Category: November 2017

Bel Canto Raises the Roof

Celebrating 35 years of ethereal music

 

By Grant Britt

You might be forgiven if you mistook the dust sprinkling from the rafters of Greensboro’s Christ United Methodist Church for heavenly manna jarred loose by the magnificent voices of Greensboro’s Bel Canto Company. When all 40 members lift their voices in song, aural and spiritual blessings drop down and uplift members and audience alike. Celebrating their 35th anniversary this year, the company’s mantra is to “entertain, inspire, heal, build community and express that which words alone cannot.”

That takes care of the aural part, but some of the words that get tossed around about Bel Canto are subject to misinterpretation. Nobody seems to be able to agree whether Bel Canto is a style of singing or a style of opera.

“Everything you’ve read is right depending on who’s talking about what,” says Bel Canto executive director Jeffrey Carlson. “Bel Canto opera is a period of opera which encompasses some composers like Vincenzo Bellini, Gaetano Donizetti and Rossini. But Bel Canto is also a school or style of singing that comes out of Italy and emphasizes the beauty of the voice, the flexibility of the voice and purity of vowels. That has a little bit to do with our name, although I’d say that the opera definition doesn’t really matter.” Carlson, who has been on the job for 11 years, says that even though he wasn’t around at the company’s beginning, he’s familiar with the genesis of this Bel Canto company.” The first year the Greensboro Opera company performed, their choir said, ‘Hey, this is a lot of fun, we should do this more.’ So they formed the choir of the Bel Canto company, it came out of that opera chorus.”

But the verbiage can still trip up newcomers. It also has the double meaning of being not just opera, but a style of singing. The literal translation from the Italian is “beautiful singing.” “So in all of our tracts, we just talk about it being the literal translation, ‘beautiful singing,’” Carlson says. “All the other connotations and definitions lurk in the background for all the musical aficionados.”

Also lurking in the background is a surprising versatility of subject matter. The repertoire is not all black-tie, stiff-collar classical. Although the company performs predominantly classical choral music, that designation encompasses everything from madrigals from the Renaissance period, to classical composers. But with this company, when you start trying to define classical, the line starts to blur. “We’re generally classical,” Carlson insists, “but we perform spirituals and gospel music in concerts, occasionally arrangements of pop tunes.”

Billy Joel emerged in the repertoire recently, the company rendering his “Lullabye (Goodnight My Angel),” from ’93’s River of Dreams. “This was a tune that spoke to me,” says Welborn Young, artistic director and conductor of Bel Canto Company since 2005. “Often times I will select repertoire that creates the emotional journey I’m thinking for my singer, my audience to have for each concert, make each concert be overarching throughout the entire season chorally.”

But just because Billy sneaked in doesn’t mean Beyoncé and Taylor and Katie and their pop cohorts are gonna jump in as well. “We are not Glee, we’re not doing show choir arrangements of Lady Gaga or things like that,” Carlson promises. “That’s not who we are.” This season features Bach primarily, a look back at the early Baroque period of music. There is a Brahms piece as well, then a few degrees of separation by inserting a piece by thirtysomething composer Dan Forrest’s arrangement of a Bach tune. “That’s part of our mission,” Carlson explains, “to explore the whole range of the choral repertoire.”

The approach is similar in the group’s selection of spirituals. “We do a bunch of Moses Hogan pieces, ‘Wade In The Water,’ ‘Everytime I Feel the Spirit.’ We do Shaw Parker arrangements of things like ‘Nobody Knows,’ ‘He’s Gone Away,’ ‘Deep River,’ those are things people recognize,” Carlson says.

The company treks up the mountain to Pigeon Forge territory for a choral arrangement of Dolly Parton’s “Light Of  A Clear Blue Morning,”  Parton’s hill-country hymn, uplifted and underscored  by a thrumming pipe organ chorus of Bel Cantos. “We stretch beyond just the concept of classical or church-oriented repertoire to a broad base of that is not only enlightening but also challenging and entertaining,” says conductor Young, who is also director of choral activities and an associate professor of music at UNCG.

“Basically, I want [to recruit] people within the ensemble that love to make choral music with other people,” Young says. But loving the material as well as their musical peers and being able to perform it at a high level aren’t the only qualifications for becoming a potential Bel Canto member. “Besides just beauty of tone and accuracy, I want that experience to show in how they approach their preparation for the music,” Young says. “We typically get five or six rehearsals, then we put on an hour-and-a-half program. So their ability to work outside of our rehearsals and prepare for the rehearsals is vitally important.

That doesn’t mean every applicant has to come out of a prestigious music school, but it does mean having a level of dedication and flexibility. An applicant with an outstanding ear can often develop what they need to add to the ensemble through listening and observing the scores. “We have a more Western European approach, but we also sing in various styles,” Young says. “I do have singers who are more comfortable in jazz idioms than they would be in singing Bach, and I do have some who are more into folk idioms, but they are flexible enough and love the music enough to align themselves to whatever it is we’re singing.”

Bel Canto soprano Felicia François was a vocal performance major at UNCG, and a member of Young’s choir when she was in school. “I had heard of Bel Canto and seen a couple of his concerts, so when I graduated, I decided to audition,” François says. Her participation in the Bel Canto company provides benefits not listed in her contract. “Being a middle school chorus teacher, I’m spending my whole day doing middle school music, which is totally great. But it’s nice to get an outlet for that creativity, sing some higher level music with some really awesome musicians.” In addition to her Bel Canto appearances, François has performed at the Blind Tiger with Dirty Laundry, a group of UNCG jazz musician graduates, and has also sung backup for Anne-Claire Niver (See page 23).

But for François, even though other gigs might have her focus from time to time, Bel Canto, which she says is the best group she has ever performed with, has her heart, and her soul. “Singing great music and being able to express my musicality and creativity, it’s an escape for me whether either in a rehearsal setting or a concert, however long it is, to take a break from whatever is going on in life or in the world, be in the music for that time, just focus on that, and live in that instead.”  OH

Shunned by any legitimate vocal organization,
Grant Britt makes beautiful singing noises from
the confines of his front porch every time there’s a
full moon.

