Art of the State

ART OF THE STATE

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February 2025

Wishes into Art

Paper and fiber artist Elizabeth Palmisano’s particular alchemy

By Liza Roberts

For Charlotte artist Elizabeth Palmisano, inspiration comes from many sources: the material she works with, often handmade paper and fiber; her community, which includes students, fellow artists and complete strangers; and lately and most importantly, from a deeply felt calling to collect and transform the hopes and wishes of those people into art.

That art is often three-dimensional and always colorful. It typically makes a bold statement through scale, composition or unexpected materials, but does so disarmingly, with a beguiling beauty. Her work has been exhibited at Charlotte’s Mint Museum and McColl Center, and Palmisano has twice been voted Best Visual Artist by the Charlotte’s Queen City Nerve newspaper.

It’s not surprising that her community — which she incorporates into nearly everything she does — loves her back. As a self-described wishkeeper, Palmisano has been actively collecting their anonymously submitted wishes to use in her art for the last few years, most recently gathering more than 1,000 handwritten ones to incorporate into a massive, multidimensional mural on Charlotte’s 36th Street. Completed in September, NoDa Cloud Wall transforms a 23,000-square-foot parking garage wall into a colorful skyscape featuring three-dimensional clouds inscribed with those wishes.

“It’s really beautiful to see all the similarities that people have, from all walks of life,” she says. “We all kind of want the same things: Always love, then wishes for family, or for children. Love and family are always first. It’s wild to me how vulnerable people will be if you give them an anonymous spot to ask for what they want.”

The pandemic started it all. “It was really hard for me,” she says. “I’m an artist with a capital ‘A’ first and foremost, but I teach classes and workshops because I love being with people. And I couldn’t do anything like that. So this was my way to collaborate with people without being in the same room. I asked them to digitally submit a wish, and it could be anonymous, and I was going to make a piece of art for each wish submitted. Those were my first wishes, 58 wishes, and I created a piece of art for each one.” One recent morning, at uptown’s McColl Center, Palmisano was busy printing a limited series of card decks that feature her illustrations alongside wishes and affirmations: “I love fiercely, beginning and ending with myself” was one.

She jokes that her focus on affirmations and wishes allows her to be “a professional fairy princess at 40 years old,” but “because I’m an artist, I can get away with it.”

Still, so much outward, public focus can take an artist away from her own center, her own source of creativity. A recent fellowship at the McColl Center, during which she made paper vessels and curated an exhibit, “Liminal Divine,” that included her work and that of six other McColl fellows, inspired her to look back within.

“I want to make art for me for at least the next six months or so,” she says. “So I’m diving really deeply back into my handmade paper and fibers.” The paper vessels at McColl and a recent commission to create a 60-foot-long piece of handmade paper and fiber to hang indoors allowed her to return to the delicate medium that she started with.

As a child in South Carolina and as a young adult living on her own without a high school diploma, Palmisano not only had no access to art materials, she didn’t know “artist” was something someone could be. “I grew up in poverty, in a culture of poverty,” she says. Those roots underpin everything she does today. The first time she took discarded scraps of paper and fiber and reworked them entirely into a piece of handmade paper and sold it at an art show, she says, it was a revelation; she felt she’d performed a work of alchemy.

“It made me think of the way I grew up and where that came from,” Palmisano says. “Using someone else’s trash. You figure it out when you have no other choice. You can’t say, ‘I’m not going to eat today.’ Or, ‘I’m just not going to get to work today.’ Or, ‘I’m just not going to have clean clothes today.’ You figure it out. And I think that has served me well.”

In late 2019, when she filled a giant wall at the Mint Museum with Incantation, an ethereal, abstracted skyscape made of handmade paper, paint and collage, it was the first time many viewers had encountered fiber art in a blue-chip museum.

“Boundary-pushing” is how the museum described the piece, both for its use of recycled materials and for “breathing new life into objects not typically considered for use in the creation of art.”

It’s clear that the process of taking something discarded, breaking it down to its elements, and reworking it into something valuable and beautiful is not just empowering for Palmisano, it’s metaphoric.

And it’s always new. “Right now, I’m leaning deep into: ‘What do I want to make?’ I’ve got a lot of experimentation underway,” she says. “In the spring, I’m sure there’ll be something. I’ll be excited, like a kid walking up and handing you a dandelion they just picked: ‘Here’s my offering.’ Good work takes time, and I really want to give myself that time, because I want to continue to be able to do this work.”

Life’s Funny

LIFE'S FUNNY

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February 2025

Saints Alive

Valentine, Patrick, Nicholas and Fanourios. Who are these guys anyway?

By Maria Johnson

I was so delighted by the earrings — a pair of verdigris dogs with copper ears as bright as new pennies — that I had to try them on right then and there, in the backseat of my husband’s car.  My older son’s partner, Tina, had just surprised me with them, following a family ramble through a row of seaside gift shops.

She and I have a custom of giving each other earrings, and she’d clearly hit a home run with the canines she’d just sniffed out.

I plucked out the faux-diamond studs I was wearing and carefully extracted the pups from their plasticized card. I hooked one hound to my left ear and was fiddling with my right lobe when the second pup slipped from hand.

I heard it hit something hard — the seatbelt buckle? — on the way down. Oops.

I expected to see the stray lying on the seat beside me.

No dice. No dog.

I unsnapped the seat belt and felt around for a metallic bump underneath me.

I bent double and pawed at the floor mat.

Tina, too, searched for the hound that had somehow slipped away in the space between us.

Minutes later, when we stopped at a landmark lighthouse, I stepped out of the car slowly, monitoring for anything that might fall from the folds of my T-shirt or shorts.

Knowing that wayward earrings can hang up in hair, snag on necklines or fall down shirts, I ruffled my own fur, patted myself down and snapped my sports bra, hoping to dislodge half of the gift.

I looked down my own shirt, disappointed to see that nothing (else) had fallen.

Meanwhile, the four scientists in the car — that would be everyone but me — converged at the seat where the lost dog was last seen. They postulated that the hound had taken a one-in-a-million dive into a crevice, or bounced at a weird angle and landed somewhere unexpected. They slid their hands between cushions, into map pockets, under mats, around seat tracks and anchors.

They could not prove their hypotheses that day. Or the day after. Or the day after that, when we meticulously vacuumed the car’s interior while listening for the rattle of success.

Alas, there was no need to pick through the dust cup.

I was deeply bothered by this loss, not just because it rendered the gift unwearable. The second earring was somewhere. It didn’t vanish.

And yet it had disappeared, to our senses at least.

Desperate, I called on heavenly help from Saint Fanourios, the Greek Orthodox saint who helps people find what is lost.

When I was growing up, my Hellenic dad often appealed to “Agios Fanourios,” which he pronounced in his native tongue as “eye-oos fan-NOO-rios” with an “r” that rolled like the Aegean Sea.

In the days before AirTags and GPS, Fanourios dropped a pin on missing objects and guided us to them by process of elimination.

He specialized in keys, pointing the way to fobs that were tucked into pockets, wedged between cushions or lodged between furniture and walls.

Usually, we found what we were looking for. Occasionally, we did not.

At these times, my dad offered a dose of common sense.

Ask Fanourios to find a necklace lost while body-surfing?

“C’mon now, honey,” Daddy would say. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s just a saint. Even he has his limits.”

Also Fanourios did not, according to my dad, work cases involving stolen property. If someone swiped your basketball, it wasn’t lost; it was stolen. Fanourios was an intercessor, not a cop.

He was just a saint, a person who’d done some amazing things but was a person all the same.

Recently, I was thinking about my dad — who died several years ago — on his name day, December 6, the day that Greeks celebrate the feast of St. Nicholas. I searched online for a Saint Nick bio, curious about who he was before he became a saint and the forerunner of our very own Westernized Santa Claus.

