchen, laundry and even an office space. “We worked so hard on engineering every inch of that space to have maximum usage,” says Allison.

On the other side is a largely open space they’re now using as a garage for their ATV. It also has the rough bunk space that sleeps seven to eight. Downstairs in the bunk side is where you’ll find the industrial sink and another large bathroom — including a big shower to hose off the dog.

In between both, the breezeway holds a table and chairs for playing games or enjoying cocktails from the rolling bar Allison had Vincenti build from plans she drew on a napkin.

But the real heart of the home-away-from-home is the fire pit just beyond the barn’s back door. Whether it’s in the morning with a cup of coffee or with a glass of wine looking up at the evening sky, the family can often be found relaxing in the seats surrounding it.

In fact, Allison recalls seeing several shooting stars, which she calls “angel winks,” when they were first scoping out the property. Because there’s such little light pollution, they can even see the Milky Way from the comfort of their Adirondack chairs.

While the Rays managed to eke every possible intended use out of their barn and forge new paths on the land, they relied on beloved friend and interior designer, Lee Miller, owner of Luckenbach Designs — named after her maiden name— to make it feel like a home. Allison met Lee years ago and hired her to help with their New Irving Park residence. Quickly, the two became close — kindred spirits, according to Lee.

Before planning the design, Lee took a trip to see the property with the Rays, specifically the spot where the barn would sit. “The minute I saw it,” she says of the view from there, “I just got tingly.”

Soon, Lee was on a roll, accumulating pieces in the Rays’ Greensboro garage — everything from art to furniture, even bedding.

“She’s got a great eye,” says Allison of her friend, whom she refers to as a “Red Collection maniac.”

“Every time I am going up, I am carrying a trailer full of stuff,” David recalls with a laugh. That “stuff” would be placed in a shipping container intended for construction supplies.

But Lee understood the needs of her friends and knew just how to marry practicality with aesthetics while sticking to a budget. After all, this property was “a financial leap of faith,” according to David.

As it turns out, The Gathering Barn ended up being a place of purpose for Lee, too. “But it’s her story to tell,” Allison says.

Meanwhile, Savanna’s health also kept moving in the right direction, though the Rays still didn’t have a diagnosis. And tragically, her pediatric cardiologist passed away suddenly. Savanna had just turned 18 — officially an adult.

Thanks to a friend’s referral, the Rays found Savanna a cardiologist, Dr. Steven Klein, who saw her rather quickly. “I call him Saint Steve,” says Allison. As it turns out, Dr. Klein was also a rower and the first medical professional to really grasp Savanna’s feelings toward her sport throughout this process, asking her if she’d grieved for what was lost.

“She was one of the rowers that was being considered at college level and she was doing it with a bad heart,” says David. “And so it was like, it was a double whammy because she’s like, ‘How good could I have been?’”

At that moment, “Savanna just burst into tears and sobbed,” says Alison. “And it was super healing for her — and for me to see that healing in her.”

Dr. Klein was able to finally offer them a medical diagnosis: myocarditis, an inflammation of the heart muscle that is usually caused by a viral infection. While it can lead to sudden death — especially with athletes — it usually will resolve itself over time.

And has Savanna’s cleared up? “She has some autonomic body regulatory things that can still cause some dizziness,” says Allison. “But we did, just a handful of months ago, get a definitive — and her best — MRI of her heart functioning, where she’s squarely in normal zones.”

These days, 20-year-old Savanna is enrolled at UNC Chapel Hill, where she’s studying public policy. At the time of this writing, she was off on a European adventure, studying abroad. Over the summer, Luke, who Allison says was “very endearing to her throughout all of this,” joined her to travel Prague, Munich, Salzburg, Switzerland and Italy. “The two of them are bebopping around.”

The kids still head up to the barn with their family, but often enjoy time spent with their own friends there. And sometimes a family member will reach out and ask David and Allison if they can head up for a day because they just need a moment to recharge, a place to reset.

“A mountain breeze and the sound of water,” says David, “those are just healing things.”

“And so it was that in its origin story and it continues to be that,” says Allison. “That’s the family legacy.”

Rayhaven, indeed, helped the Ray family through one of the hardest moments of their lives. And now, when Allison starts to feel the weight of the world on her shoulders, she goes back to the moment the seed was planted.

“I can see it, I can taste it, I can touch it. I remember exactly where I was on the loop at Country Park, and it is like a reset for me. And then I know what I need to do. I head up to the mountains.”

Collection and Collaboration

COLLECTION AND COLLABORATION

Home
Feature

The Griffith Fine Art Museum at Red Oak Brewery

By Cynthia Adams

One day, Bill Sherrill said, ‘I need you here tomorrow at 1:30 on the dot.’ Was he firing me?” wondered Red Oak’s Anne Griffith. Due to illness, she had worked remotely even prior to COVID.