New Drinking Toys

Before the holiday rush, treat yourself to a spirited gift or two

 

By Tony Cross

Itís official: Black Friday approaches. Everything on the airwaves and Interweb will be screaming Christmas, and your pockets will bleed out all of your money for your family and loved ones. Even though the commercials start earlier each year, Black Friday truly marks the first day of the month for insanity. Recently, I’ve acquired some new spirits, mixers and toys; I’d like to share some of them with you. Buy these for yourselves before you run out of money spending it on others.

Wintersmiths Ice Chest

When I first got into cocktailing, I read a lot. I mean, a lot. I had no other bartenders to guide me through the basics, so the internet, GQ articles from David Wondrich, and a book from the head barmen at Employee’s Only in New York City were my mentors. In the latter, one of the first topics in the Speakeasy book was devoted to ice. On first read, I thought, “This is a bunch of pretentious garbage.” The authors described how important ice is . . . as in it’s the most important ingredient in your cocktail. After rolling my eyes, I finished the chapter, and decided that I wouldn’t knock it until I tried it.

Of course, they were right. Having terrible ice will make a great cocktail just OK, or not good at all. Case in point: I have a friend who lived in a home in Whispering Pines. It was a lovely house, but every time I’d come over and bring my goody bag to make drinks, I’d always bring my own ice. The water in her house reeked of sulfur. I felt terrible for her dogs’ drinking water; it was that bad. If I used the ice from her fridge, for even a simple Moscow Mule, the water would dilute into the Mule mix, and it would make me spit out my drink. Guaranteed.

Other (big) reasons ice is important is shape and size. Crushed ice is ideal for juleps and tiki-style drinks, but you wouldn’t want it in your whiskey on the rocks. By now, I’m sure most of you have seen spherical ice served in rocks glasses for cocktails and whiskey. I’ve got the molds to make them; they’re pretty much everywhere, and you can definitely grab some online. I’ve made them plenty, but more important, I’ve tried to make them come out crystal clear. Why? When they’re cloudy, it’s because gas is trapped inside the ice. That causes your ice to melt faster, and gives it a higher chance of breaking inside your glass. I’ve tried different methods of achieving clear ice. I’ve boiled water to freeze, double-boiled water to freeze, used high-quality water, and stacked my molds covering up the soon-to-be cubes but I never perfected one single see-through piece of ice, cubed or sphere. Until now. Thanks to Instagram, I saw a comment from a lady who makes fantastic cocktails (and has gorgeous pictures of them to boot). She was marveling about her spherical icemaker. Wintersmiths Ice Chest is a total do-it-yourself ice maker that gives your cocktails the elegance you’d otherwise get from a craft cocktail lounge. Just fill up the container with water (distilled preferably, but not necessarily), put in the top piece, and put it in your freezer. Twenty-four hours later, you’ll have crystal clear spheres.

B.G. Reynolds Passion Fruit Tropical Syrup

I am a big fan of making everything from scratch when it comes to syrups for drinks. Making these by hand usually means it will taste better. Grenadine, orgeat, tonic — these are a few of the many that I’d rather make myself than spend at the store or online. Once you’ve figured out a good recipe, it’s hard to find a bottle of syrup on the shelf that can top your own. There are some exceptions, and this is one of them. I was recently asked to create a Hurricane cocktail to carbonate and put on draft for the new Longleaf Country Club. I was excited to add my own grenadine to the mix with a blend of rums (including Fair Game Beverage Co.’s Amber Rum). I wasn’t, however, too stoked on doing passion fruit syrup. Time was of the essence, and I knew that I might not have enough time to perfect a syrup that I’ve never tinkered with. Luckily for me, I remembered seeing a Hurricane recipe from NOLA bartender Chris Hannah. In it, he uses someone else’s passion fruit syrup. I ordered it immediately to give it a try, and was happy when it arrived in the mail. I hope you’ll be as pleased as we are. At home, you can use this sweet and tangy syrup for bartender Jim Meehan’s Mezcal Mule recipe:
3 cucumber slices

3/4 ounce lime juice

1 1/2 ounces Vida Mezcal

1/2 ounce agave syrup

3/4 ounce passion fruit syrup

3 ounces ginger beer

Muddle cucumber slices and lime juice in a copper mug or rocks glass. Add mezcal and syrups. Add ice, and top with ginger beer.

Pikesville Straight Rye Whiskey

I picked up this big boy from the ABC store in Chapel Hill (the one formerly in front of Whole Foods, but now located around the corner at the Food Lion plaza). One of the gentlemen who works there recommended this whiskey out of the two that I picked up (clearly unfamiliar with both). He told me it was phenomenal, and he was right. This is almost the way mezcal is the older brother to tequila. It has a ton of wood and spice. If you’re new to rye whiskey, I’d suggest starting with either Old Overholt (very soft, and smooth for a rye), or Rittenhouse (a great bang for your buck rye, with an appropriate amount of spice). Try the Pikesville Rye in this 1890s’ version of a Manhattan.

Manhattan

(credit to The Only William’s 1892 book, cited by David Wondrich in 2007)

2 ounces Pikesville Straight Rye Whiskey

1 ounce Carpano Antica

1 barspoon Luxardo Maraschino liqueur

1 barspoon absinthe

2 dashes Angostura Bitters

Combine all ingredients in a chilled mixing vessel. Stir for 50 revolutions (or at least, I do), and then strain into a chilled cocktail coupe. You can garnish with real Luxardo cherries, but I prefer a swath of a lemon peel. Santé! OH

Tony Cross is a bartender who runs cocktail catering company Reverie Cocktails in Southern Pines.

Foothills Fare

In Yadkin County, you’ll never go hungry again

 

By D.G. Martin

On the way to see the colorful leaves in the mountains, many travelers from all parts of North Carolina pass through Yadkin County along U.S. Highway 421 between Winston-Salem and Boone without considering a stop for a meal and a chance to experience a touch of Yadkin’s rich history and culture. The local eateries described below are well worth a visit. Each offers something special: Have a chance to learn about Revolutionary War history; experience the Yadkin cultural scene; eat with the courthouse gang; have lunch with burley tobacco farmers; enjoy seafood or barbecue; or have a meal in one of the happiest eateries anywhere. Note that opening times are always changing so it is a good idea to call ahead.

Battle Branch CafÈ, Huntsville community

Battle Branch Café fits my ideal for a local eatery near a big highway. Good food, friendly staff, loyal local clientele and comfortable surroundings. It also has something extra special — a connection to important history. The restaurant’s name gives a clue: It sits near a Revolutionary War site. At the Battle of Shallow Ford on October 14, 1780, a group of Patriots (American revolutionaries) stopped and defeated a company of Tory militia (British Loyalists) that had crossed the Yadkin River at the ford and was on its way to join General Cornwallis in Charlotte. Large mounted illustrations inside the restaurant show battle scenes. 

