Omnivorous Reader

OMNIVOROUS READER

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October 2024

Have Your Hike . . .

And treat yourself, too

By Anne Blythe

Sometimes amid the hubbub of daily life, it can be easy to forget how many natural gems surround us in North Carolina only a short distance away.

We’ve got the Atlantic beaches on the eastern edges and the Appalachian Mountains climbing in the west. In between, there are woodlands, rocky outcrops, sandy plains, grassy expanses, and the many rivers, lakes and waterways coursing through them.

If you’re a runner, hiker, cyclist or leisurely walker, there’s a vast array of trails to explore in these many regions, from Murphy to Manteo.

And, lucky for us, Palmer McIntyre and Hollis Oberlies, two outdoor enthusiasts from Greensboro, have compiled a guide to 30 of these places and scouted out nearby spots for refueling in Trails & Treats: A Hiker And Runner’s Guide To Great Trails And Good Eats in North Carolina.

“Trails of all kinds, whether tucked into the edge of the woods in a neighborhood park, up steep mountain summits, or circling a quiet, secluded pond, provide an escape from the everyday and connect us to the beauty of the natural world,” the pair write in the introduction to the book published this year. “A little fresh air and exercise in a serene setting can be the perfect respite from our busy lives and a way to refresh our minds.”

The women, who first bonded as their daughters became “fast friends in elementary school,” have hiked and biked many miles together over the years. They’ve done a 50-mile backpacking trip on the Appalachian Trail, the 40-mile bike tour through the five boroughs of New York and the Register’s Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa, a weeklong, 500-mile event.

In 2021, they started talking about working together to produce a guide that combined two of their passions — their “love of outdoor adventures and rewarding treats.”

Neither had ever thought about writing and publishing a book, they said in the acknowledgements of their guide. Oberlies, a runner since she was a child, owns and operates a graphic design business, and could bring that skill and expertise to the project. McIntyre, who’s worked with the Piedmont Land Conservancy since 1996 and been actively involved in saving natural areas in the Triad, could share her wealth of knowledge about trails and the trail networks she advocates for.

The two set out to explore both new trails and old favorites.

The result is an easy-to-use and fun-to-peruse book full of potential adventures. McIntyre and Oberlies have helpfully divided their 30 trail picks into four areas — the Mountain, Triad, Triangle and Charlotte regions. They’ve included the mileage for each trail leg or loop, the degree of difficulty and bits of geological or historical significance that will make a visit all the more meaningful. As a bonus, they provide words of inspiration and wisdom from some of the world’s great thinkers to ponder as you lace up your shoes before you get going or while you unlace them after a satisfying jaunt.

Take, for example, the words from noted author and neuroscientist Abhijit Naskar that lead off their take on the Laurel Bluff Trail, one of Greensboro’s Watershed Trails that extends above the southern shoreline of Lake Townsend between Lake Brandt Marina and North Church Street.

“The path reveals itself once you start walking.”

What McIntyre and Oberlies reveal is that there are short steep sections of this single-track path that are challenging, while the overall 7-mile trip out and back is still suitable for children with beckoning opportunities to get close to the water. If you’re a runner, they say there’s almost always a tree canopy overhead providing sought-after shade in the hot summer months as you test your mettle on rocky and root-strewn areas that can trip up the inattentive.

If you didn’t pack trail snacks from the recipes sprinkled throughout the book (or even if you did and depleted your stash while on the loop), the trail guide suggests a stop at Giacomo’s Italian Market on New Garden Road for cleverly named sandwiches and other “fresh, high-quality, Italian foods.” For those with a sweet tooth, there’s also Maxie B’s on Battleground Avenue, where owner Robin Davis turned her yogurt shop into a bakery that not only has an array of cakes, pies, cookies and tantalizing cupcakes. Homemade dog treats are on the menu, too. If a fruit smoothie is more to your liking, they suggest a stop at Juice Shop Smoothies on Lawndale Drive.

If you’re looking for a trail a little farther away from home or a recommendation for a post-hike adult beverage, the intrepid trail and treat guides have listed breweries and cocktail stops as well.

They’ve offered lists of gear essentials and things to watch out for in what they describe as a “unique first-time guide, written by a female hiker and runner duo.”

Kind of like you might savor the pages of a cookbook, whether you’re adept in the kitchen or not, McIntyre and Oberlies have created a guide that’s a joy to flip through.

“This guide is not for the coffee table, but meant to become a favorite companion, tucked into the side compartment of your car door, your backpack or placed on your bedside table after a day on the trails, reminding you to plan your next day out,” the duo writes. “ . . . Each path is an opportunity to explore, create memories, and renew your inner spirit.”

Simple Life

SIMPLE LIFE

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October 2024

October Dreams

The house on the hill that haunts my slumber

By Jim Dodson

During the decades we lived on a forested hill in Mid-Coast Maine, October’s arrival was greeted with relief and joy.

To begin with, it signaled the final exodus of summer tourists, who left behind their spending money in the pockets of local businesses. The cost of a seafood supper roughly halved and it was possible to venture into town to lunch with friends without being caught in a traffic jam. By mid-month, even the annual invasion of “leaf peepers” was drawing to a close.

On our hilltop, we watched the 500-acre forest around us erupt into a dazzling pageant-fire of golds and reds, and wildlife grew more active as the days grew shorter.