Turns out, the original Nick was a bishop who, among other things, gave dowries to the father of three poor girls to save them from lives as prostitutes. So, you know, putting patriarchy aside for a minute, good on him.

Also, he is said to have revived three dismembered young people whose remains were hidden in a pickling barrel, which is disturbing on many levels, but I suppose still lands in the “plus” column.

Also, Nick might have slugged a heretic at a church meeting once. So there’s that.

For the sake of comparison, I snooped on a few other saints.

The soon-to-be celebrated St. Valentine, the patron saint of lovers, was a lawbreaker, said to have defied Roman Emperor Claudius by marrying couples so that the men would not be drafted into the military.

St. Patrick, in whose name we drink green beer and pinch people who aren’t wearing green — as if both of those behaviors are normal — was an English evangelist who converted lots of of Irish people to Christianity, but, heck, he wasn’t even a real saint. He was never canonized. And he never drove snakes from Ireland. The Ice Age, which snapped the chilly green isle off the continent, made it a no-slither zone for a long time.

And St. Fanourios? Very little is known about him, other than the usual saintly stuff: He spread the gospel, performed miracles and suffered on account of his beliefs. He was tortured and very likely died a gruesome death. His reputation for revealing lost items probably came because a pristine icon of him was unearthed from church ruins on the Greek island of Rhodes during Muslim occupation around the year 1400.

No wonder my earring was still lost.

My dad was right. These guys were “just” saints, not wizards (pickling barrel story notwithstanding).

Still, that doesn’t mean there isn’t some magic involved in appealing to them, letting go of a problem, letting your mind relax and coming back to it later.

I’m happy to report my missing dog was found. Sort of.

With my husband’s help, I Google-searched an image of the surviving earring, and up popped a boutique that sells identical litter mates.

As I write this, a new pair of hounds is bounding my way.

I can hear my pops now, giving Fanourios credit for his guidance and for keeping up with the times.

“Look, honey, he never said where you’d find it.”

Footsteps of the Fathers

FOOTSTEPS OF THE FATHERS

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February 2025

Descendants of the Greensboro Four support a legacy — and each other

By Ross Howell Jr.

This month, our Greensboro community observes the 65th anniversary of the 1960 February 1 sit-in at the downtown F. W. Woolworth’s “whites only” lunch counter.

There’s a parade in front of the old five-and-dime, now the International Civil Rights Center & Museum on Elm Street, dedicated on a bitterly cold morning in February 2010.

As is customary, a wreath is placed on the February One statue, also known as the A&T Four Monument, on the N.C. A&T campus. It memorializes in bronze the four freshman students — David Richmond, Franklin McCain, Ezell Blair Jr. (now Jibreel Khazan) and Joseph McNeil — who, in 1960, walked from the A&T campus to downtown Greensboro and straight into Civil Rights history.

Sometime during the observance, members of the Richmond, McCain, Khazan and McNeil families will gather for a meal and conversation, just as they have for years, thanks to the generosity of Dennis and Nancy Quaintance of Quaintance-Weaver Restaurants and Hotels.

“I’m so grateful,” says Frank McCain Jr., president and CEO of the United Way of Greater Greensboro. “Every year, Dennis and Nancy join us in a private dining room at their restaurant.”

“It’s a time for us to have fellowship together,” McCain Jr. adds. “It’s a wonderful thing. There are no newspaper photographers around, no television cameras — we can have real, family conversations.”

McCain Jr. stresses how closely the Richmond, McCain, Khazan and McNeil families are knit. “We’re like blood relatives,” he says. “Remember, our fathers were extremely close. They were best friends — all brilliant minds, strategic thinkers, passionate in their beliefs.”

“And they made sure that their children got to know each other well,” McCain Jr. adds. “The Greensboro Four’s children are connected, their grandchildren are connected, and it will always be that way,” he says.

McCain Jr. believes that the four A&T students understood early on that what they were about to do would not only become a proud legacy but also a burden of responsibility that would be challenging to bear.

Think of the four young men in the iconic photograph or the bronze statue.

On the left is David Richmond. He was the first to pass away — in 1990 at the age of 49. It was on his shoulders that celebrity seemed to rest most heavily.

Born and raised in Greensboro, a popular student-athlete at Dudley High School, Richmond entered A&T with a sense of purpose. But after the sit-in, he grew uncomfortable in the limelight. His studies suffered.

Because of his activism, many locals labeled him as a “troublemaker.”

Richmond left A&T and found work. But after repeated death threats, he moved away to a community in the North Carolina mountains. Later, he made the decision to return — Greensboro was home.

Wrestling with depression and alcohol, Richmond struggled to find a job.

“He had been blackballed,” McCain Jr. explains.

Despite the turmoil in his father’s life, David Richmond Jr. remembers him fondly.

“We would always get together with the families in February,” he says. “I remember Dad driving us to those events when I was little.”

Richmond Jr. attended Wake Forest University on a football scholarship — making ACC Player of the Week his freshman year and playing in the Tangerine Bowl.

He remembers classmates asking him if his father had something to do with the sit-ins in Greensboro.

“I told them yes,” Richmond Jr. says. “I was proud of what my dad had done.”

When a football teammate asked him to talk about his father in front of a class, he hesitated. He didn’t think he could do his father’s story justice.

“So I thought, why not get it straight from the horse’s mouth?” Richmond Jr. says.

He invited his father to speak and sat in the back of the classroom, listening along with everyone else.

“I learned so many things I’d never heard,” Richmond Jr. says.

He recalls thinking at the time, “Here I am, the same age my father was when he walked into Woolworth, and all I’m thinking about is when’s the next campus party.”

When his father died, Richmond Jr. felt lost.

“I wanted to represent him, but I’m not comfortable in front of crowds,” he says.

A big help to him was the tall figure next to his father in the historical photo and statue.

“Franklin McCain was my godfather,” Richmond Jr. continues. “We were always tight. I remember visiting him in Charlotte — we could sit down and talk about anything,” he adds.

With McCain’s encouragement, Richmond Jr. went on to represent his father at the dedication of the February One statue on the A&T campus, the official opening of the International Civil Rights Center & Museum and the recognition at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History.

“I remember telling Frank Jr., someday he would have to step into his father’s place,” Richmond Jr. says.

He was right. Richmond’s godfather, Franklin McCain, passed away in 2014 at the age of 73.

McCain Jr. struggled with his father’s death, which, like Richmond’s, seemed to have come too early.

“When my father died, I could not have handled it as well as I did without the other families,” McCain Jr. says.

“They all came to town immediately, and I didn’t have to tell them what I needed them to do for me and my brothers,” he continues. “They knew what they needed to do.”

McCain and Richmond had been roommates their freshman year at A&T, and Khazan and McNeil lived in the same dormitory. When they discussed their frustrations and fears, they also talked about how to support each other.

When McCain Jr.’s father graduated from A&T and left Greensboro for Charlotte, his wife, a Bennett College alumna, had already found work in the city’s school system. But McCain couldn’t find a professional position at all.

“My father had moved away from Greensboro,” McCain Jr. says. “But he hadn’t moved far enough.”

Like his former roommate, Richmond, he’d been blackballed.

McCain took the only job he could — as a custodian with a chemical company in Charlotte.

“But as fate — or Divine Providence — would have it, he became the custodian in the C-suite, where all the senior executives, including the president, had offices,” McCain Jr. says. And from time to time, the president and the custodian would chat.

One day, the executive asked his father, “Franklin, have you ever thought about going to college? You’re very articulate, you’re a sharp guy.”

And his father replied, “Well, actually, I went to college. I have two degrees — in chemistry and biology.”

“Then why in the hell are you cleaning up the bathrooms?” the president asked.

“Because this is the only job I could get,” his father answered. “I tried to get a lab job here and they told me there weren’t any.”

McCain Jr. chuckles.

“Less than 10 days later, my father had a job in the lab,” he says.