A comfortable homelike fireplace and an open-air feeling greet visitors. Mrs. Connie Spellman, who has been working there for many years, explains why the atmosphere is so comfortable. “When the Yorks, the original owners, built this restaurant 20 years ago, they made a plan just in case the restaurant didn’t make a go of it. They built the building so it could be transformed into a home with a big living room and fireplace.” No need to do that because the restaurant is thriving under its new owners, Nuri Llanaja and wife Lida. 2505 Farmington Road, Yadkinville;(336) 463-2122; www.facebook.com/battlebranch/

Third Branch CafÈ,
downtown Yadkinville

The Third Branch Café is a welcome surprise for an out-of-town visitor. In existence for about seven years, it is a part of an ambitious and successful effort by the local arts council to develop a downtown art center. It is not a typical country cooking eatery. Instead of meat and threes, there are bean dips, salads, quiche, quesadillas and other eclectic dishes. But the prices are right, and it is a community gathering place for everybody downtown.

The café adjoins display areas for changing exhibits of artwork from all over Yadkin County. 226 East Main St., Yadkinville;
(336) 677-6006; www.yadkinarts.org/our_facility/third-branch-cafe/

Aceís Restaurant,
downtown Yadkinville

Across the street from Third Branch, Ace’s small county-seat restaurant serves as a gathering place for lawyers and the courthouse gang, especially at breakfast time.

From the outside it may look to some like a “hole in the wall” eatery. But owners Shirish Patel and his wife Trupti brag about their “quality country cooking.” They offer weekday lunch specials with mashed potatoes, pinto beans, salads, green beans, fried okra and coleslaw, and changing featured meats of fried pork tenderloin, country style steak, fried chicken, potpie and, on Friday, fried flounder. But on some days you can also get beef liver with grilled onions. 225 East Main St., Yadkinville (336) 679-2193

Jimís Grill,
north of Yadkinville

My friend and retired UNC Professor Fred Hobson grew up in Yadkin County. When he was in high school, Jim’s Grill was his crowd’s favorite gathering place. Fred was surprised when I told him Jim’s is still thriving. Not much has been done to it since Fred last visited about 50 years ago. Located about two miles north of Yadkinville on U.S. Highway 601, it sits by itself close to the road. Its nearest neighbor is a lush field of burly tobacco. Long time employee Dana Watts told me that the eatery is covered up with farmers beginning a little before noon on weekdays. Country-style steak and mac and cheese are the farmers’ favorites. But there is a different special each day. 5101 U.S. 601, Yadkinville; (336) 679-7610, www.facebook.com/jims.grill.country.cooking/?rf=121767177836705

Yadkin Valley Seafood, Yadkinville

Yadkin Valley began its history in 1985 when Gus Janus, who grew up in the Greek community in Winston-Salem and learned his cooking skills there, came to Yadkinville. He built a small building just off the Yadkinville exit from U.S. Highway 421. He did such a good business serving seafood to locals and travelers that in 1997 he built a new large white building that stands out and is clearly visible on the north side of 421. Billy, son of Gus and his wife, Vivian, recently finished community college and was on the scene when I visited. It was clear his parents have prepared him to take charge should they ever decide to retire. I asked Billy what is his customers’ favorite dish? “Everything,” he asserted, and then said, “It’s probably popcorn shrimp.” 154 Beroth Drive, Yadkinville; (336) 679-8191; www.facebook.com/Yadkin-Valley-Seafood-Restaurant-119990264683788/

Little Richardís Lexington BBQ, Yadkinville

The first question barbecue fans ask is, “Is it the same as the famous Little Richard’s in Winston Salem? Not now, but it once was. Today, however, the Yadkinville branch is part of a group that includes Clemmons, Walkertown, and Mount Airy. It is no longer connected to Richard Barrier’s Winston-Salem Little Richard’s. If that is too complicated, forget the ownership and think about enjoying a Lexington-style barbecue plate or sandwich or something else from an expansive menu. You will find this Little Richard’s in a shopping center setting. It is a little more upscale than the usual old time barbecue shack, but don’t pass it by if you are hungry for barbecue. 916 South State St., Yadkinville; (336) 679-7064; littlerichardsbarbeque.com

Debbieís Snackbar, Hamptonville

There are lots of things to like about this small modest place that has been around since 1961. It is just off U.S. Highway 421’s exit 264 and easy to find. The home-style cooking is bountiful, good and reasonably priced. What I like best, though, is that it is a happy place. Its family atmosphere is almost overpowering as cheerful young servers rush in and out of the kitchen area. Debbie’s doesn’t pretend to be anything other than a small diner populated by locals, but I felt very welcome and my smiling waitress made the food taste even better. 3008 Rocky Branch Road, Hamptonville; (336) 468-8114; www.facebook.com/Debbies-Snackbar-175642289113388/ OH

D.G. Martin is the host of UNC-TV’s Bookwatch, a contributor to The Omnivorous Reader column in this magazine and author of North Carolina’s Roadside Eateries: A Traveler’s Guide to Local Restaurants, Diners, and Barbecue Joints (UNC Press). Look for a roundup of his treasured local eateries in Wilkes County in a forthcoming issue.

Rumor Has It

Whispers of the old Piedmont Hotel from brothel to brew pub

By Antionette Kerr

The current occupants of 348 South Elm are not bashful about the rumors related to their building. Well, maybe they were at first. Brewing buddies Jeff Collie and Daniel McCoy stumbled into this story while eagerly hunting for a downtown location in Greensboro’s budding beer district. In Collie’s mind, they needed a spot “with character” to be the brand-new home of the finance guy’s hobby-turned-enterprise. The name? Little Brother Brewing, a tip of the hat to their both being beholden to big sisters. They are also reverent about moments when opening a smaller shop felt like standing on their tiptoes to compete. These two underdogs needed a place with some oomph. 