I remember walking down our long gravel driveway to fetch the afternoon mail with my toddler daughter, Maggie, and pausing to watch a flock of ring-necked pheasants calmly cross our path, spectacular creatures completely unconcerned by our presence.

The family of white-tailed deer that inhabited our forest could be seen most October evenings finishing off the last of the hostas, which I had strategically planted at the rear of our property to keep them away from the house in high garden season. We were often visited by beavers and skunks and, on one memorable occasion, a gangly, young male moose harmlessly crossing our upland meadow to the late summer bog where bullfrogs croaked at night. The fireflies were gone by then, replaced by the lonely cry of coyotes deep in the woods.

October is a time of serious preparation in Maine. For the last time of the year, somewhere around mid-month, I mowed the half-acre of grass that surrounded our hilltop lilium and put away my beloved John Deere lawn tractor until next spring. I also cut down and raked out several large perennial beds, and split and stacked hardwood for an hour each day, preparing our wood pile for the cold days and nights just ahead. October was the month of our first evening fire, something we all looked forward to.

The last warm days of the month were a bonus. We packed up a picnic and took the kids to one of our favorite spots, Popham Beach State Park, a spectacular 3-mile sandy spit near the mouth of the Kennebec River, where a short-lived colony was established in 1607. Popham was — and probably still is — the most popular beach in Maine. But, by October, the beach belonged again to the locals. Our children, far-flung and now in their 20s and 30s, have fond memories of walking out to the famous “Rock Island” at low tide and swimming in the ocean, warmed ever so slightly by the summer’s passing. On the way home, if the timing was right, we stopped off at our favorite seafood shack at Five Islands for fried clams and blueberry ice cream, even as its owner was preparing to shut down for the season.

The decision to sell our beloved house in 2008 was possibly the toughest one we’ve ever had to make. A year before, however, we moved to North Carolina, foolishly believing that we would simply keep our precious Maine house and return to it each summer. But, after letting it sit empty with only a caretaker looking after it for one full winter, it became clear that this was a recipe for trouble. Maine winters are tough on people and houses alike. We reluctantly decided to sell the place to a charming young couple from Connecticut who dreamed of making my dream house theirs.

The timing couldn’t have been worse.

Thanks to a national collapsing housing market and the start of the Great Recession, the sweet couple from Connecticut failed to sell their house in time, and we wound up selling to a couple from Massachusetts, who got a sensational deal. The wife adored the gardens and the quiet of the forest. The husband, however, complained that the house’s exposed hemlock beams made the interior “look unfinished.” He also didn’t like the closets or the notches on the rear of the utility door that memorialized the growth of our four kids.

I nearly backed out of the deal, but finally signed because the woman loved the place.

I stayed out of Maine for more than a decade, joking to friends that it was too soon to return and risk never coming back. That hilltop, after all, is where I designed, built and owned my first house, got married and had my children, created my first garden, and stayed longer than anywhere else. If you are curious to see why it will forever own a piece of my heart, try googling “Zillow, Topsham Maine, 12 East Merrill  Road.”

Looking back, however, coming home to North Carolina was one of the wisest moves we ever made. Over 17 years, I’ve had the opportunity to create four arts magazines, publish nine books, and make scores of new friends while deepening my oldest friendships. Moreover, during the past decade, we’ve fully restored a lovely mid-century house in my boyhood neighborhood, just two doors down from the house where I grew up. Talk about a spiritual homecoming.

Fortunately, Octobers here are also spectacular. The murderous heat of summer is finally gone, the garden is winding down for another year, the night skies are clearer, and Piedmont North Carolina kindles its own breathtaking pageant-fire of leaves.

But every now and then I have dreams about our old house in Maine.

Invariably, it’s October in this dream and I’m walking through the empty rooms of our old place, wondering what will come of it now that I’m long gone. You see, I never went back there to see it.

Not long ago, however, my savvy wife, Wendy, proposed a cure for my October dreams.

Next year, either in September or October, we plan to rent a house somewhere on the coast of Maine.

Who knows? Maybe when I’m there I’ll dream about our wonderful house and garden back in Carolina. 

Home Grown

HOME GROWN

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October 2024

Mama Macabre

My secret weapon

By Cynthia Adams

When I gave my mother a pillow needlepointed with “Drama Queen,” she cast me a look before promptly sticking it in a closet — where it remained.

Mama always had a penchant for drama, whether emblazoned on a pillow or not. Her Katherine Hepburn-like older sister was a stark contrast. Our cool-as-a-cucumber aunt made us invariably wonder even more: Why all the drama? 

Was it the advent of high-drama television when Mama was young? However exciting 1940s-era radio programs (a staple of her youth) were, televised dramatizations enacted in real time were a leap forward. 

From her mother, an otherwise no-nonsense lady who knew her way around any situation (from cooking and baking for a crowd to tilling the garden and growing her own veggies), Mama had inherited a curious thing: a passionate devotion for daytime soaps.

Their very names trembled with dramatic tension: The Edge of Night, Guiding Light, The Secret Storm — Mama and her mother, Mama Patty, eagerly followed each one. 

Complete fiction, they both agreed. Outlandish storylines, they assented. They even recognized that the actors were just too perfect-looking. Even so, they were totally, passionately glued to the tube, Monday–Friday, from after lunchtime (then called “dinner”) to near suppertime (now called dinner.) 