“He worked for that company for 35 years,” McCain Jr. continues. “And when he retired, it was from his office in the C-suite.”

After his retirement, McCain often spoke at Charlotte high schools, encouraging teenagers to finish their academic work.

“My father lived long enough to meet all his grandchildren,” McCain Jr. says, “But he didn’t really get to see the fruits of his labor. We’ve been able to live the dream that he envisioned.”

McCain Jr. tells me his brother, Wendell, attended UNC as a Morehead Scholar and went on to become a Wall Street banker and venture capitalist. Wendell has a son who is a senior at Stanford and a younger son who’s attending Carolina — also as a Morehead Scholar.

“And my youngest brother has a child who is a senior at High Point University,” he says, “and his other child is a sixth grader.”

McCain Jr. goes on to say that his oldest daughter graduated from UNC and is the chief operating officer of a large snack food company in Miami, Florida. His son, Franklin III, is his grandfather’s namesake. Nicknamed “Mac,” he enjoyed a very successful collegiate football career at A&T and now plays in the NFL.

“I think that if my father were alive,” McCain Jr. says, “He would feel like — you know what? If he and those other three had not done what they did, maybe none of us would’ve had these opportunities.”

Next to the tallest figure in the February One monument — McCain stood 6-feet-2-inches and weighed more than 200 pounds — walks the smallest, Jibreel Khazan — who was said to weigh 130 pounds, soaking wet. But whatever Khazan lacked in size, he more than made up in eloquence and charisma.

Born Ezell Blair Jr. in Greensboro, where his father taught at Dudley High School and was active in the NAACP, Khazan graduated from A&T in 1965. Labeled a troublemaker like the others, he moved to New Bedford, Mass., joined the New England Islamic Center and changed his name.

Recently, a New Bedford public park was named for Khazan, honoring his years of dynamic community and youth group leadership.

Khazan, now 83, will be joining the family gathering this month in Greensboro.

Khazan’s son, Hozannah, lives in Atlanta, Ga., where he is a self-employed business telecom consultant. He tells me that he is regularly in touch with New Bedford family and friends.

Not long ago, he was on the phone with a buddy.

“Hey, I saw your dad out walking the other night,” his friend said. “It was 11 o’clock at night and it was snowing. I pulled over and offered him a ride, but he just kept going!”

“That’s him,” Hozannah laughs. “He’s still full of energy!”

Interested in computers since he was a teenager, Hozannah enrolled at A&T in 1989 and majored in industrial technology, a five-year program.

“I tell people I was born in Massachusetts, but North Carolina made me a man,” Hozannah says. “A&T was a real turning point for me.”

He tells me that, at times, his legacy felt overwhelming. But being able to talk with McCain Jr. was a big help.

“I made sure to be available to spend time with Hozannah because I had already lived what he was about to go through,” McCain Jr. says.

He told Hozannah not to make his college years stressful by trying to live up to people’s expectations. His father lived inside him and there was no changing that, McCain Jr. advised Hozannah, but he would have to find himself, find his own pathway in life.

“Because I was young, I was resentful,” Hozannah says. “But we’re like brothers. We don’t always agree, but we aren’t afraid to voice our opinions.”

Hozannah says that when he reached his 30s, he was better able to embrace his father’s legacy.

“I realized that I was representing a greater community,” he continues. “It’s a lot of responsibility, but I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

The figure striding next to Khazan is Joseph McNeil, who was born in Wilmington. Right after he graduated from a segregated high school, he moved with his family to New York City.

The next fall, he returned to North Carolina to enroll at A&T, where he joined ROTC. It was on his bus trip returning to campus from Christmas break — wearing his uniform — that he was refused service at a Greensboro hot dog stand.

For McNeil it was the final outrage. His fury was the call to action for his friends on February 1.

He would go on to graduate from A&T in 1963 with a degree in engineering physics and was commissioned as a second lieutenant is the U.S. Air Force. After service in Vietnam, he retired from active duty but continued in reserve service.

McNeil retired from the U.S. Air Force Reserve as a major general with numerous decorations. While a reservist, he also pursued a career in finance.

McNeil met his wife when he was stationed in South Dakota. She is Lakota — a direct descendant of chief Sitting Bull.

McNeil is 82 years old and is not expected to attend the family gathering this month. But his son will be there.

Joseph McNeil Jr. attended Sitting Bull College and lives with his family on the Standing Rock Reservation, Fort Yates, N.D. He is CEO of the area’s sustainable energy and community development organization.

A year ago this month, the North Dakota Monitor reported that the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe was celebrating a multimillion-dollar electric vehicle charging network project in Fort Yates —administered by McNeil Jr.’s organization.

McNeil Jr. told the newspaper he was overjoyed to see a group of local middle school students attend the event because the new EV infrastructure represents a much larger generational transition to clean energy. In the article, he said, “I was able to relate to them how our culture is involved in renewable energy as we talk about our relationship to the Earth. That was really important.”

The legacy of the Greensboro Four is complex, and the walk four young men took on a cold February day has led their descendants down diverse paths.

When the International Civil Rights Center & Museum was dedicated, Joseph McNeil sat down for an interview.

“We were very ordinary people,” he said, “with very ordinary lives to live.”

But what is an ordinary life? What were the four A&T freshmen seeking?

“There are certain things that everybody wants,” Frank McCain Jr. says. “You want to be able to live a decent life. You want to have food for your family. You want to live in a place that’s peaceful and safe. You want your children to grow up and be whatever they want to be in life.”

Four young A&T men were determined to show themselves and their families the way. And what a journey it’s been. OH

For more information, visit the International Civil Rights Center & Museum website, sitinmovement.org. The center and museum, the restored site of the 1960 F. W. Woolworth Company sit-in, recently was named a National Historic Landmark, the highest recognition awarded by the National Park Service.

The House Next Door

THE HOUSE NEXT DOOR

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February 2025

The House Next Door

A hard-won dream is realized some 40 years later

By Cynthia Adams   •   Photographs by Amy Freeman

What happens when a house lover pines for the house next door? Ultimately, something wonderful.

While scouting business locations in the ’80s, Larry Richardson suddenly noticed an aristocratic house. A plummy one, as the Brits say. A grand Georgian Revival, the historic Stroud house featured rich architectural details, including Corinthian columns and pilasters, and tiled roof.

“I remember to this day driving down that street and looking at properties and seeing the house,” says Richardson. “And thinking that’s the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen! It’s as clear as yesterday.”

Unavailable, and for a small business owner, also unattainable.

So he did as he always did. He worked harder.

Richardson, who grew up near Burlington, has a work ethic that won’t quit, something he attributes to his grandmother in particular. “I wouldn’t take anything for the lessons of rural life,” he says. 

“Everything that could be used was used. And reused.” She collected buttons in a jar, he remembers. Was resourceful in the way that Depression-era country people were. “Quilts,” he muses, “were really the first recycling.”

She taught him to value — and save — everything. And thrift worked in his favor.  In the early days of his businesses, he was at the Super Flea each month, selling plants and cultivating customers for a nursery business that was growing faster than the hanging baskets and houseplants he sold by the truckload. He supplied plants for furniture showrooms in High Point each Market. He scoured estate sales every weekend to stock booths at three consignment shops. 

Instead of the Georgian, in 1989, he snapped up the historic Hollowell house next door, named it “Seven Oaks” and spent 30 years making it a worthy neighbor to the object of his affection. He filled it with finds, sourcing furnishings far and wide. At 5,000 finished square feet after a top floor conversion, his fixer upper was nothing to sneeze at. The pièce de résistance? A stunning kitchen renovation (“Purveyors of Beauty,” Seasons, December 2020), he says, a dream realized.

Having transformed “the heart of the house,” Richardson declared that he and his partner, Clark Goodin, would never leave.

That was in 2020. 