The beer guys were swept away by the building’s charm and location in Greensboro budding beer district at the corner of Elm and McGee long before they heard the whispers. McCoy, too young to have heard all the murmurs, recalls owners Simon and Lynn Ritch mentioning a tidbit about the hotel once located on second and third stories of the building, but he was not certain it was true. The duo toured what, over the years, had hosted many venues — eateries, shops and formerly an expansive 24-room hotel. After being unoccupied for at least a decade, the bedroom walls have been stripped away on the two floors that at one time featured a long hall lined with eight small rooms. Only rumors are left of those rooms, which housed larger-than-life characters like Boots, Sarah and Eileen. Rumor had it that ladies of the night, procurers and their callers made the intersection notorious from 1920 until the early 1960s. The bustling corner of the world known as Hamburger Square received its name because there were once burger and hot dog joints in buildings on most of the four corners that apparently served up spicier dishes.

But Greensboro is known for fanciful folklore. What makes the Hamburger Square Bordello any different from rumors of Civil War treasurers being buried beneath the streets, the LBB team decided as they hired a contractor and a general manager and started the process of transforming the downstairs into a brewery and tap room.

The planning for the grand opening of LBB was going smoothly; the proprietors felt the urge to develop a theme of Craft Your Own Story and while they were in the midst of planning their grand opening and launching their marketing plan, the brothel rumors roared to reality. Mere months before opening everyone was asking about the brothel thanks to encyclopedia and short story writer Ian McDowell who wrote “A Brothel on Elm Street” for Greensboro’s Yes! Weekly. McDowell uncovered a truth stranger than the fiction he writes through provocative testimonies, old family photos, accounts and detailed police records of the hotel’s more nefarious activities. Past inhabitants such as the aforementioned Boots, Sarah and Eileen took over the building before LBB got its marketing off the ground. “It’s one of these cases where one hears an urban legend for years and years. I’ve been familiar with that building for a long time,” says McDowell. “I would walk downtown to Elm back in the ’80s to go to Acme Comics.” Parts of downtown were a little sketchy then and although the hotel was no longer in operation, McDowell still remembers “working women” hanging out of the windows. “And a bartender told me the brothel story as far back as then.”

The building’s history intrigued the writer so he put out a request for information on social media and reconnected with old friend David Gwynn, who just so happens to be the great-grandson of infamous Luther Broadus Coleman, manager of what was once listed in public record as “a house of assignation.” Gwynn, whose mother lived in the hotel with her grandparents, noted that his family was once shy about the story. “We finally got comfortable with calling it the family business.”

Coleman, a procurement specialist of sorts, lost his job at the mill and had to find work during the Depression. “It was a different time,” recalls Gwynn’s aunt who asked if she could go by the alias “Jean.” Jean picks up a couple of photos. Pictured are two seemingly demure girls. Though they worked for Coleman, they also used to read bedtime stories to his daughters. Gwynn’s mother remembered the hotel where she spent her elementary school years so fondly that she created a storyboard with photos she kept in her sewing room. The two even took a trip to see the abandoned building in the early ’80s before Gwynn’s mother became ill. “I knew Boots, Sarah and Eileen but they were just normal women to us. They had rental rooms on the second floor where Grandmother and Granddaddy lived.” Later, Jean learned people would come to the restaurant downstairs, which was Jim’s Lunch, a place Jean recalled being well-known for moist buns. She discovered later it was a place where men ordered all sorts of hot dishes in addition to hamburgers. “The third story had rooms where the girls were taken. I remember strange things happening, but I didn’t know they were ‘ladies of the evening.’”

And while none has connected the photos with the women’s real names, police records indicate several complaints filed against Coleman and the property owners. On September 8, 1940, the salesman du jour was convicted of operating a brothel of sorts and given a suspended sentence and a $25 fine. Although the Colemans have recently stepped forward to share their story, they were not alone in the industry. A little over a year later, the Greensboro Daily News reported a raid of 11 hotels “on the eve of the arrival in the city of 17,000 soldiers.” Jean isn’t sure if her family friends were part of that raid.

Jean didn’t suspect anything out of the ordinary, but Gwynn recalls stories from his mother as a child. “I’m probably the only person I know of who has that family history in my background,” Gwynn, the self-described history junkie, says unabashedly. “I think it gives me some Greensboro street cred.”

The folks at Little Brother Brewing aren’t shying away from the story behind the building although McCoy is a bit uneasy with capitalizing on its notorious history by using the term “brothel.” “It certainly makes for an interesting story, but you have to be careful not to romanticize stories from the past that involve people’s suffering and inequality,” he says.

LBB is hosting a women’s poetry performance this month with Speak Up! NC as one of its first events. General manager Brittany Wilson is one of the event’s organizers and she approached the crew at LBB with the idea shortly after the Yes! Weekly article was published. Proceeds from the evening of music and poetry will be donated to Women AdvaNCe, a statewide nonprofit dedicated to empowering women of all ages. Collie offers, “Although Greensboro has a checkered past, stories like this remind us of how far we’ve come and how much further we need to go.” Meanwhile, the owners of LBB are eager to learn more about the men and women who were a part of the building’s colorful history — drinking in the entire saga — from brothel to brew.  OH

Little Brother Brewing will host Speak Up! at 7 p.m. on November 3. For tickets and information go to womanadvancenc.org. For more information on the brewery: littlebrotherbrew.com.

Antionette Kerr is a freelance writer, lake enthusiast and poetry lover.

Farewell to the Yankees

A Southerner loses that lovin’ feelin’

 

By Susan S. Kelly

A love affair of 55 years is coming to an end. All the symptoms are there: the nitpicking, the tetchiness, the gradual disaffection, even annoyance. Plus the self-searching question — Is it really worth it? — and the go-to from Ann Landers: Am I better off with or without him?

The romance began when I was around 7, and discovered among the Lifes and Times a magazine with a colorful cover drawn or painted — not photographed — with pictures I understood: beach scenes, city scenes, seasonal scenes. Scenes with dogs or kites or sailboats. Most surprisingly of all, there were cartoons inside. Cartoons in an adult magazine?

I was raised on the cartoons, on hardback collections of Peter Arno and Charles Addams and George Booth cartoons. When my parents had parties, I was allowed to eat Spaghettios in the kitchen and pored over those collections so long that I memorized them, and automatically use the punch lines in situations — Put us in the rear, we’re bound to make a scene, and Boo, you pretty creature! — and no one has the slightest idea where the non sequitur came from. When my sisters and I divided items before our family home was sold, the flatware sat there unnoticed while we eyed each other over who would choose the cartoon our father had framed and hung in our swimming pool dressing room: Do you realize there are hundreds of little girls who’d be happy to have a pool they had to clean?