These detergent-sponsored dramas unfolded along a consistent trajectory — usually as follows: a. rags to riches, b. riches to rags, or c., the most convoluted, a fall, a rise, then a fall again. 

Later in life, another passion usurped Mama’s attachment to soap operas. True crime reflected many of the same dramatic ingredients.

This fascination solidified during the O.J. Simpson trial. 

My mother never lost interest, from June 17, 1994, the night of the televised white Bronco chase. She watched each development thereon, and knew each and every gory detail, from the infamous glove manufacturer (Aris) to alleged assignations with a lover, to the most obscure points.

Yet I had underestimated just how invested Mama had become. 

So, when I took my mother to L.A. following bypass surgery, she had clear requests. First and foremost, she wanted to drive past the Beverly Hills homes of her favorite television and movie stars. Also, she wanted to visit the infamous Simpson site. That site.

She actually knew Nicole Brown Simpson’s Brentwood address.

With great misgivings, I drove Mama to Brentwood. She practically knew the way without aid of GPS.

When I slowed near the apartments briefly and sped on, Mama insisted I turn around and pass by again, but slower this time.

Gritting my teeth and gripping the steering wheel, I was deeply conflicted and yet did as she asked — she was a cardiac patient!

Mama’s disappointment was evident. Too many things (fences, trees, pedestrians) obstructed a clear view. What did she expect anyway? A historical marker? Plus, she complained, I was still driving far too fast. 

Our reactions to the scene were radically different.

She expressed how shockingly modest the apartment complex was. I pointed out this was an actual crime scene, not a stage set.

Digesting how appalling it was that a horrific landmark was now a tourist destination, we returned to the hotel at my insistence. She didn’t appreciate the irony when I later booked us on a Grave Line Tour of celebrity homes. To Mama’s mortification, the guide pulled up before our hotel driving a gray hearse, no less. (The company’s website is priceless. Its tagline, “We put death on the map,” is truth in advertising. Now, you can stipulate if you prefer a “limousine ride through the City of Fallen Angels” over the hearse.)   

But her interest in the dark side of the human psyche steadily intensified as she grew older. In the fall of 1994, when Susan Smith murdered her children in Union, S.C., Mama again absorbed every broadcast interview, each sordid detail.   

Had she, I ventured jokingly, harbored a secret desire to drive me and some of her more vexing children into a lake? Of course not, she snapped. 

Mama had a paralyzing fear of water and could not swim. 

Otherwise, who could say? I wondered aloud. Mama didn’t laugh.

She even went with me to Union (along with hordes of other media folk) in pursuit of a story about the murder’s impact on a small town thrust into an intense media glare. Mama’s retention of minutiae actually proved helpful.

She quickly recalled the spot where Susan and her boss had occasionally met for drinks. There, a bartender talked on record, thanks to Mama, who innocently plied him with questions, murmuring sympathetically while nursing her favorite cocktail, a Bloody Mary. (Naturally.) He winced when I pulled out a notebook, yet Mama somehow put him at ease — a feat I couldn’t have managed alone. 

It turned out the bartender was an old school friend of Susan’s. He shared details of her troubled adolescence and abuse, something he wouldn’t have done without Mama’s coaxing.

Till her end, Mama was helplessly hooked whenever a dark story broke. 

Recently, I could not help but think of her as the Murdaugh murders and trials unfolded, horrifying and stupefying in their violent scope and retelling.

It’s a story that would have no doubt necessitated a return to South Carolina, Mama in tow, ready to ply a possible source. 

Bloody Mary, indeed.

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

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October 2024

They’re a Hoot

Keep a sharp ear out

By Susan Campbell

Listen . . . an eerie trill or spooky shriek from out of the darkness at this time of year just might indicate the presence of an eastern screech-owl. Territorial adults readily use a mix of screams, tremolos with different pitches and long trills to advertise the boundaries of their home range. Their vocalizations are remarkably loud for such small birds: Screech-owls only stand about 8 inches high. They can be found in forests all over North Carolina, especially in thick pine stands, so much of our Piedmont habitat is great for them. Furthermore, they are with us year-round.

Eastern screech-owls can be either a dull gray or a rich rufous color. Dark splotches and vertical striping on the breast and belly provide excellent camouflage against tree bark, where they can be found roosting during daylight hours. Tufts of feathers on the head give an eared or horned appearance. They may be sitting close to a tree trunk or peering out of a cavity. As is the case with most raptors, females are larger than males. Nonetheless, females have higher pitched calls. Rarely are they seen, unless crows or flocks of songbirds signal their presence by frenzied flight and raucous calling.

This species is found throughout the eastern United States as well as along the Canadian border and in easternmost Mexico. Although they may wander somewhat outside of the breeding season, eastern screech-owls are not migratory. These diminutive owls breed in the springtime. Pairs, who usually stay together for life, nest in cavities, utilizing old squirrel or woodpecker holes as well as purple martin houses and wood duck boxes. Not surprisingly, pairs of screech-owls will readily take to boxes made to their exact specifications. A female simply lays up to six white eggs on the substrate at the bottom of the cavity. Incubation takes about a month, and then the young birds take another month to develop before they fledge. During this period, while the female remains on the nest, her mate will hunt nightly for the growing family.