The two houses differed in style down to the brick color and roof — Seven Oaks was a Colonial Revival with sand-colored brick. The Stroud house, affectionately known as Hilltop, was larger. (Officially listed as the Stroud house on the National Register of Historic Place after original owners Bertha and Junius B. Stroud.) And, it had space to create a downstairs main bedroom suite — something that the original footprint of Seven Oaks did not.

Yet both houses had more than their Sunset Hills location in common — two-story garages complete with living quarters and full basements. Both were also listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

Since 1925, the century-old Stroud house has had few owners.

According to census data and city directories, after four years, the Strouds sold to Alice and John K. Voehringer, president of the textile concern Mock, Judson, Voehringer Company.

William Clement Boren Jr. and his wife, Ruth, owned the property from 1935–1940.

By 1941, Pearl and Charles Irvin, president of Elam Drug Company, had moved from their home at 900 North Eugene, becoming the home’s longest residents and raising sons Charles and David and daughter Doris there. The eldest son, Charles Jr., and his wife, Mary, acquired the house in the 1990s. Charles Jr. died in 2015, and Mary in 2019, leaving the house unoccupied.

Slowly, the grand house was emptied of years of family memorabilia. 

Richardson debated and pondered. It would make a fabulous project. On occasion, despite his day jobs as a nursery owner and antique retailer, Richardson had flipped “at least four houses, maybe more,” converting worse-for-the-wear properties to stunners, carefully preserving architectural integrity. Mere blocks away, a skillful Arden Place flip practically sold before the paint was dry in 2016. 

He was familiar with the home fixer-upper journey: Take a good house, one with fine bones and possibilities, in a great location, then modernize all systems, redo baths and kitchen, and finesse cosmetic updates. “Landscaping, of course,” he says.

Before leaving for work, he would glance next door, imagining the landscape possibilities at the Stroud house. (After all, plants were his longtime passion and career.) Time passed.

This was the opus — the house he studied every single day. The family agreed to give him first right of refusal — but it was a sobering, massive project.

Standing at their kitchen sink looking across the driveway, he and Goodin began seriously talking: This could be the ultimate flip. In his mind, Richardson could already see it restored to its former grandeur. It could again be the most beautiful house on a street lined with fine residences.

What he had never experienced, however, was a remodel that would take nearly five years to complete, thanks to a global health disaster and the chaos that ensued.

Nor could he anticipate that what began as admiration might deepen into love and a new opportunity to age in place.

Richardson and Goodin closed on Hilltop in the fall of 2020, soon after completing a dreamy kitchen of their own that was the culmination of years of collecting and saving.

The house next door was tired. Interiors that were au courant 30 years ago were no longer.

The previously redone kitchen would be gutted. The baths were 1925-era and had never been modernized. The house’s infrastructure had to be addressed from electrical and plumbing to central air and heating. “The only heat was an old boiler, and they had one air conditioner on the second floor,” Richardson recalls.

The Georgian’s ballroom filled the entire third floor. To claim that square footage as living area would require support beams and a stairway relocation, plus electrical, plumbing, heating and air systems. 

As for the rest, it came into view as the house was stripped of the cosmetics. Out went pastels, mint green and maroon carpeting, floral valances and Venetian blinds, along with 1980-era floral wallpapers.

Fully emptied, a vision took form. Early on, Richardson chose a color palette then picked tiles. Then cabinetry for kitchen and bath, with plans to create the ultimate main closets. Relocated a door or two. Scheduled floor refinishing. Imagined architectural restorations and enhancements. He splurged on choices, fittings, new baths — the whole house aesthetic — before the tedium of scraping, caulking and painting both interior and exterior. 

“Then we got into COVID.”

“It was awful, and had I known what I was going to face I would have passed. I would have run the other way. Even with people and workers I had relationships with, I couldn’t get any momentum. Things just languished,” he recalls.

Renovations were suddenly uppermost for those stuck at home, and workmen and supplies were in demand during a time of uncertainty and scarcity.

“Workers got sick with COVID, then their partners. Then their families. It went on and on. Worse yet, the supply chain drove up prices of everything that went into it. A two-by-four went to at least triple the price. Any budget you had was gone.”

Amidst the chaos that overtook the globe, both Richardson and Goodin had businesses to run. Owners of Plants & Answers’ two locations, Richardson oversees the Big Greenhouse on Spring Garden, and Goodin runs the floral business in downtown Greensboro.

Time dragged by and the work — on the largest renovation they’d ever undertaken — proceeded in hiccups.

They consoled themselves, knowing they still could flip the property and make a nice profit if they proceeded as planned. It was, at least, a project greatly simplified by living next door.

At the time, they were still thinking strictly in terms of a flip.

Fast forward a few years later? It would be late in 2024 — four years since purchasing — before they could see the project’s end in sight.

Renovations had not come easily.

Even now, things remain tough, Richardson explains. For example, the custom front storm door he ordered didn’t work and had to be redone. It rested on its side in the living room. But the creative vision worked.

“I [always] knew green would have to be a tie-in color,” Richardson says indicating the original green tiled sunporch that opens to the dining room. (There is a second sunporch at the rear of the house.) 

Whereas pastels ruled in the old interiors, they were not going to survive in the new design. Green, however, would stay, replaced with supersaturated colors like Greenfield (Sherwin-Williams) and a bronze Benjamin Moore hue for the sunporch’s trim and casement windows.

The redone kitchen features yet another strong green, Sherwin-Williams Basil, as a unifying accent. In the breakfast area, he reused Sherwin-Williams Restrained Gold, a rich ochre tone from his former kitchen. He also installed a stained tongue-in-groove kitchen ceiling, and white quartz countertops.

A pot filler and porcelain farm sink were suggested by Goodin, who loves to cook. Richardson points out the natural light: “It’s fabulous.”

Master carpenter Marty Gentzel built the kitchen cabinetry, as well as other cabinetry, molding and architectural touches throughout the house. Gentzel, whose work is in high demand, could only begin full-time work on the house last September. 

He previously worked on the renovated and newly created third floor baths last April, then tackled replacement shutters for the exterior ones that were ruined by age. 

Gentzel created arched kitchen doorways, unifying the opened space that combines the breakfast and butler’s pantry area, while tying in existing archways at the front of the house. The previously squared off doorways showcase his favorite work in the house, custom arches painstakingly matched to existing trim work. “That was tricky,” he adds. 

“When you do an arch, it opens up everything,” says Richardson. He felt they would be a wonderful flourish.

“This whole house, it’s a canvas all its own,” says Gentzel. “You care more than anyone I’ve seen,” he says, turning to Richardson.

“I’m almost done,” Gentzel says, having worked daily only months ago.

“No, you’re not,” Richardson quips, then grins. “I’ve got more projects for you.”

For the central, inner core of the house, Richardson used an aged white on the walls, describing “a creamy white, and trimmed in Dover White,” also used for trim throughout the home. For the formal rooms, “Livable Green and Ethereal White lent green undertones, tying the rooms together.”

Three years after the renovations began, Richardson had invested far more time and money than he had imagined. During a kitchen table conversation, Goodin hazarded an idea: Why not move into Hilltop themselves?

Richardson was amazed. He’d idly imagined keeping the house. But he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine actually living there. 

Goodin pressed. They could complete the two planned bathroom renovations for Seven Oaks when empty and prepare it for sale. Hilltop would become their permanent home. “We could have a downstairs bedroom and age in place,” he argued.

Goodin made strong points. Why shouldn’t they benefit from all the work they’d poured into the restored home? Plus, they’d worked their entire lives. This was a fabulous home large enough to handle all their collections.

Privately, Richardson considered: Had it always seemed more than just a flip?

Had he stood in the grand foyer, staring at the sweepingly dramatic staircase and envisioned what he would do with the final interiors? Yes, he admittedly had. 

The problem with doing flips, he admits ironically, is that he always wants to do the house as if he will live there.

Then Richardson laughs; he had been shopping in earnest for the house even before he and Goodin contemplated keeping Hilltop.