I’m speaking, of course, of The New Yorker.

I have read The New Yorker, or at least parts of it, since I was old enough to read. As with any long-term relationship, we “went on a break,” in today’s parlance, during the partying years of college. But Nancy Bryan Faircloth of Greensboro’s own Bryan family, who saw a future writer in me, gave me a subscription at 20, which continued until her death, by which time I had been mainlining the mag so long that I re-upped and upped and upped. I’ve read The New Yorker on the treadmill and road trips and vacations and by the fire and by the club pool when my children were swimming and friends thought I was deeply weird.

I wallpapered my first apartment bathroom in its covers, as one does when in love. I framed the covers and hung them, checkerboard-like, over the sofa. I have poster-sized prints of a pair of covers (William Steig, illustrator of The Phantom Tollbooth), beautifully framed and hanging in my daughter’s bedroom.

I have gone to hear speakers based on their articles and stories in The New Yorker, including Calvin Trillin at UNCG. I’ve searched the internet for photographs of its writers (especially the cartoonists). I’ve sat in an otherwise depressing Algonquin Hotel lobby to see if the scalawag wits of the Round Table would speak to me. I’ve written an outraged letter to the editor — How dare you overlook a typo in a John Updike story? I’ve turned down hundreds of pages to look up vocabulary words, scissored sections for my To Keep Forever file, sought out books by and biographies about its writers, from E. B. White to J.D. Salinger and even the editor who decided where the commas belonged. Based on its reviews, I’ve gone to see movies that make me even weirder in the eyes of my friends, and endured my husband’s thinly veiled scorn for the magazine’s self-superiority. I’ve submitted stories — a truly laughable exercise in futility for a publication that receives some 300 submissions a day — perhaps just to get the rejection slip to tack on my bulletin board beside another cartoon; this one of a fellow speaking into a phone: “How about never? Is never good for you?”

And I’ve learned so much. About Shakespeare and sand. About Spanx and Zappos. About Stephen Sondheim and Willa Cather and chefs and foragers and long-distance swimmers and celebrities and scientists and what happens to unsold books. Personal histories about summer camp or losing a child or aging or writing, the tragic childhoods of aristocrats — wide-ranging and informative with a dose of human interest. Topics that appeal to the essentially voyeuristic personality of a writer, or someone who’s pretty good at Jeopardy!

And therein lie the reasons for the thinning of devotion, the dissolution of loyalty, the slow, painful, deliberate bust-up with the mother lode of linguistic perfection. More and more, the beloved covers have morphed to political caricatures and cartoons rather than sprightly, witty, whimsical art. Inside are articles about child soldiers and genocides and uprisings and corrupt leaders and terrorist strategy and the judicial system and failing — well, everything. So that, like texts that go unanswered in contemporary romances, two and three unread issues pile up, where they once were eagerly devoured. Glad anticipation has been replaced with relief, when an issue arrives with zero articles I want to read.

Ever heard this one? “You’re just not fun anymore.”

And so, goodbye luminous literary stars. Goodbye cartoons. Goodbye big words. Instead of a bang or a whimper, there’s just this variation on a Dear John: Dear The New Yorker, No need to renew my subscription. But I’ll never forget you.  OH

Susan Kelly is a blithe spirit, author of several novels, and proud new grandmother.

Hey, Toss Me  a Packa Nabs

Good things can come in small packages

By Tom Allen

Occasionally, my wife’s Georgia family observes Thanksgiving another day that week, depending on when everyone arrives. One year, halfway to Georgia and close to lunchtime, our mini-van pulled up to a gas pump. A memorable and moveable Thanksgiving feast found the four of us, dining in a convenience store. The menu included the contents of our cooler — chicken salad and Dr. Pepper — along with grapes, pretzel sticks and the Southern go-to snack, Nabs.

If the word “nab” conjures peanut butter sandwiched between orange crackers, chances are you’ve lived below the Mason-Dixon line. The Southern snack has become a staple for mill workers and attorneys alike. Throw a pack into a kid’s bookbag. Toss one to a hunting buddy. Nabs travel well in a golf cart. Lunch? Bedtime? Tear open a pack of Nabs with your front teeth. Wash down with a diet Mountain Dew. That’ll tide you over ‘til supper or you’ll sleep guilt free. Be forewarned — orange cracker crumbs leave sticky evidence. Nibble with caution.

Nabisco (short for National Biscuit Company), known for good eats like saltines and Oreos, introduced its Peanut Butter Sandwich Packet in 1924. “Nabs” soon appeared at soda fountains, filling stations, and vending machines. Fifty years later, Nabisco discontinued production but Lance, a Charlotte snack company, had been cranking out its own version of the salty wafer since 1915.

In 1913, Phillip Lance loaned a customer a few bucks. The fellow paid up with 500 pounds of peanuts, which the inventive Lance roasted and sold for a nickel a bag. Those roasted goobers made money for the entrepreneur. Two years later, when Mrs. Lance and her daughters spread peanut butter between two crackers, the Lance “Nab” was birthed.

Speaking of birth, my wife lived off Nabs while pregnant with our first child. When waves of morning sickness rolled in, Lance came to the rescue. A pack of Toast Chee kept things stable until lunch. I can imagine a prescription: “Eat one cracker every hour, for six hours, with sips of ginger ale.”

Cracker competition was fierce, maybe not on the same level as Duke’s and Hellmann’s, but folks definitely had a preference. Tom’s Foods, another Charlotte-based snack company, had their own brand of the salty snack wafer. By acquiring Tom’s in 2005, Lance cornered the market on peanut butter crackers. The most popular brand is marketed as Toast Chee but most folks simply refer to the iconic Southern snack as “Nabs.” Nip Chee, with a cheddar center, is my favorite.

Snack cracker customers want options, so Lance introduced Toasty — real peanut butter (is there any other kind?) spread between two round buttery crackers. Grape jelly eventually entered the mix — a Toasty PB & J. Lance squared up their rectangular soup and salad staple, Captain’s Wafer, and glued it together with a layer of cream cheese and chives. Voila! A cracker fit for high tea. Today, a Captain’s Choice variety Pack features the cracker with peanut butter and honey, a grilled cheese-flavored spread and jalapeño cheddar.