Eastern screech-owls eat a wide variety of prey. Rodents are a large portion of their diet, but they also readily catch frogs, large insects and other invertebrates, including crayfish and even earthworms. They have been known to feed on roosting birds and the occasional bat. Screech-owls are very much at home feeding on mice, rats or voles that can be found around bird feeders at night — as well as moths and beetles attracted to outside lights. These birds adopt a “sit-and-wait” strategy, then pounce on their prey and swallow it whole. Owl gizzards are specially adapted to digest the soft parts of the creatures they eat and then ball up the bones, fur and other indigestible bits into an oval mass that is regurgitated each day. Favored roost sites or nest cavities can be found by locating piles of these masses (or pellets, as they are referred to) on the forest floor. Unfortunately, screech-owls often hunt along roadsides and are prone to being hit by cars as they swoop low over the pavement to grab a meal.

Overall, however, eastern screech-owls are a successful species that has adapted well to the changes humans have made to the landscape. In fact, urban individuals tend to be more successful than their suburban counterparts, likely due to several factors, including fewer predators, more available prey and plenty of cavities in the landscape. So, spend some time outside after dark and train your ears for the trill or tremolos of our eastern screech-owl. No doubt there are one or two living in your neighborhood. These cute little birds are anything but scary once you get to know them. 

O.Henry Ending

O.HENRY ENDING

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October 2024

My Roommate

A dapper apparition

By Renee Skudra

I have only seen him once, in profile, passing from the living room into the kitchen: a dapper, middle-aged man in 1940s clothing — attired in a patterned knit vest, double-pleated gabardine trousers, dark brown loafers and a fedora. Startled, as I jumped up from my seat at the kitchen table, he vanished.

I’m a largely rational creature and once considered myself the sort of person who didn’t believe in ghosts. I’ve read in paranormal literature that a ghost sighting is often referred to as an example of “ontological shock,” an event that causes one to question one’s worldview. Believe me. It has.

I have witnessed lights and spigots turning on and off, objects moving or falling, shadows that pass through walls, freezing cold spots with the central heating set at 74 degrees, a voice from my computer screaming “You’ve got mail!” at 3 a.m.

I have had to conclude that a dead person interacting with the living world — aka a ghost — inhabits my house. While you may scoff at that, spending only one night in my house would make you a believer. For the moment, my ghost and I have reached an uneasy peace. Neither of us is leaving.

However, I am in good company in believing that my roommate/apparition exists. According to a survey conducted by the Pew Research Center, close to 20 percent of people say they have seen a ghost. That equates to more than 50 million ghosts out there in the U.S. alone. A 2019 Ipsos poll found that 46 percent of Americans say they believe in ghosts.

The idea that the dead remain with us in spirit is indeed an ancient and abiding concept. From the Bible to Shakespeare’s Macbeth, from TV ghost hunting shows to my own kitchen, we’re obsessed by specters. Skeptics keep the debate going. They argue that, if ghosts are real, their existence will be verified through controlled experiments. They posit that reports of ghosts can be explained by psychology, misperceptions, mistakes and hoaxes. According to a 2019 article entitled “The Science of Ghosts” in Science News Explores, scientists found zero evidence that ghosts exist. What scientists have discovered, though, are a multitude of reasons why people might feel they have had ghostly encounters — hallucinations and pareidolia top the list. Pareidolia is a tendency for the human brain to find patterns amongst ambiguous stimuli. Is that a face you see in a cloud? Effectively, the brain finds meaning in the meaningless.

Still ghost stories persist. Prime Minister Winston Churchill and First Lady Grace Coolidge swore they saw Abraham Lincoln in the Yellow Oval Room. George Washington is said to have regularly revisited the historic chamber at Mount Vernon where he died in 1799. The ghost of former N.C. Governor Daniel Fowle has been haunting the Governor’s mansion. 

As I’m writing this, the light suddenly flickers in the den and once again my volume of Black’s Law Dictionary has fallen from its shelf and lies, open, in the middle of the floor. I replace the book, as I have so many times before, and calmly say, “Please leave the law books alone.” When you live with things that go bump in the night, you have to give them a modicum of respect and hope they do the same for you.

Art of the State

ART OF THE STATE

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October 2024

Earth Is at the Center

Christina Lorena Weisner’s art explores new frontiers

By Liza Roberts

Christina Lorena Weisner’s art emerges from her deep connection to the earth, to its systems and rhythms, its elements and mysteries. She studies the planet like a scientist and discovers it like an explorer, venturing to its far ends to record its extremes in person, to live within its phenomena. She turns her insights into art she hopes will inspire awe for our planet’s grandeur and empathy for its vulnerability.

Her latest fascination is the North Pole, where she spent two weeks immersing herself last spring with an expeditionary art and science residency called The Arctic Circle. “I can only describe it as the most impactful experience of my life,” Weisner says. “I’ve been interested in water for a long time, and I wanted to immerse myself into this landscape of glaciers in order to better understand it.” 

The expedition’s ship, which carried 30 fellow resident artists and scientists, took Weisner and others to the Svalbard Archipelago by outboard Zodiacs twice a day, always surrounded by “a triangulation of guards with guns” to protect them against polar bears. While ashore, Weisner planted an orange safety flag in the icescape, making it a recurring motif in her photos. She also used a drone to shoot video from above and collected plastic. 

“You’re in a land that you know is changing, you’re looking at a glacier that might not be there in 100 years. You’re looking at history,” she says. That history was evident in other ways, too, like a massive pile of whale bones left behind by 19th century whalers, and the detritus left behind by scientific explorers of that time. “There were many instances where I was thinking of human history as it relates to geological time,” Weisner says. 