“I was going to do some light staging for it,” he explains. “I began to do it with opposing sofas in the living room. Something people would relate to. But I didn’t start buying furniture and rugs until Clark said, ‘I think we should move into the house.’”

Richardson immediately ramped up his search. He raked through estate sales across the state. Soon he was bidding on furnishings that were scale appropriate, and Venetian glassware and hand painted plates that would accent the dining room.

Stacks of artwork awaited hanging, including a painting by former Greensboro artist David Bass. A federal mirror found a place in the stunning living room.

“I looked for the right rug, and it was tough,” he says, pulling two chinoiserie chairs into the main living room to be used as accent chairs beside a side table. A new-to-him grandfather clock found a home.

“I already knew what I was going to do,” he says, scrolling through pictures on his phone of vintage acquisitions. He hung lighting found at estate sales and auctions. Period lighting for the dining room was purchased from the Dupont estate. The dining room’s central candelabra is a Versace design, one of only eight made.

Even as the furnishings awaited placement, Richardson’s eyes shone with the certainty of his vision — instinctive vision.

Richardson acquired 18th-century Irish mirrors for the living room, which is approximately 18’ x 30’ in dimension. It can swallow up a whole lot of furniture, he admits, but he wanted ample open space. A green chinoiserie secretary and a narrow Irish wake table, “useful for overflow dining,” are  in the living room.

The hallway, whose new molding matches surrounding rooms, features Impressionistic paintings and serves as an art gallery. “There was no molding before, just plain walls,” says Richardson. Over 500 feet of molding, according to Gentzel, was replicated from the main level and added. “He redid this entire room,” Richardson says, indicating the family room, with a newly built in Baker cabinet he bought for $100. 

An expanded downstairs bath is a step towards having the option of converting the den to a main bedroom.

But it is the powder room that had guests buzzing when Richardson and Goodin hosted their new home’s first event in November 2023, even with the house mostly empty and work still underway. (They sponsored a fundraiser last winter for a local animal rescue.) 

The tiniest of all the rooms, it punches well over its weight. Artist Cheryl Lutens was commissioned to faux paint a chinoiserie bronze/gold design on the walls, so deftly done it rivals luxurious de Gournay hand-painted paper. The ceiling is gilded with gold leaf, lending depth and dimension. A guest called it “the jewel box.” 

It nearly upstaged the central stairway — a “Federal style, sweeping staircase,” as Richardson describes Hilltop’s showstopper.

The expansive upstairs landing is large enough to serve as office space. The house, however, still in a state of flux between renovation and occupation, was like a theater set before the opening show. Furniture partially filled the landing, which served as a staging area. 

The Irvins’ daughter, Doris, was in attendance for the fundraiser along with other family members, including eldest son, Mose Kiser and wife, Jean. She regaled guests with stories of her family home in its heyday. She chortled over how her mother unceremoniously goose-stepped an intruder, who had crawled through an upstairs bedroom window, out the front door.

The upstairs, neutralized and fully functional, sports essential yet invisible changes that consumed large chunks of the budget. Heating systems, reworked roofs and copper guttering were costly; built-ins cleverly conceal necessary ductwork. 

Similar to downstairs, baths were either gutted or expanded where possible, and redone in sympathetic style to the originals. Two were added on the third floor.

The color palette upstairs is a noticeably calm, “restful gray,” Richardson says, which has further served to open the space.

The main upstairs bedroom has a French door providing access to a walk-out space — the same one where the intruder had hoisted himself up. “It’s beautiful at night here,” says Richardson. “You can watch the stars.”

It will overlook a garden he is planning, where, years ago, the Irvins created three holes for the children to learn golf, he explains.

Several French doors lead to walk-out exterior terraces upstairs, including on the front of the house directly over the entrance.

Most radically altered is the third floor. The former ballroom (pressed into service for Greensboro High School’s student prom) has been transformed into new bedrooms and baths. The unfinished oak floors now shine.

Richardson is pleased with the new iron staircase leading to the third floor with a gracefully curving handrail in a fanciful design called “the lamb’s tongue,” designed by craftsman Randy Valentine of Southside Iron Works. 

“Randy said he’d never curved a piece [of iron] this thick. He was very proud of it.”

New stairs replaced narrow, cramped steps — once the sole access.

Richardson is especially fond of one of the new third-floor showers featuring a light-providing window.

He leads the way down three floors to the least changed space: the basement.

Here, the house seems to audibly breathe. He envisions a finished wine room. The whitewashed basement is mostly empty apart from a zinc-topped counter relocated from the kitchen.

Standing in the quiet, cool space, Richardson grows thoughtful, confessing it may seem odd to upsize when others nearing retirement do the opposite. Hilltop now has nearly 6,800 heated square feet. Here they can begin to “curate carefully and eliminate excess.”

“It’s an opportunity to thoughtfully place things.” He adds, “We can actually see our collections versus having them stuck away in closets and drawers.”

Can he envision living at Hilltop?  

“I do,” he adds quietly. “But I was conflicted. Because I still love our old house.”

He takes stock, absorbing the rhythms of the house. A quiet lull before a brick mason arrives to discuss an outdoor water fountain, one Richardson found at an estate sale near the mountains. 

“Listen, I never imagined we could have something so wonderful. But we’ve both worked hard for everything we have.”

As wonderful as a dream realized is, he later phones to share what he likes best about the beauty he wooed and won. 

Forget the sweeping stair, grand entry and front rooms. He’s happiest with the everyday spaces. “The rooms at the back of the house. The kitchen. The sunporch.” Here, he and Clark read papers, drink coffee, share meals. Ordinary moments in a dream of a house.

He sighs happily. One day, too, he adds, “I’ll slow down.”

Tea Leaf Astronomer

TEA LEAF ASTROLOGER

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February 2025

Aquarius

(January 20 – February 18)

Those who know and love you can attest: Humdrum just isn’t in your wheelhouse. This month, when life sprinkles a few so-called obstacles in your path, consider it a boon. Not only will you rise to the occasion, you’ll also land in the good graces of someone whose unconventional thinking both complements and challenges your own. Trust that any perceived failures are but compost for the goodness to come. Your life will be anything but boring.

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Take two whopping steps back.

Aries (March 21 – April 19) 

Read the subtle cues.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

It’s going to be worth all the mess.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

Deeper breaths, darling.

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

Two words: lemon and cayenne.

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

Best to take smaller bites.

Virgo (August 23 – September 22)

It’s time for a new playlist.

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

Resist the urge to fold.

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

The laundry is behind you.

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Tend to your nervous system.

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

Don’t forget to stretch.

Chaos Theory

CHAOS THEORY

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February 2025

Traipsing Around the City of Love . . .

In a tres platonic way

By Cassie Bustamante

Google the most romantic city in the world and I guarantee you that Paris shows up at the top. Known as the “City of Love” and the “City of Lights,” its cobblestone streets abound with cozy corner cafés where couples can canoodle while sipping café au lait and munching on flakey croissants. And, of course, there are the scintillating lights of the Eiffel Tower, where close friends of mine got engaged. Ambient music abounds, thanks to street buskers. Everything about Gay Paree heightens one’s senses, creating a feeling of magic and wonder — similar, indeed, to the feeling of falling in love.

On our 21st wedding anniversary last September, my husband Chris and I head to RDU, but I’m the only one of us who will be boarding that JetBlue. From Raleigh, I fly to Boston, where I meet up with one of my very best friends, Chandra, and together we soar over the Atlantic, fulfilling a dream both of us have had for ages, landing at Charles de Gaulle Airport. Why Paris? To experience the art, architecture, cuisine and culture with the funniest human I know.

And Chris? We all know that Khalil Gibran quote: “If you love somebody, let them go, for if they return, they were always yours. If they don’t, they never were.” I’ll return. Chris knows it.