For a bit more sweetness (and an elegant scalloped edge) consider Nekot, a sugary wafer spread with peanut butter or lemon cream. A buddy who worked as a Lance driver confirmed the correct pronunciation — “knee-cot.” Urban legend has it that Lance approached the maker of a popular cookie, the Token, and asked to make a peanut butter version. The company declined. Lance made the cookie anyway, reversing the spelling. While Toast Chee goes well with a Coke or Dr. Pepper, the more substantial Nekot dunks nicely in a cuppa joe.

In recent years, Lance introduced new bold flavors, something for the not-so-faint of tongue. Smokehouse Cheddar and Buffalo Ranch find their way into everything from quilted lunch bags to tackle boxes. A whole grain snack cracker was produced for the health-conscious. Packaging advertises protein grams and proudly declares “No Trans Fats.” Lance’s newest offering, the PowerBreak, boasts 12 grams of protein, boosted by peanut butter and a granola-based cracker.

Holiday trips to Georgia remain a family tradition. A Ford Explorer replaced the minivan. One daughter is married, the other in college. But the next time we take a road trip, if someone hankers for a nosh, I’ll toss ‘em a pack of Nabs. Thankfully, variety packs offer something for everyone.

Is biscuits and gravy or pumpkin spice latte the next snack cracker coming down the line? I hope not. Let Cracker Barrel do the biscuits and gravy thing. Leave pumpkin spice lattes to Starbucks. In this season of gratitude, give me family and a traditional meal with all the fixin’s. Just don’t be surprised, when the pigskin rivalries begin, if you find me tearing open a pack of Nip Chee, then dozing off with a happy stomach, a content soul . . . and orange, salty fingers. OH

Tom Allen is minister of education at First Baptist Church, Southern Pines.

What the Cell?

Your service provider is here (or somewhere) to drive you crazy

 

By Clyde Edgerton

You know your phone service provider? The organization that helps you with cellphone matters in their store, a place where the walls are covered with gadgets (like a hard shell case that costs more than your phone), gadgets that you and your children needed yesterday? The place where you — if you ask about your phone bill — are politely taken to a large blackboard with a chalk tray and erasers, or to a blank sheet of paper, and somebody starts politely writing down tiny lists of numbers and explaining the charge for many things, including the data-connection-bluemoon-raython-regulator charge?

That place.

I decided to call the billing department on my cell the other day — the billing people up the chain of command. I wanted to save some time by not going into the place described above. The reason I called was because I got a text from my wife that said, “Please call our service provider. I think they are offering some kind of new discount.”

I called. I got a message that went something like this: “Please enter your nine-digit phone number, including your area code and the six numbers that follow. Si quieres, press four. If you are a robot, say ‘no’ and sing the first verse of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ If you are calling about a medical emergency, hang up and dial 911. If you have hemorrhoids and sometimes have pain during a backyard barbecue or while frolicking through a field of flowers, then tell your doctor about Lo-Evorona. You’ll be glad you did, because your doctor may follow your suggestion rather than follow her knowledge about treatment — but remember that during your visit with your doctor, just say ‘Lo-Evorona’ because that’s probably all you will have time to say during your short time with your doctor, who is hurrying to a conference with a drug rep. But while waiting in the doctor’s waiting room, on the other hand, you perhaps had time to write a short novel.”

I started pressing random keys on my cellphone, and on the number 7, I got this: “Because of the recent hurricane, we are experiencing a high volume of water. Stay on the phone while you evacuate. A service representative will be with you shortly.”

I press “Speaker” on my cellphone face and place the phone on the couch. Some music starts. I continue watching Shark Tank.

A few days later, a service representative comes on the line. “Hello, my name is Indiana. Your phone number please — including area code and the six digits that follow.” (These are the people who 21 years ago invented the possibility of reading, on the receiving end of the call, the number of the person calling you.)

I give Samantha my number. She says, “And with whom am I speaking?” And I tell her. She says, “How are you today?” I say, “Fine, and you?” She says, “I’m doing well. Thank you for asking.”

I think, this might be easy. I tell her why I am calling, and she says, “Let me get your records up in front of me.” I wait a little while and she says, “I see that you have recently received a discount of $7.”

I say, “I’m not sure about that. I recently got a text from my wife that said we might qualify for some discounts.”

“Let me check on that,” she says. “Please hold.” I start to say something, but music begins. The music I’m listening to is the kind of music that if you held a survey among 4 million Americans of every ethnicity, of every social class, of every wage bracket and most occupations, of most ages, heights and weights, each person would, individually and independently, swear that this music I’m listening to now is the most God-awful, worst music they’ve ever heard.

The music plays through the phone on the couch as I watch another Shark Tank and then Naked and Afraid, How I Learned to Gain Weight, and Hanging Out With Your Neighbor’s Spouse. What happens during this time is that the music gets interrupted by spoken lines like this: “Did you know you could reduce your phone bill by up to 50 percent if you rent your car with Thrifty at any stop-over during a Carnival Cruise adventure before Christmas 2017?”

And then, “Thank you for continuing to hold. We are experiencing a high volume of calls because we don’t hire enough operators with our 9-billion-dollar profit margin each month. If you ever have to not wait then we are too lax with profits and our way-cool, wealthy shareholders will fall into a tizzy-fit.”

A little bit of the above may be slightly exaggerated.
The rest is not.

I hang up. Within 15 minutes the phone rings. I answer. A perky automated voice says, “Would you like to take a short survey regarding the service you received in your most recent call to your service provider?”

“Yes, I would.”

“Are you satisfied with your service?”

“No.”

“I see,” the voice artfully muses. So artfully that I picture her hand to her chin. “At the tone,” the voice continues, “would you please comment briefly?”

The tone sounds. I start talking and within — it could not have been more than six seconds — I hear another tone and this: “Please listen to your recording and if you are satisfied, disconnect, or press 1 to continue recording.”

As I’m listening to the start of my complaint (which is that Samantha never returned to our first conversation as promised) there is a beep and I’m disconnected. I swear. If I had an old-fashioned phone I’d hang up. Come to think of it, when I did have an old-fashioned phone I could dial “0” and immediately talk to a human being.  OH

Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels, a memoir and most recently,
Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW.