But now she was worried.

She found him “sitting at the sidewalk waiting for us to drive up.” A group stood outside the Lager Haus entrance where a large tarp concealed a sign.

With Griffith watching, fellow employee Joe Rickman stepped up, pulling the tarp away. She was shocked into speechlessness.

The sign proclaimed the future home of the Griffith Fine Art Museum.

The new museum was a testament to many things, including a collaboration between long-time friends.

“Bill had refused to put his name on it,” Griffith recalls thinking. “I didn’t deserve it. He did. He had purchased it. It’s his collection. I feel like I didn’t do anything.” While she insists Sherrill had spent far longer collecting, even before knowing her, he argues that she shaped and refined his focus.

Sherrill is adamant. “Bullshit. I couldn’t have done it without her.” As his long-time art advisor, Griffith, who began working with Sherrill 30 years ago, was due the honor. Working in tandem, Griffith and Sherrill sourced more than 500 works of art, excluding sculptures displayed in the biergarten between the two buildings.

She says the true genesis of the museum and event center at the Red Oak campus began much earlier. The museum itself was five long years under construction — but decades more in amassing the collection still being inventoried at this writing.

Griffith shares a revealing anecdote about Sherrill from his youth. When he was in his twenties, journeying to Texas to purchase a motorcycle, he returned with artwork instead.

Watercolors by artist Bogomir Bogdanovic in a Dallas, Texas, gallery caught his eye. Sherrill returned home with the artwork rather than the bike, having owned Indian, Honda and BMW bikes.

He kept the art, but not the motorcycles.

The two formally met in the 1990s when Griffith was eating at Spring Garden Bar and Grill at UNCG, one of Sherrill’s former brewpubs.

During lunch, Griffith openly admired the art on the restaurant’s wall, recognizing the work of her favorite North Carolina artist.

“I knew Jack Ketner and recognized the art as I had staged a show for him at Alamance County Firehouse Galleries,” she remembers. As early as the late ’80s and ’90s, Sherrill began collecting Ketner’s work.

Perhaps during her time as head of the Alamance Art Council, she had “almost certainly met Sherrill” during a Ketner opening. (Something which Sherrill confirms later.)

“I thought, ‘This is a man I want to get to know because he thinks like I do about art. A man who has good taste in art,’” she says. “He started talking to me about his life, and his history with artists and art.”

They came to better know one another in subsequent years, frequently comparing art tastes. At the time, she had left art administration and worked as a graphic artist. Her partner, Jimmy Allred, had begun working at Red Oak after losing a high-level state role, a political casualty, Sherrill explains.

“He came out to wash dishes at Franklin’s Off Friendly in a three-piece suit,” Sherrill recalls. “Of course, we put him to work, but not washing dishes.”

“Jimmy actually delivered the first keg of Red Oak beer!” explains Griffith, adding, “Bill kept telling me I was working myself to death . . . and that I should work for him.” She laughs at this, saying she jumped from the frying pan straight into the fire.

In 2005, Griffith was persuaded to come work at Red Oak after only one week’s retirement.

Initially, Sherrill installed a desk in a back room with the brewers, where she was immersed in the daily business of Red Oak, the inner workings and logistics of the brewery. Griffith recalls trading six boxes of beer for a better desk and a better office.

“I learned the business from the bottom up,” she says, observing the daily workings of what was fast becoming the state’s pre-eminent brewery, assisting with graphics for the bustling business.

In turn, Griffith shared her art training, education and important art associations, including her close friend Ben Williams, the first curator of the North Carolina Museum of Art (NCMA). It was an auspicious connection as Williams was charged with creating the NCMA collection.

“When Kerr Scott was governor, he got a million dollars to build a museum of art, and Ben Williams was then in Paris,” Griffith explains. “He called Ben and told him to come home to build the collection.”

“When Kerr Scott was governor, he got a million dollars to build a museum of art, and Ben Williams was then in Paris,”

Griffith explains. “He called Ben and told him to come home to build the collection.”

Sherrill visited Williams’ home in nearby Yanceyville and admired his personal collection. “He had a couple of Francis Speight paintings, which I grew really interested in,” he recalls.

“He seriously collected Speight later,” Griffith adds. “Bill and I both gravitate to those paintings.”

Together, Sherrill and Griffith logged untold hours visiting galleries, shows and museums while spending weekends searching auctioned works.

They made a pact to only buy what both liked.

As Griffith terms it, the collaborators were “hunting” for artworks. “We actually taught each other,” she says. Sherrill “was serious before I began hunting with him.”

“He would go to artworks and shows. He noticed art for sale in galleries when he traveled,” she says.

Flushing out their quarry, especially works by North Carolina artists, intensified.