The trip “was the catalyst for a whole new body of work,” says Weisner, who is headed back next May. That work includes still photography of that mythic frontier, sweeping video and installations that incorporate pieces of plastic she collected in and around Svalbard.  

Recently, her work was in Surface and Undercurrents, a group show at Dare Arts in Manteo, and this month she is part of a group exhibit at Emerge Gallery & Art Center in Greenville. Next April she will be featured in a group show at Central Connecticut State University on climate change in the Arctic, and in June her work will be exhibited in a solo show at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Arlington, Virginia. 

A native of Richmond, Virginia, Weisner says she can trace the beginnings of her work as an artist to a job she had with Nag’s Head Ocean Rescue in her early 20s. When she wasn’t saving swimmers, she stared out at the ocean for 10 hours a day. “I would watch the sun move across the sky and the moon come up,” she says. “I was very aware of these bigger processes — these large-scale movements, like waves coming over from the coast of Africa — that we’re not often aware of.

Other little-seen influences in her work come from her wide-ranging education, which includes an MFA from University of Texas at Austin and separate undergraduate degrees in both world studies and fine arts from Virginia Commonwealth University. The interplay between humans, time and the planet has long been a theme in her work. As a former competitive swimmer and regular runner and biker, she experiences the world in a visceral way, creating art that is informed by the way we live within the world and the way the world lives with us. 

From her home in Kitty Hawk (she’s soon to move to Duck, two Outer Banks towns away), Weisner rides a bike or runs along the beach every day to note its transformations. “It’s the same beach, but it’s completely different, the water color, the form of the waves, the temperature of the wind,” she says. Sometimes she finds objects to incorporate into sculpture as she goes. 

Waves and wavelengths — audio, seismic and light — all inspire her. A meteorite impact crater in Southern Germany was the subject of sculpture and installation art she created with the Fulbright Grant she was awarded in 2013; she used seismometers to record earthquakes as part of a Mint Museum installation in 2018.

One early morning in March 2022, I had the chance to witness her in action. On the shores of Kitty Hawk Sound, I watched as she zipped up her wetsuit, assembled a series of floating sculptures, and waded with them into the frigid waters. The sun wasn’t fully up, the air was barely 40 degrees and the art she was wrangling was bigger than she was. Weisner took it all in stride. In a matter of minutes, she’d glided 50 yards from shore and her art was floating all around her.

The largest of the three pieces of art with her that morning was one she’d attached to her outrigger kayak and towed 275 miles down parts of the Eno and Neuse Rivers and through the Ocracoke Inlet in 2019, recording audiovisual information and environmental data (including a panther sighting) along the way. Two smaller works included discarded beach chairs from one of her regular oceanside jogs.

Her approach with every subject, Weisner says, is to embrace what she doesn’t know, and to let her new knowledge as well as her material guide her. 

“I’m still a process-oriented artist,” she says, one focused on “openness to material and play, not taking my work too seriously . . . and not being too pigeonholed.” She thrives when she can employ all of her senses in the making of her art, especially work that involves nature. And she loves making connections across time and place. 

When the polar vortex winds of 2022 washed an old canoe up on the side of the road near her house, for instance, she picked it up and brought it home. “It had beautiful layering on it,” she says. “The water had rotted holes into it. I think it had been submerged in the sound for a couple of years.” 

The fact that winds from the Arctic dislodged it and brought it to her North Carolina shore fascinated her, she says, and that canoe has become part of her latest Arctic-inspired installations. “No place is an isolated place,” says Weisner. “Everything we do — everything that happens in one geographic location — impacts other geographic locations.” 

The Modern Day Evolution of the Industrial Revolution

THE MODERN DAY EVOLUTION OF THE INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION

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October 2024

The Modern Day Evolution of the Industrial Revolution

Heavy metal makes a comeback

By Billy Ingram

Covered in rust, covered in scale grease — no one wants that in their home.” That’s Chris Lutzweiler describing the Industrial Age metallic mastodons he scours the country for. Lurking under the surface of this Jurassic junk is what he sees as unimaginable beauty. Hidden for decades, fallowing in forgotten warehouses or lying flat in furrowed fields, there’s an unmistakable allure that is, as he puts it, “all hiding underneath.”

Hiding in plain sight to him, yet, to the untrained eye, nothing more than the detritus of a bygone era, unwanted, dilapidated tatterdemalions transform when, conducting business as The Rustic Factory, this metallurgical magician performs his extraordinary act of restoration prestidigitation.

A heavy-duty table saw dated 1930 has been converted into an impressive 30-by-50-inch drafting table featuring a new glass surface, easily adjustable both up and down, and vertical to horizontal. In a similar vein is a commanding boardroom table, spanning approximately 14-by-14-foot with an 8-foot base, topped with a $5,000 glass surface weighing over a quarter- ton. “You can literally crank it higher or lower with just one hand.”

Fashioning furniture from outmoded heavy machinery was a shabby — not- so-chic — concept embraced in the 1960s and ’70s, when lofts carved out of shuttered manufacturing plants were leased to bohemian artists and musician-types. These creative free spirits mounted tabletops over abandoned hulking monstrosities that weighed hundreds or thousands of pounds and were forevermore bolted into hardwood floors, thereby rendering the intractable practical.