He and I have spent years in this dance, but usually it’s me who is left behind tending to children, home and dogs — sometimes chickens — while Chris travels for work. But all of those nights I spent single-parenting have led me to this one great adventure. Chris selflessly books two rooms at the charming Hotel Relais du Louvre, admittedly thanks to points he’s accrued. And that’s how my best friend and I find ourselves celebrating the greatest platonic love there is in the most romantic spot on the globe.

Like me, Chandra is a pun-loving gal whose passions include wordsmithing, traveling, Taylor Swift, exploring new restaurants and foods, reading, memes, and basking in glorious memories of our ’80s childhoods. We’ve only been friends for five years, but when you know, you know. When she visited London a few years ago, she brought me back a ceramic jewelry dish with a sheep that reads, “Ewe are amazing.” Upon my opening it, her eyes filled as she exclaimed, “It’s a pun!” She just gets me.

We are not exactly culture vultures, determined like some are to pack into a short week every iconic tourist stop while honoring the grand dame of European culture. After all, who are we trying to impress? We quickly realize we are just a couple of Americans who will inevitably be labeled innocents abroad, so who cares? For instance, one day I pause outside a restaurant called Les Éditeurs and shout, “C’est moi!” Chandra snaps my pic. So what if we’re not exactly sophisticated connoisseurs of Parisian haute culture. But pop culture? We’ve got that in spades, so on another afternoon we also pay homage to the Emily in Paris Savoir office, posing outside the building’s door as if we were Lily Collins — minus the over-the-top fashion choices — on our way to work where we’ll create a silly hashtag that’s sure to solve a brand’s dilemma.

After we’ve dropped our bags at our hotel, stomachs rumbling, we wander to the closest corner, where the Café des Arts awaits. We take one look at the menu and, naturellement, decide upon le café and savory crêpes. Having won the prestigious French award (c’est du sarcasme) at my small high school, I attempt to revive the almost 30-year-slumbering skill to order. When our meals arrive, we hungrily dig in, our forks stretching the melty, gooey cheese while bits of ham tumble onto the plate. My French has not come back as smoothly as I’d hoped and when we ask our waiter to divide our check in half, I notice that he’s taken the liberty to add a couple euros to each. Garçon, my math has not escaped me. He all but rolls his French eyes at us when I protest.

Turns out, he is the only Frenchman to attempt to take advantage of our American-ness. Every other server and shop attendant we encounter appreciates my attempts to parle Français. And when I blunder, I shrug and say, “J’ai essayé,” (“I tried.”) That little three-word French phrase becomes the anthem to our trip, so much that when we stumble upon a Parisian tattoo parlor, we contemplate burning the memory into our flesh forever.

Over the course of the next week, we meander through surrounding arrondissements, shopping in St. Germain, Champs-Elysées, Le Marais and the Latin Quarter — with a stop at the renowned bookstore Shakespeare and Company — picking up souvenirs for our families. Both of us writers, we reverentially stroll by cafés once frequented by Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

We walk through the impeccably landscaped Luxembourg gardens and take a day trip to see Giverny, where Monet’s impressive grounds explode in vibrant colors, even in autumn. We pore over art at the Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay. We dare to be silly. Inside the walls of the Louvre, Chandra spies a painting of a naked woman holding a white rag that appears to be dirty. She leans over and whispers, “That one’s called Self Tanner.” We erupt in giggles.

We dine on buttery, smooth escargot, fromage of all sorts, beef bourguignon so tender it falls apart at the touch of a fork, so many croissants we should grow tired of them — but never do. In one establishment, Chandra tells me she has to go to the ladies room and says to me, “Oui, oui — oh, my first French pun!” And more than once, we indulge in our mutually favorite flavor of gelato, pistachio. A little nutty, a little sweet and a touch salty, just like us.

As a gift to ourselves, we hire a professional photographer, who spends a couple of hours with us one damp and gray morning. And while I’m certain that the photos will be atrocious, thanks to disgusting weather, when we receive the proofs, all I see is our gleeful joy at spending time together. We’re lucky it was in Paris, but it could have been in Ottawa, Canada, one of the most boring cities in the world, according to Smarter Travel. No matter what, I’ll always return to the most romantic place I know — my life at home with Chris.

Poem February 2025

POEM

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February 2025

February 2025

The Fog

Some say strong winds and hard rain sing,

but I love the more subtle things:

stillness as mists make frost and dew,

the time between crickets and wren

before the cruel light crawls in

and work takes me away from you.

 

Drunk with sleep but almost aware

that we are more real than dreams,

but much less sure and far more rare.

 

Not cold silence, that’s too extreme

though the loudest leaves go quiet

as fog fills in what we forget.

 

The sun starts showing silhouettes.

Stalled clocks whisper: “Not yet. Not yet.”

— Paul Jones

Ushering In Love

USHERING IN LOVE

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February 2025

Two couples share their love for performing arts at the Tanger Center

By Cassie Bustamante   

Photographs by Mark Wagoner

While sitting on the large concrete orbs in the LeBauer Park playground as our youngest son played with a pal, my husband, Chris, spied a silver-haired couple strolling by holding hands.

“Aaaaw, how cute,” he said. “That couple matches.”

“Of course, they match,” I replied. “They’re wearing their usher uniforms and are clearly on their way to work at the Tanger Center.” As soon as the words escaped my lips, I knew I had to know who these people were. What kind of couple, in their golden years, still hold hands and go to work together? I looked at Chris and wondered, could that be us one day?

I immediately reached out to the Tanger Center and learned that there was more than one gainfully employed couple who ushered in guests awaiting theatrical and musical entertainment.

The couple we spotted in the park, Allen and Anita Greenstein, will celebrate their 60th wedding anniversary later this year, and Dale and Starr Harrold just rounded their 50th year of marriage in 2024.

Inside the walls of the Tanger office, I sat down with both couples to learn more about them and also to try to crack the code to a long and happy marriage.

Allen & Anita Greenstein

Sixty-one years after the fact, Allen and Anita Greenstein easily recall falling in love with
one another.

“We met in a house plan. A house plan is a poor man’s fraternity,” says Anita, a 4-foot-8-inch spitfire of a woman. “I was supposed to meet another fellow and instead I met him.”

“And that was it,” says Allen.

“And that was it,” repeats Anita.

At the time, Allen was a senior attending The City College of New York and Anita was an undergrad at Pace Institute. Having grown up in New York, both regularly attended Broadway shows from a young age. “We dated and went to all the theaters,” says Anita.

But Allen quickly rattles off an exact date: Feb. 7, 1964, their first date. On a tight budget, Allen scraped his nickels and dimes together to take her to the movies that night, where they saw an Audrey Hepburn film. “I can’t remember exactly which one,” he says, “but I knew something was percolating at the time between us, which is why I remember the date.”

For 30 years after that, Allen gave Anita flowers one full week before Valentine’s Day. “And for 30 years, she said, ‘What’s this for?’ So I stopped.” His eyes crinkle in the corners as he stifles a giggle.

After they were married, on Aug. 14, 1965, Allen went on to earn his doctorate in clinical psychology.

“And I got a doctorate in keeping him happy. And I got a PHT,” quips Anita. “Putting hubby through.”

The Greensteins left New York behind for plain old York — in Pennsylvania — where Allen set up his psychology practice and they raised a family. For 36 years, Allen practiced there and even launched a large mental health program with Anita working by his side.

“She took care of the clerical staff, a lot of administrative stuff. I supervised all the professional staff,” says Allen. “She did her thing, I did mine.”

“We don’t do anything separate,” says Anita. A fact the couple is clearly proud of is that theirs was the first mental health facility to computerize for billing, record keeping and “things of that nature.”

While they left New York City behind, they took with them their shared passion for theatre. Anita became active in the York Little Theatre (now The Belmont Theatre), acting, dancing — which she preferred to acting — and even handling publicity. Allen recalls hitting the stage as well, playing Captain Hook in a Little Theatre production for children.