Read Local

For new books, look no farther than our own backyard

By Brian Lampkin

We are all local occasions of the universe, or so the poet Charles Olson once insisted. Charles did a lot of insisting, and in this instance, his insight is inspiring. Greensboro is its own center of the writing universe and the recent spate of new releases by writers inhabiting our environs continues unabated. After September’s back-to-back releases of The Salt Line by UNCG’s Holly Goddard Jones and Guilford College’s Mylène Dressler’s The Last to See Me, we have books from Stuart Dischell, Michael Parker, Mike Gaspeny, and Lea Williams just released or coming this month. Of course, there are many others (who I will hear from!), so keep your eyes turned to the local streets for literature to believe in.

November 1: We Who Believe in Freedom: The Life & Times of Ella Baker, by Lea E. Williams (North Carolina Division of Archives & History, $17). Ella Baker, who grew up in Littleton, North Carolina, is best remembered for the role she played in facilitating the organizational meeting of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee in April 1960 at Shaw University, her alma mater. With passion and clear understanding, Lea E. Williams outlines the life that brought Baker to this crucial point in U.S. history. 

November 3: Re-Write Men, by Michael Gaspeny (Finishing Line Press, $14.99). Gaspeny’s singular voice is a reason to get out of the house and go to the poetry reading. A mix of humor, wry observation and a moving continued belief in the necessity of human connection, his voice wavers over Greensboro in a gravely cackle behind a falling tear for the times we live in.

November 14: Everything, Then and Since, by Michael Parker (Bull City Press, $13.95). If there’s a more perfectly crafted short short story than UNCG professor Michael Parker’s “Widow’s Walk,” then I haven’t read it. This collection of stories equally highlights the work of Durham’s great Bull City Press. Check them both out at Scuppernong Books on November 14 at 7 p.m..

OTHER NOVEMBER NEW RELEASES:

November 7: How to Cook Everything Vegetarian: Completely Revised Tenth Anniversary Edition, by Mark Bittman (Houghton Mifflin, $35). Ten years ago, this breakthrough cookbook made vegetarian cooking accessible to everyone. Today, the issues surrounding a plant-based diet — health, sustainability and ethics — continue to resonate with more and more Americans, whether or not they’re fully vegetarian. This new edition has been completely reviewed and revised to stay relevant to today’s cooks: New recipes include more vegan options and a brand-new chapter on smoothies, teas and more.

November 14: Bunk: The Rise of Hoaxes, Humbug, Plagiarists, Phonies, Post-Facts, and Fake News, by Kevin Young (Gray Wolf Press, $30). Award-winning poet and critic Kevin Young takes us on a tour through a rogue’s gallery of hoaxers, plagiarists, forgers, and fakers — from the humbug of P.T. Barnum and Edgar Allan Poe to the unrepentant bunk of JT LeRoy and Donald J. Trump. Bunk traces the history of the hoax as a peculiarly American phenomenon.

November 21: 30 Years of Swiss Typographic Discourse in the Typografische Monatsblätter: TM RSI Sgm 1960-90, Various Editors. (Lars Muller Publishers$375) OK, just seeing if you’re paying attention.

November 21: The Complete Sookie Stackhouse Stories, by Charlaine Harris (Ace Books, $24). The author who inspired True Blood brings together in one volume the complete short story collection starring Louisiana’s favorite telepathic waitress.

November 28: A War of Gifts: An Ender Battle School Story, by Orson Scott Card (Tor Teen, $14.99). Greensboro’s most widely read writer brings a stand-alone holiday story set during Ender’s time at Battle School.  OH

Brian Lampkin is one of the proprietors of Scuppernong Books.

Words to Ponder

David McCullough’s speeches deliver gentle sermons on the American character

 

By Stephen E. Smith

“If we are beset by problems,” David McCullough wrote in a 1994 commencement address, “we have always been beset by problems. There never was a golden time past of smooth sailing only.”

McCullough’s The American Spirit: Who We Are and What We Stand For has arrived in bookstores at an opportune moment. Whatever your political persuasion, there’s little doubt that we’re in need of inspiring words that suggest where we go from here — and David McCullough is superbly qualified to point us in the right direction. He’s the recipient of Pulitzer Prizes for Truman and John Adams, National Book Awards for The Path Between the Seas and Mornings on Horseback, and he’s the author of 12 bestselling popular histories. Moreover, McCullough doesn’t shrink from his responsibility as a forward-looking historian, reminding us in his introduction that we live in a time of uncertainty and contention and that we need to recall who we are and what we stand for and “. . .the importance of history as an aid to navigation in such troubled, uncertain times.”

To that end, The American Spirit is a collection of 15 chronologically arranged speeches delivered by McCullough over a 25-year period, most of them college commencement addresses or remarks offered at the anniversaries and the rededications of monuments and historic structures such as the White House, the Capitol, and Carpenters’ Hall in Philadelphia. Using these ceremonies as a platform, McCullough focuses on the contributions of the famous and near famous — John and Abigail Adams, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Rush, Simon Willard, James Sumner, John Quincy Adams, Margaret Chase Smith and JFK — whose spirit and commitment to the nation helped shape our moral core.

McCullough is a believer in the Great Man theory, a biographical approach to history that offers access to a wealth of the inspiring words spoken by the founding fathers and their intellectual descendants. Quotes, memorable and repeatable as they are, are the stuff of thought-provoking commencement speeches — Stephen Hopkins, who suffered from palsy, scrawled his signature to the Declaration, saying, “My hand trembles, but my heart does not”; Margaret Chase Smith stood up to Joseph McCarthy by announcing that she didn’t want to see the Republican Party achieve political victory through “fear, ignorance, bigotry and smear”; physician and patriot Benjamin Rush reminded his fellow citizens that they were in need of “candor, gentleness, and a disposition to speak with civility and to listen with attention to everybody”; and John Adams offered a simple, timely truth: “. . . facts are stubborn things.”

Predictable themes emerge from the collection — the importance of education, the significance of history, the impact of language, and the value of selective reading — and McCullough brings up the oft repeated assertion that we’re raising a generation of ill-informed Americans who are historically illiterate and that it’s imperative that we redouble our efforts to teach our citizens to value their forebears.

But the strength of these essays is also their weakness. Commencement addresses and most dedication speeches are essentially mildly annoying sermons, timely reminders of the better citizens we ought to be. Americans, unfortunately, have a long tradition of ignoring good advice (jurist Clarence Darrow claimed that no American is absolutely sure he’s correct unless the vast majority is against him). On the other hand, McCullough’s faithful readers will find reinforcement and encouragement in his lofty words. He’s most persuasive, and insofar as preaching to the choir is productive, these speeches succeed admirably.