Somewhere along the line, that forward thinking, backward-leaning sensibility tilted from hippie to Haut. High-end lifestyle purveyors like RHA and Restoration Hardware began marketing vaguely reminiscent specimens of industrial-looking home and office furnishings.

There are entire lines of steampunk-inspired executive desks and home furnishings scattered about the marketplace today, pleasing enough to the eye. But these too-cleverly designed pieces betray an overly-labored approach at approximating some fictitious exactness, so overwrought that any minor adjustment requires motorization. Mere superficial “reproductions,” they lack any genuineness or authenticity that made the genre appealing to begin with. Researching this stylistic phenomenon, Chris Lutzweiler realized that most of these ersatz thingamabobs-cum-household-accoutrements actually originate overseas. “I still loved the look,” he insists, “but I wondered what inspired that style? Where’s the real deal?” What he discovered is that those real deals “are egregiously expensive, shockingly so, and incredibly difficult to source.”

Born in Chaska, Minnesota, but raised in Greensboro, Lutzweiler never envisioned pursuing a career crafting one-of-a-kind furniture from sidelined tool-and-die contraptions resurrected from the turn of the last century. And yet, the attraction came naturally. “I’ve always been fascinated by the mechanical nature of machines,” he explains. “Any kind of machinery, any kind of engine, moving parts, anything like that.”

After about a year with little clue as to what he was actually doing, he says, “I spent a small fortune, but got started with a couple of authentic pieces.” Lutzweiler began retooling and simplifying complex machinery that could be employed as resolute office desks, dining room tables and the like from discarded dinosaurs of the industrial age.

No matter the source material, this is a labor-intensive undertaking. “There are people that like this style but can’t really go for the authentic thing because there’s a cost to it,” Lutzweiler says. “It’s not cheap, but a lot of people who reach out to me want the real thing.”

The first step is bathing any moving mechanical parts in a strong, penetrating oil — hardware, bolts, pulleys or anything else that will need to be extracted.

After allowing the oil to penetrate over several days, the original piece is carefully and painstakingly disassembled and cataloged for reassembly. “At this point, larger components are glass blasted with heavy industrial equipment outside of my facility,” Lutzweiler explains. “Smaller and more manageable components are done myself by hand.” After a century’s worth of rust, paint, scales, grease, and dirt are eradicated, only the cast iron or underlying steel remains. “This is a critical time as bare iron or steel will actually ‘flash rust’ within minutes.” The next step is mission critical, Lutzweiler insists, and if not performed immediately, the time- consuming blasting process will have to be repeated. “Freshly blasted metal is usually a dull gray or white, and full of residue and salts,” so removing that corrosive patina and achieving a desired, cast iron finish requires hours of high-speed polishing and wire brushing. “This is the longest and most intense portion of the process that brings out the beautiful, natural color of the metal.”

The clock begins ticking again, buffed metal needs sealing as quickly as possible before any rust can form. “Each individual component is sprayed with clear coating, then the entire piece reassembled and clear-coated again several times over, ensuring that natural finish is protected.” Lutzweiler once spent an entire workday preserving a single fastener: “Nearly eight hours to save the original bolt, where a new one would have sufficed. However, the customer wanted it as original as possible.”

When it comes to maintaining the structural and period-perfect integrity of these armored antiquities, Lutzweiler occasionally needs a capability beyond his capacity. With those unusually hard cases, he has turned to Scott Cain at GFC Machine in High Point, an automotive machine shop specializing in race car chassis construction, repairs and custom fabrication.

Cain recalls when this wannabe furniture-maker (prior to Lutzweiler even entertaining such a thought) first entered his shop: “It was years ago, when he was at GTCC’s automotive program.” For college credits while still in high school, Lutzweiler attended GTCC’s middle college, where, one afternoon, an instructor guided students through GFC’s workplace, offering some insight into what machine shops are capable of.

“I’m going to say, maybe five years ago, Chris started coming here to get me to do little odds and ends for him,” Cain recalls. Those “little odds and ends” often entailed work-arounds that would likely stretch the capabilities of the most accomplished machinist. “His stuff is extremely old and just a little problematic to get what he wants done with it, to get pieces to break loose without damaging the parts.”

“Scott is a great guy — he shakes his head every time I come in the door,” Lutzweiler remarks with a grin. “I have to give him a lot of credit because the man is a genius with anything metal and I want things to be authentic. If that’s how it was originally done, I want to do it that way; I don’t want to improvise. And he just wants to shake me sometimes.” It’s a fortuitous match.

“Any time there is a customer-facing welding spot, I’ll ask Scott to do ‘NASCAR-style’ welds that are cleaner and more rhythmic,” says Lutzweiler.

“Honestly, it’s all in a day’s work,” is Cain’s response. Recalling a particularly complex collaboration, he adds, “One of his tables had a set of gears that had four individual Acme thread posts that would elevate the tabletop. Yeah, that one was difficult. When it worked right, it kinda made me feel good because it was such a challenge.”

That particular item, a Portelvator adjustable hand-crank cart made by The Hamilton Tool Co. circa 1890–1930, was sitting, nonfunctional, in the lobby of a high-end fitness studio in Detroit, presently enjoying new life as a deceptively simple bar cart. “What made the whole thing tricky was every component had to be precisely in sync or the gears would lock up,” Lutzweiler explains, down to the threaded rods, sun gears, worm gears, pins and chains.