The relationship between Griffith, an artist, and Sherrill, a hungry collector since young adulthood, grew familial.

Griffith cast a wide net via national auction houses, as well as longtime mainstay Leland Little in Hillsborough.

“We had Shannon’s in Connecticut, Swann Galleries in New York, Freeman’s, Gratz, Pook & Pook and Rago auction house” says Sherrill.

“Doyle, Brunk, Neil and Hindman,” she adds. Initially he relied upon art magazines to find works.

“Bill wasn’t much of a computer person,” she adds. “He’s become more of one in recent years. It’s something I mainly did.”

The art duo created a shorthand when scanning online art auctions, Griffith explains. “We finish each other’s sentences when discussing whether to buy or not to buy. It’s like talking to myself.”

“He’s right brain/left brain. Creating beer, creating flavors, is creative. But he has the right brain activity with the business side. Buying art uses his creative side, too.”

She believes “it’s rare to run into a right brain/left brain person . . . usually one side is much more dominant. Bill is a DaVincitype man.”

As the collection expanded into hundreds of artworks, sculptures and collectibles, it outgrew not only Sherrill’s home but even spilled into a tack room. It covered all available brewery walls and offices at Red Oak and even the gift shop.

The sprawling private collection had finally “morphed into adding a museum,” says Griffith, who kept copious notes while cataloguing when not designing graphics.

Sherrill visited museums in the North and Southeast and out West seeking ideas on display and storage.

In 2019, with Boyd Chatman as lead contractor, Red Oak broke ground on a 12,000-square-foot building adjacent to theLager Haus. (Sherrill unreservedly praises Chatman, who has been involved with most of his buildings in the past decade. “He is one of the finest men I ever met.”)

Hampered by the pandemic, the new building proceeded slowly.

Months later, Griffith is still ambivalent about accepting the honor of museum naming.

“I was telling Jimmy that it has taken blood, sweat and tears — and fright — to put this collection together,” she finally concedes, collecting her thoughts during interviews before the opening night.

“Blood? Yes! We’ve both had splinters from 19th-century canvas stretchers. Sweat? We both have sweated moving that collection from place to place to place.”

There were occasional tears, too, such as when a rare painting from a California gallery arrived damaged beyond repair. They gasped; the actual work was as beautiful as they had hoped, but ruined.

Despite such disappointments, the collection was honed, steadily incorporating works from the South and northward, acquiring artists from Bucks County and the Hudson River Valley.

For most of his life, Sherrill had long found artwork irresistible.

The Winston-Salem native bought his first piece of art in Old Salem while a college student—a watercolor he has kept.

Sherrill says the spark to understand and collect artwork was first lit by another Anne, Anne Joyes (now Mondon) when she was a young French au pair working in Virginia, and he was in the Coast Guard during the Vietnam War. He dated Joyes “10–15 years,” frequently visiting her in Giverny, France.

A 50-year friendship endures. He ticks off what he has realized through friendship with Joyes, whose sister Claire was married to Jean-Marie Toulgouat, grandson of American impressionist Theodore Butler. (Toulgouat was also Claude Monet’s great-grandson by marriage, and grew up at Giverny, where he painted.)

Both of the Toulgouats “were on the board of the Monet house at different times. It really got me into art, because Jean-Marie had a number of Monets and his grandfather’s paintings.”

“One thing I learned from Anne and trips to France is I loved Impressionist paintings.” Another thing he picked up is that “art is much more interesting if there are people in the paintings — if they tell a story.”

Now, there are three Theodore Butler works in Sherrill’s museum’s collection. One is of Toulgouat’s house.

Sherrill’s second art acquisition was by Toronto artist Wolfgang Schilbach. He still owns the picture of a house on the prairie, which hung in his bedroom.

After eventually going on to earn a graduate degree in hotel administration from Cornell University, he “spent all my nickels on things I liked.”

And he liked art. In a world teeming with unusual art museums combining unlikely things, a personal favorite is the German Museum of Bread and Art in Ulm. The Museum Brot und Kunst, as it’s called, houses Rembrandts and Picassos as well as fundamentals of bread making.

Now, Red Oak Brewery, just off I-40/85 in Whitsett may be the first of its kind, too, pairing fine art — in the newly opened Griffith Fine Art Museum— with fine beer.

Red Oak has steadily expanded its footprint since opening the expansive Lager Haus in 2018. The two-story-high, sleekly modern facility incorporates Museum space and an event center. Combined with the existing Lager Haus, that equals 24,000 square feet for the two public buildings — excluding separate offices and Red Oak’s brewery operations, which opened on the 12-acre site in 2008.

Sharing an entrance with the museum, which opened on April 25, the Lager Haus patrons, as Sherrill envisions, can experience an array of art after enjoying his signature Bavarian-style lagers, which draw appreciative fans.