Not all the essays are straightforwardly instructive. In a 2007 address at Lafayette College, McCullough emphasizes the bonds that have long existed between Americans and the French, connections that are often overlooked in a world where the French chart an impartial course. (We may have changed “French fries” to “freedom fries” when the French claimed Iraq had no WMDs, but events proved them correct.) He reminds readers that the Marquis de Lafayette and the French military were instrumental in winning our struggle for independence and that 80,000 Americans died in France during World War I and 57,000 during World War II. “Time and again,” McCullough writes, “Paris changed their [young Americans’] lives and thus hugely influenced American art, American literature, music, dance, and yes, American science, technology and medicine.”

In a 1994 commencement address at the University of Pittsburgh, McCullough proposed that the university take responsibility for rehabilitating the inner-city, working to eliminate drug addiction, violent crime, racial tensions, illiteracy, homelessness, and the cycle of poverty — the selfsame problems that trouble the country still. “And why not let it begin here in Pittsburgh,” McCullough said, “this city of firsts, with the University of Pittsburgh leading the way?”

Taking a purely cynical view, it will no doubt occur to readers that The American Spirit will make a thoughtful birthday, holiday or graduation gift, and that McCullough and/or the publisher are in it for the money. After all, the book’s contents were written long before we found ourselves in our present dilemma. But it’s more likely that readers who carefully consider McCullough’s words will take the book in the generous spirit in which it’s offered. As McCullough writes: “Yes, we have much to be seriously concerned about, much that needs to be corrected, improved, or dispensed with. But the vitality and creative energy, the fundamental decency, the tolerance and insistence on truth, and the good-heartedness of the American people are there still plainly.”  OH

Stephen E. Smith is a retired professor and the author of seven books of poetry and prose. He’s the recipient of the Poetry Northwest Young Poet’s Prize, the Zoe Kincaid Brockman Prize for poetry and four North Carolina Press awards.

Pew Research

“Eau-de-toilette” takes on new meaning

 

By Maria Johnson

Recently, my husband and I visited some friends at their lake place.

It was a wonderful overnight stay, and our hosts, being generous souls, rolled out stimulating conversation, tasty food, delicious drink, thoughtful walks and — following the general story arc here — a bottle of Poo-Pourri strategically stationed in the guest bathroom.

I did not realize this at the time because I had no reason to “study,” shall we say, the small spritzer poised on the tank.

I did, however, recognize the distinctive Victorian-looking label when I saw a small bottle of Poo-Pourri in a store a few weeks later. Curious, I went home, hopped online and found a load of clever advertisements for the product, which bills itself as the World’s Best Before You Go Spray (www.poopourri.com).

The lengthy ads — which are created by the company’s in-house team, Number Two Productions — feature a prim and proper English lass spouting potty puns and explaining how Poo-Pourri works: You spray the sweet-smelling oil in the bowl; then you go; then the film of Poo-Pourri on the water’s surface supposedly traps the odors; then you flush; then everyone comes out smelling like roses.

Or lemongrass.

Or rosemary.

Or cedar.

Or any of the fragrances imparted by Poo-Pourri’s “essential oils.” Hence the “Unconditional Stink-Free Guarantee.”

I shared this with my husband and pointed out that our lake hosts
had set out Poo-Pourri in their guest bathroom, which opened onto
a central hallway.

“Oops,” he said. “Didn’t notice.”

Which is fine. I guess. We’ll see if we get invited back. In the meantime, as a sometime hostess, I decided it would be good to test the spray, what with the holidays being right around the corner.

Most houseguests try to be discrete, thank God. They figure out, with remarkable accuracy, which bathroom is farthest from the family room. This is a gift to be treasured.

The exception here — and this is a real subtlety — would be going in the master bathroom. If you’re not immediate family, don’t go there. I can’t really explain why. It’s just wrong.

Anyway, up to this point the best coping strategies for guests have been using exhaust fans, opening windows, striking paper matches (which have become rare; thanks a lot, health-conscious bars and restaurants), and spraying pine-scented air fresheners that billow into adjoining rooms to announce: “Guess who just went in the woods — not?”

Now, apparently, the fog of guilt is unnecessary.

My husband, the engineer,- was doubtful about the effectiveness of Poo-Pourri. What about transit time before splashdown? What about other emissions? What about toilet paper — it isn’t really submerged, now is it?

Sometimes, being married to an engineer makes life challenging.

There was only one way to answer these questions. I trotted back to the home accessories store. Truthfully, I hoped to find Poo-Pourri’s Secret Santa scent, thinking that if I didn’t like it, I could give it away.

This holiday edition promised “a nostalgic warm blend of vanilla and cinnamon,” a cozy gift sure to embarrass the hell out of any recipient at an office party.

Hint: If your Secret Santa gives you Poo-Pourri, use it. This is similar to when a friend offers you a breath mint.

Alas, the shipment of Secret Santa had not arrived, which left me contemplating Tropical Hibiscus and Original Citrus, neither of which seemed indigenous to a home at the holidays.

I mean, if you’re trying to mask an odor, shouldn’t it be by spraying a more pleasant smell that’s already in the house? Something like Apple Pie, or Turkey Leg, or Yeast Rolls or Cabernet on the Carpet?

In that vein, I settled on Original Citrus because, being the last-minute housekeepers that we are, our house inevitably smells like Lemon Pledge and Windex when guests arrive — and Poo-Pourri is not yet available in the Ammonia-D scent.

Another reason Original Citrus appealed to me is because it contains bergamot, the distinctive ingredient in Earl Grey tea, and that made me feel classy. Marketing goal achieved.

The next morning, I gave it a whirl. I spritzed the bowl three to five times, per the instructions, lingered long enough to read the Poo-Pourri box, and violà.

My bathroom smelled like a lemon-scented sewage treatment plant.
At tea time.

The manufacturer seemed to anticipate this, as I now know from reading the box, which plainly states: “Use in a well-ventilated area.”

In other words: Cover up if you must, but give thanks when it hits the fan.  OH

Maria Johnson is allowed one column of potty humor a year, so you can breathe easily until 2018. If you absolutely cannot hold your reaction, contact her at ohenrymaria@gmail.com.