Lutzweiler’s venture has him traversing across East Coast byways, exploring the Rust Belt’s every loop, in pursuit of technologically primitive behemoths originally manufactured for carving out cabinets, window frames, dining room tables and the like; those machines that once made the furniture, in turn, will become furnishings. “Ohio and Pennsylvania are a treasure trove of authentic turn-of-the-century pieces.”

Of particular interest, many of the most desirable mechanical manifestations of Industrial Revolution ingenuity were forged right here in Greensboro. Lutzweiler describes one of those transformations as “a Wysong & Miles crank table for a molding sander that can now be a dining room table or an office desk. You can turn the hand wheel and it will raise and lower.”

Augmented with a glass top weighing in at 300 pounds, “you can adjust it with two fingers, it’s so smooth. It even says ‘Greensboro, North Carolina’ right there on it.” Wysong (sans Miles) has significantly downsized, but is still doing business locally.

A hefty Wysong & Miles Co. belt sander currently serves as the base for an executive desk, where floor-level hand-wheels turn with incredible ease to lift the 150-pound glass top effortlessly. “I actually polished each individual chain link by hand,” says Lutzweiler. While he can’t be sure of the exact date, he notes, “the machine had a patent number on it dating to 1896.”

In most cases the fossilized relics he’s uncovering were one-offs, built at great expense to specifications for specialized tasks. Inevitably, they ended up discarded by the companies that utilized them after an ignominious descent into uselessness, shoved into cobwebbed corners or piled outside into junk-heaped islands of misfit toys. Take, for example, a Pennsylvania casket factory crank table Lutzweiler unearthed. “It had been sitting there since it was purchased, according to the fourth-generation owner; they’d never used it in his lifetime.”

Although these aging bulls no longer emit whatever pitch they once played — one can imagine cacophonies of sense-dulling grinding, scraping, jangling — in silent repose, they elicit an instantly recognizable, weighty vibe. Native to hardwood floors, these pillars of grand austerity can’t help but add momentously to the vocabulary of any room, in particular lending an unmistakable sense of architectural symmetry when situated in an equally distinctive environment.

A celebration of hardware pre-software, there’s timeless beauty in a hanging throne, fit for royalty, improbably adapted out of a rusting artifact resembling something rightfully left behind on Skull Island. These theatric lounge chairs are constructed around pre-World War II engine cranes and elephantine factory winches once used to maneuver heavy equipment. “You can literally sit in there, take a nap, read a book, fall asleep, watch TV,” Lutzweiler says. And they’ve proved popular.

Although his company has a web site (therusticfactory.com), if mid-century Mad Men taught us anything, it’s that word-of-mouth advertising is the only sure-fire campaign — can’t fake that. “Clients will have somebody over for dinner,” Lutzweiler points out, “and somebody will say, ‘I want that for my boardroom, or a beach house — where do I get a table like this?’ And they’ll put them in contact with me.” Repeat business is something he’s become accustomed to. One gentleman, who’d previously acquired creations from The Rustic Factory, “asked if I could repurpose the wooden trusses of a vintage pre-World War I airplane into a chandelier with wings on either side. It’s all wood and completely encased in glass with run lights throughout it. This thing is probably 30 feet long.” Lutzweiler explains, “The wing lowers when he wants more light, raises when he wants it to spread out more, and it’s just a few turns of a handle. It was such a massive project, GTCC’s aviation program was kind enough to let me use their facilities to assemble it.”

For the same client, Lutzweiler painstakingly restored then assembled four Lineberry carts sourced locally from North Wilkesboro — and “usually fairly gross” to begin with — into a train to fabricate a TV stand. “It goes in a long, long pattern and it’s got a handle at the end. What I love about this is, it’s so ridiculously heavy — egregiously heavy — but we figured out how to make it so anyone can move them.” That handle consists of a pivot with a pin. “You just pick it up with literally two fingers and you’re moving a thousand pound train. It’s insane how effortlessly these things move.” Typically in that instance, artisans will take the existing wooden top, sand it down then scuff it up a bit. “However, I don’t want to do what everybody else does. I actually installed black walnut to achieve a book-match effect.” As much as Chris Lutzweiler is in the groove right now, there’s an inherent finality to the direction his life has taken. “These are depleting assets,” he says. “There’s only so many of them left.” It’s become something akin to a treasure hunt, rooting out what few oxidizing dinosaurs may be remaining, yet to be revealed. “People that know what these are in the industry, they all go for them at once, and it’s who can get there first and fastest. Sad part is, eventually I’ll have to change business models or do something different, which is fine — when the authentic pieces do dry up.”

Poem

POEM

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October 2024

October 2024

The Doorman at the Washington Hilton

Regal in his red cap and Nehru tunic,

he summons with a silver whistle,

depended from a silver tassel

around his neck,

a taxi for Jacob,

our first-born –

mere minutes to make his train

to Philadelphia, then another

to New York, and the plane

to Dubai, then Zambia.

How can it be that you raise children

for the world and they rush off to it,

places and people you’ll never see.

Is that your son, the doorman asks.

When I am unable to answer,

he tells me of his son, in Iraq,

his fear of the telephone

he can’t bear to answer.

All week, this man has held doors for me,

hailed cabs,

smiled as if he did not have such a son.