His vision is similar to that of late Napa Valley winemaker and art collector Donald Hess, who created the Hess Persson Estates winery and museum complex, operating adjacent to the winery operations and tasting room. (Sherrill visited several years ago while building his museum.)

The two eclectic collections and museums — that of Hess and Sherrill — also invite other comparisons.

At Red Oak, the admission is free and the soaring Museum spaces are exceptional. Also, the respective museums showcase their founders’ private art collections, while operating a thriving, spirited business.

If it seems intentional, it was. Sherrill believes that art should be shared with the public.

As soon as he graduated from Cornell, he put his degree to work, creating and operating restaurants. His first, a fine-dining establishment called Franklin’s Off Friendly, April 27, 1979.

Memorably, the upscale Guilford College restaurant was run by a crack staff (Dennis and Nancy Quaintance met at Franklin’s when Nancy worked there during a Christmas break.) Restaurant reviews were praising. Despite winning repeated acclaim fromcritics (Franklins’ wine list won top praise from no less than Wine Spectator magazine), Sherrill felt unfulfilled and stressed.

Friend Nancy Willis, a Reiki practitioner, gave a salient warning.

Absent change, Sherrill would die young.

“I tried too hard,” he explains. He shut Franklin’ s down in 1989, reconfiguring it into a brewpub.

Beer making emerged as Sherrill’s chief focus. He took a new tack, selling beers to others as well as his own bars and grills, all made in the style of Bavarian lagers.

“We’ve only used one lager yeast strain for 34 years,” he says, also hewing almost religiously to the laws of purity that originated in Bavaria in 1516.

Meantime, Griffith explains her friend and colleague was simultaneously “loving art and dreaming of a museum.” A longtime idea, Sherrill admits.

Sherrill sought out art at auction and during travels. Works spilled over onto every inch of available wall space in his home and businesses. Initially unsuccessful in trademarking the name of one of his early beers, “Oak Ridge Amber,” he noticed Big Oak Drive-In on a mountain trek. That inspired the name “Red Oak” for his expanding lager-making operation.

Red Oak Brewery is now the oldest still-active brewery in the state.

Soon, too, a museum wasn’t merely a desire — it was a practical necessity for a robust collector whose drive to acquire art was on par with his ambitions for beer and lager making.

•

What is it like when a dream — an audacious dream at that — to build your own museum comes to life?

“I’m never looking back,” Sherrill answers after a pause. “I’m always looking forward.

He pauses again. “I’ve got a couple of projects coming up.”

“Try not to believe your own bullshit,” he comments drily.

Possibly influenced by his Moravian upbringing, Sherrill is known as private and self-effacing. He bats away compliments. “I am so much luckier than someone who grew up in poverty.”

He points out all the advantages of his birth: a good education and middle-class upbringing.

“I started at the 30-yard line,” he repeats frequently, making it clear he takes none of it for granted.

But on the night of the Museum’s soft opening in April, Sherrill’s mood was bittersweet.

He moved amongst 100 guests, including Leland Little, sculptor Billy Lee, writers, bankers, an art restorer, art framers, Red Oak staff and assorted friends, such as Dr. Neville Gates and Nicole Shelton. Wearing a white Nehru-collared shirt and jacket with jeans, he was affable yet subdued.

Notably absent that night was Anne Griffith, Sherrill’s longtime friend and collaborator — and the Museum’s namesake. Too ill to appear, he felt her absence.

As people experienced the sleek Museum for the first time, Sherrill mentioned that much of the museum’s realization was owed to Griffith. Nearby, a pianist played a baby grand installed on the first floor for the occasion.

“The museum?” Sherrill repeated in clarification, “I credit much of this happening to her.”

Pointing proudly to his friend’s portrait hanging on a museum wall, his eyes welled.

“Doesn’t Anne look like a movie star?”

Shelton understood that Griffith was among his most important friends. She noted quietly that it visibly pained Sherrill that she couldn’t share in the moment they had both worked towards.

•

Having said a “a well-run business is a boring business,” Sherrill says the business of art is also about putting in the hours.

If done well, it grows rote.

The inaugural show, “Southern Artists,” was curated by the museum’s first director, Susan Harrell, who has appeared in these pages, and features many of the collection’s early acquisitions.

“The first show is all Carolina-based artists,” says Sherrill.

Apart from blood, sweat and tears, Griffith believes Sherrill’s creative drive willed the museum into existence.

Those closest to the colorful businessman also describe a creative defiance of convention that allowed him to beat the odds. If one does whatever it is you love, Sherrill frequently insists, “then you never have to work another day.”

The entrepreneur loves art in equal measure to his lagers. Now a private museum, namesake of a valued friend and art guide, proves the point beyond any doubt.