And, over the years, the couple has become convinced that live theater is good for a community’s mental health. How? “Let me get my speech ready,” Allen answers. “It’s usually a very positive experience and it’s great to go in and have your spirits lifted by the story, by the talent, by the music. It’s beautiful.”

After a moment of further consideration, he continues. “And even when the topic is not so bright and cheery, some of these things need to be discussed. It’s a great outlet for lifting your spirits or provoking some discussion.”

Eventually, Allen retired from his practice and the couple relocated to the Sunshine State, Florida. Their love for live theatre and stage shows once again followed them and they found their way to the Sunrise Theatre in Fort Pierce, Fla.

There, Anita thrived in a position as team lead, managing a crew of 42 people to cover a 1,200-seat theater.

“It was the graveyard of old singers,” Allen jokes.

Anita scoffs defensively.

“Well,” he admits, “Tony Bennet was there.”

And yet, the couple thoroughly enjoyed the many “old singers” that traveled through the theater, where they were able to interact with artists such as Kenny G, Debbie Reynolds, Joan Rivers and Howie Mandel, to name a few. Anita recalls having a serious heart-to-heart with Ms. Reynolds about osteoporosis.

But a real magic moment for Anita was having her photo taken with Air Supply’s Russell Hitchcock, whose arms are wrapped around her petite frame in the picture. Her entire face glows as she reminisces about that moment and sings: “Just when I thought I was over you, just when I thought I could stand on my own, oh baby, those memories come crashing through . . .”

But it was Willie Nelson who left a mark on both of them.

“You want to know a real good story?” asks Anita.

“Willie Nelson!” exclaims Allen. “We were Willie Nelson’s body guards.”

Anita proceeds to tell the story of how a crazed female fan came forward when it was autograph time and proceeded to climb on stage with Willie. As the Shakespeare line goes, “Though she be but little, she is fierce.” Anita got her down. “She pulled her off!” Allen says proudly of how his wife managed to get a woman much larger than herself off the stage.

As a thank you for her heroism, Willie gave Anita one of his signature bandanas, says Allen.

“A clean one,” she quips. “All the others were dirty.”

Despite the countless exciting interactions with celebrities, the Greensteins felt the call to Greensboro, where their daughter, Barbara, lived with her husband, UNCG Provost Alan Boyette, and their kids. They landed in the greener pastures of North Carolina in 2017 and soon got wind that a new theater was due to open in 2020.

Given their experience and charismatic personalities, the Greensteins were a natural fit to become ushers at the Steven Tanger Center for Performing Arts. Of course, the COVID pandemic delayed the scheduled opening, which was to happen on March 20, 2020, with the renowned Josh Groban. Instead of the theater opening its doors, the entire world shut down.

But a year-and-a-half later, when home-grown songbird Rhiannon Giddens performed the first show at Tanger on September 2, 2021, “We were there,” says Allen.

At Tanger, the two continue to share their passion for stage with guests. They love greeting guests as they arrive, getting them amped up for the show they’re about to see, and view their team of fellow ushers as family. According to Allen, the best part of his role is “to see the wonder in their face, that’s very sparkling.”

Looking back on almost 60 years of marriage, Anita says, “I still can’t believe it — it’s kind of amazing.” So, what’s the trick? “Because I love him,” Anita says simply.

While they don’t travel or get out as much as they used to, Allen says that what he loves most is “just being together and having a good time.”

Despite the countless celebrities they’ve interacted with, the stars in the Greensteins’ eyes still shine only for each other.

Dale & Starr Harrold

After 50 years of moving all over the Southeast and raising two daughters, Dale and Starr Harrold appreciate nothing more than spending time at home together. Sitting by their fireplace, each with a book in hand, they relax, “just being cozy and comfortable,” says Starr.

How about a date night out to dinner? Nope, the couple, now in their 70s, would rather be home. “I do the cooking, she does the cleaning,” says Dale.

As undergrads at Western Carolina University, Dale and Starr ran in the same circles. Before they even dated, Starr was taken by how Dale treated others. “He would be the first to say, ‘Can I get you something to drink? Can I get your coat?’” she recalls. “He was just marvelous.”

As many great love stories do, it all came down to one fateful night, when Starr’s friend, Pam, who was dating Tate, a fraternity brother of Dale’s, said that Tate was going to bring along a date for her. She had no idea who it was going to be, when in walked Dale.

“I found out later that he had dated everyone on the three stories of my dorm and I just happened to be last,” she says with a laugh. It turns out he’d saved the best for last.

“That was 1971, and here we are, folks,” she says in her soft-spoken manner.

Dale, two years ahead of Starr in school, says he stuck around for her, earning his MBA while she finished up her degree to later become a speech pathologist. Once they both graduated from their programs, they married in 1974 and then, “We moved together,” says Dale.

“All over,” adds Starr.

Up until his retirement in 2022, Dale worked as a banker and consultant for companies such as Self-Help Credit Union, C.J. Harris and Company, plus First Union National Bank and other commercial banks. His job took the Harrolds all over North Carolina and Florida and had them relocating every 18 months to three years. Starr got used to it, knowing that when Dale walked in the door and said, “Guess what?” it was time to pack again. The couple spent a total of 19 years in various Florida cities, where their two daughters were born.

To accommodate the many moves, Starr constantly landed new speech pathologist roles in hospitals, rehab centers, schools and even in-home healthcare. In one school, Dale notes, her office, which was a former laundry room, had a large hole in it. “I could tell you if it was raining or windy,” Starr quips.

Throughout all of those location changes, community theater became “a great family outlet,” says Starr. “We’ve been very fortunate because no matter where we lived, they had community theater.” And Starr was no stranger to the stage. She recalls a love of piano, singing and dancing that stretches as far back as the second grade, where she was the leader of a little kids’ band.

Dale, too, could hold his own as a performer. In fact, he once landed a leading role in a production of Bye Bye Birdie, portraying Harry MacAfee.

Like the Greensteins, the Harrolds have accumulated a heaping pile of hilarious theater moments over the years. For Dale, the one that stands out the most was during a Lumberton production of Fiddler on the Roof.

“Our Tevya,” he says, “when he said ‘Tradition!’ he stepped off the stage and went 10 feet down —”

“— into the pit!” Starr finishes the sentence.

“He was a retired command sergeant major from the paratroop,” Dale continues. “He broke a keyboard, but he knew how to roll.” The show went on, but for the following performances, a local mattress company laid down mattresses in the pit area — just in case.

When their own daughters were small, like their parents, they took a shine to musical theater and participated in a program called Broadway Babies that allowed them to travel and perform. “They even sang at Disneyworld,” says Dale.

Starr chimes in, “They used to open the season at Pinehurst.”

Their older daughter, also named Starr — “Starr Jr.” — remained passionate about the stage as she grew up and even considered studying theater at Duke. In the end, she opted for practicality and became a lawyer now living in Greensboro with her husband, also a lawyer, along with their two kids. But, just like Mom and Dad, she couldn’t stay away and landed a part-time role as usher at the Tanger Center. “She’s an original Tanger employee,” says Dale.

The couple’s younger daughter, Suzanne Bell, eventually shied away from the stage, even though, they say, she had the vocal chops for it. She also had the grades and now works remotely in Mebane for Johns Hopkins, “if that tells you anything,” says Dale proudly. “She does their human drug trials.”

Like Starr Jr., Suzanne has two children, including the Harrolds’ one and only granddaughter, Ruby. Starr’s hope for all of her grandkids? “I wish, wish, that they could develop the love [of theater] that we all have!”

It was their daughters and grandchildren that drew the Harrolds to make a home in Greensboro. Previously, after many years of moving, the couple settled for about 10 years in Starr’s hometown, Concord, so that Starr, an only child, could take care of her own mother as well as aunts and uncles who never had children. Once they were gone, Dale asked his wife, “What would you think about moving closer to the kids?”