    — Joseph Bathanti

Chaos Theory

CHAOS THEORY

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October 2024

A Haunting Tale

Yes, ghosts are real. Unless you’re my kid who’s going to bed — then no

By Cassie Bustamante

“Ghosts aren’t real,” I tell my 5-year-old, Wilder, as I tuck him in for the night, regretting that I let him watch Scooby-Doo. I don’t actually believe what I am saying, but parents will say whatever they have to to get their kids to just go to sleep. Just ask Adam Mansbach, author of the infamous Go the F*** to Sleep.

But back to the matter at hand. “Ghosts are very real,” I tell my husband, Chris, once Wilder is asleep. He doesn’t agree — and always sleeps like a champ. “Don’t worry. If I die first, I’ll prove it to you,” I say. “I can’t wait to haunt you!” (Actually, yes, I can.)

Do I have proof? No, but I have stories.

When I was a teen growing up in a small town in western Massachusetts, my godmother, Aunt Debbie — my mom’s sister, younger by just a year — would take me on weekend shopping trips, east to Boston or west to Stockbridge. She didn’t have kids of her own so she treated me like her daughter, buying me dangling jewelry she called “baubles.” We’d jam to the tunes of Gloria Estefan and Steve Winwood, and she’d regale me with stories from her life, which seemed much more dazzling and whimsical than my family’s boring white-picket-fence, suburban existence. What I didn’t understand at the time was that those seemingly exhilarating moments were part of her ups. She never shared the downs of her bipolar disorder with me.

Debbie was somewhat of a widow. She’d lost her husband, Michael, to ALS, but they’d been separated at the time of his diagnosis, remaining legally married for insurance purposes. As his illness progressed, despite each having new significant others, their friendship became stronger than ever.

Immediately after his funeral, friends would drop in to share memories, drinks and laughs. But then she threw a party akin to the wild ones they threw when Michael was alive, certainly not your typical post-burial get-together.

On one particular godmother-and-goddaughter weekend as we’re on our way to the Berkshires, she spills the details. “I had a cake made with his face on it and put candles in his eyes,” she says. Already, I’m intrigued and we’re both giggling over the absurdity of it all. After all, this was 1995 and face cakes weren’t really a thing yet. “We turned off the lights and had a seance. One of his friends said, ‘Debbie, you shouldn’t do this! He’d be so mad!’”

That night, she continues, a vicious storm passed through, knocking out power and tossing a tree onto her little Honda sedan, which was parked in the driveway. Coincidence? Maybe, but there’s more.

Pictures fell off a stable living room shelf.

“The alarm by the hall closet kept turning on when I would walk by,” Debbie says. Not just any hall closet, but the place where she stored Michael’s suits, soon to be passed on to his younger brother. “I said, ‘OK, Michael. I get it — you’re telling me something!’” she says as we cruise down the highway. “I decided to rifle through the pockets and discovered a watch he didn’t want his brother to have.” And, as soon as she retrieved it, the alarm was silent.

On the morning of April 2, 1996, just as I was getting ready for school, my mom received a call. Her sister had taken her own life — just shy of her 40th birthday — the night before. Though tragic, it wasn’t a complete surprise, although we’d hoped things were turning around for her. She’d found a new love, bought a house with him and was, it appeared, happy. But you never know the demons someone battles.

In the months that followed Debbie’s passing, I looked for signs of her presence everywhere. I watched for lights to flicker or alarms to sound seemingly on their own. I played the Mary Chapin Carpenter cassettes that I inherited from her collection, hoping a message might come through. But no visitations followed and I decided she was finally resting in peace.

Ten years later to the day Debbie died, it is April 1, 2006.

I’m in Maryland visiting my parents with my first baby, 8-month-old Sawyer, who has slept solidly through the night since he was 6 weeks old. At midnight on the nose, something startles me awake: a noise over the baby monitor.

But Sawyer isn’t crying. In fact, he’s cooing and chatting away happily, as if talking to someone. And in that moment, I know exactly who: Debbie, who always loved babies, but never had her own. Debbie, who loved me like a daughter and would have loved this baby as if he were her own grandchild. Paralyzed by this realization — and slightly terrified, if I am being honest — I decide not to go to him. He babbles. He gurgles. He coos. And, as if lulled by an unsung lullaby, he drifts to sleep. I, of course, check on him later and find him snoozing peacefully, the corners of his mouth forming a sweet smile behind his pacifier.

So while I tell a little white lie to Wilder because I’m ready to go to bed myself, I do, in fact, think ghosts are real. And perhaps one day, hopefully 50 years from now if I am lucky, Chris will be telling our grown children and grandkids about the little ways I’m letting him know I’m still around. No matter what, I’ll make a believer out of him yet.

Tea Leaf Astrologer

TEA LEAF ASTROLOGER

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October 2024

Libra

(September 23 – October 22)

When the shoe no longer fits, no amount of stretching or bending will change that. This year has given you loads of opportunities to release what no longer serves your highest path. And with the solar south node eclipse in your sign on October 2, suffice it to say that this month is going to be more of the same — uncomfortable yet, ultimately, liberating. A word of advice on moving forward: You’re going to want arch support.

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

Be the squeaky wheel.

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Dog-ear the page for later.

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

Best not to download the app.

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

Lie down if you start feeling dizzy.

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Hint: They can’t read your mind.

Aries (March 21 – April 19) 

Book the trip.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

Bypass the candy corn.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

It’s time to call the shots.

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

Write a love note to yourself.

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

Prepare for liftoff.

Virgo (August 23 – September 22

Sometimes more is more.