After many years of moves, she was tired of reinventing herself professionally. “I said, ‘I’ll go if I can retire’ . . . and he said, ‘I think we can make that work,’” recalls Starr. In 2014, they made what they hope will be their last move.

And when the Tanger Center opened seven years later, the Harrolds immediately bought season tickets for the whole family. Each time they attended a performance, they noted how kind all of the employees were to them. “No matter how beautiful the site, no matter how terrific the performance is, it’s how you’re greeted that makes you feel good,” says Starr.

With Dale also retired, the couple answered the call when they saw that Tanger Center was hiring ushers. During her interview for the job, Starr recalls saying, “It’s OK if you accept one of us but not the other. We’re still going to be season ticket holders!”

Luckily, they didn’t have to face that dilemma and both were hired. And that kindness that they recall from when they were solely patrons? They pass it on. “That’s what brought us in and that’s what’s continued,” says Starr.

Plus, working there has provided an unexpected bonus. “It’s the most wonderful feeling in the world, like you belong, a true family,” says Starr of her fellow staff members. The Harrolds proudly say that they’ve become the mom and pop of their team. “In fact, we’re taking one of the ushers that we met here to have surgery Friday morning.”

“She just said that when she needs something, she always feels best with us,” adds Starr, her face glowing warmly as in tribute to her name.

That kindness that initially drew Starr to Dale seems to be the couples’ modus operandi — and the secret to a long and loving marriage, according to Starr. “It’s him. It’s truly all him. He is probably the kindest person . . . the reason that we’re doing well is 99 percent because of him.” And, she adds, through all of their own tribulations — including frequent relocations and taking care of ailing family — he has remained steadfast and calm.

“I think you’re understating yourself here,” Dale counters.

“It’s just been a good partnership,” Dale continues. “We each bring different skill sets and sometimes different perspectives to the same issue. She has a whole skill set that I lack, so we complement each other.”

If we were to draw a Venn diagram with their individual skills, the overlap would be in warmth and generosity.

“To get to be a part of Tanger,” says Starr, “it’s been one of those cherry-on-top scenarios of things you’ve done in your life.” And if you’re lucky enough to be welcomed into the Tanger Center by the Harrolds, it will surely be the cherry-on-top of your theatrical experience.

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

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February 2025

Early Nesters

Winter suits great horned owls

By Susan Campbell

It is mid-winter across the Old North State: a time of cold temperatures, wet weather and hints of the longer days to come. Despite the seemingly inhospitable conditions, there is a group of birds already preparing to raise new families: owls. Of the three species that are regulars in our area — great horned, barred and eastern screech-owl — great horned owls are the first of the year to breed.

Being nocturnal creatures, owls are not as appreciated or as well understood as other raptors. Though owls are known for their impressive ability to locate and catch prey under the cover of darkness using their phenomenal hearing and night vision, few people are acquainted with their natural history. Great horneds are adapted to breed very early, well ahead of their cousins, the hawks, when rodents are plentiful and nesting locations are unoccupied by other species.

Great horned owls, whose name originates from ear-like feather tufts on the top of their heads, are one of the most common owls in North America. They can be found in a variety of habitats across the continent. This species is considered the top avian predator in most ecosystems with individuals preying on assorted small mammals and birds, including other owls. Great horneds are even capable of displacing eagles if they are so inclined. These birds are non-migratory, and individuals associate with the same mate year-round on an established territory. In our area, they are found in open agricultural fields, mixed grassy and wooded areas like golf courses, and in both pine stands and hardwood forests. Until late fall, when they begin their distinctive hooting, they tend to go unnoticed.

Pairs of great horneds begin courtship calling or “dueting” around Thanksgiving. The four-hoot reply of the female is somewhat higher pitched than the hooting of the male. Mates typically strengthen their bond by the end of December. In January they will choose a nest site, usually a nest built by another species such as a red-tailed hawk, crow or even gray squirrels. They make few improvements other than perhaps lining their nest with some of their soft body feathers. The female lays one to five eggs, and then both adults share incubation duties for the next month. When the young hatch, they are covered in thick downy feathers but must be continuously brooded by the parents for the first two weeks, until they are large enough to thermoregulate independently.

Even though the temperatures are chilly, nights are long and mean more hours for the parents to hunt food for their ravenous offspring. At eight weeks, the youngsters begin to make short flights away from the nest, though they are closely watched and fed by their parents for several more weeks. Like the adults, the immature owls have gray, brown and black striped plumage, which is effective camouflage against the nest or vegetation during daylight hours.

Although hearing a great horned owl calling at night in winter is not terribly unusual, seeing one during daylight is a special treat — no matter what.

O.Henry Ending

O.HENRY ENDING

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February 2025

Chocoholics Beware

Lemon might be gaining on you

By Ruth Moose

A chocoholic I am not. On a desserts table with lots of chocolate and other dark delights I can take or leave the chocolate stuff. I leave it for those who would kill their own mother for a bite of anything chocolate. Not me. I don’t even, forgive me friends, like Oreos. No. Never. I must be in the minority everywhere.

A friend told me that once in the ditch of despair during a diet, and dying for chocolate, she had not trusted herself to have even the least bit of chocolate of any kind in her house. Then, in sheer desperation, she climbed high and hunted deep in every corner of every cabinet and finally hidden behind rusted tins of Old Bay and boxes of baking soda, she laid her hands on a long forgotten and now dusty can of pure cocoa. She pried off the lid and dug in, eating every smidge with her bare hand then licking her fingers. That’s desperation. That, my friends, is a chocoholic!

I grew up with good Scottish people who, if it came to the last crumb on the plate, would fight over a caramel layer cake or, even better, a brown sugar pound cake with burnt sugar icing. I’ve seen it happen at church picnics and potluck dinners.

In a show of support for anything other than chocolate I once entered a cupcake contest sponsored by the Chapel Hill Historical Society. First prize, $100. I wanted to see if something, anything, could beat chocolate.

So I spent some weeks developing a lemon cupcake. Not just any old lemon cupcake but an over-the-top and knock-your-senses-to-the-moon lemon cupcake. I mixed. I baked. I tasted. I added. I subtracted. Until I finally ended up with marinating some mango and embedding it in the middle. I made a lemon icing, fluffy and tart, and in a flourish, sprinkled on shredded coconut. It even looked prize winning.

On the day of judging the downtown historic house had three rooms filled with tables full of cupcakes. Rows, double and triple deep, with cupcakes. Every kind of chocolate. It was chocolate heaven. The air felt heavy with the scent of chocolate, so heavy you could taste it when you breathed in.

I felt very small, greatly outnumbered, and wished I had never in a million years decided to take on the world of chocolate. I was a very small David in a room filled with cocoa Goliaths. Until, out in the front yard, filled with cupcake lovers who paid $10 for as many as they could eat, the judges announced their decisions. Third went, of course, to one of the many, many chocolate cupcakes. No surprise.

I held my breath and hugged the tiny amount of hope I still had left. Second went to . . . Shaggy Lemon Cupcakes with Marinated Mango in the Middle. Mine! I got a fancy, official award certificate and a $25 gift card from a local stationery shop. Later, one of the losers said to me out of the corner of her mouth, “Your title’s what won it.”

I didn’t care. Lemon had placed. Lemon had beaten out chocolate.

The first prize, the big prize winning cupcake — when it was announced and the 13-year-old girl went up to claim her award and get her $100 check — was a plain-Jane vanilla cupcake with plain vanilla icing. After gasping, the applause was wide and astonished. Not only had lemon beaten out chocolate, vanilla had, too. The judges praised the texture of the vanilla cupcake and, of course, the delicate but absolutely perfect flavor of vanilla.

So there you go, chocoholics. You may outnumber those of us of other persuasions, but we still sometimes win a prize or two. Sometimes.