The Powder Room

It may be small, but the vision should be grand

 

By Cynthia Adams

After 21 years, Whitsett resident Sharon James decided her powder room deserved better than the wallpaper and finishes she loved in 1999.

The powder room dates to Prohibition, when women “powdered their noses” in hastily constructed “ladies’ toilets” sometimes built under speakeasy stairways. Once barely adequate, today, they are hardworking half-baths.

Given the small size, powder room renos average $2,000. That is, unless you are designer Miles Redd, who says “powder rooms should be outrageous.” As in, they’re the “one space you want to take people’s breath away.”

That notion got James’s attention. She wanted something breathtaking.

Inspired by a traditional mirror spotted while antiquing at Carriage House — “one that had been spray painted with white automotive paint to give it a high sheen” —  James found what she needed to get revved up. “Falling in love with that mirror, and loving blue-and-white, is what started the project.”

The mirror, it turns out, wouldn’t fit, but it did inspire an all blue-and-white redo.

In 2016, James reached out to local muralist Dana Holliday after reading about her in O.Henry. 

“Dana had been schooled in painting in a grisaille [painting executed entirely in shades of gray or neutral, grayish colors],” shares James. “And she had a history of painting large murals.”

While the Jameses were, in fact, in France, Holliday painted French scenes in their dining room, making it their favorite room.

Now, would she paint a custom mural in the powder room? Scenes from the Cotswolds?

James provided pictures from their travels.

“You must be agile — and supple enough to straddle a toilet and do the ‘in-and-outies,’” jokes Holliday. “Up and over, over and under . . . I was in that little room. Sometimes I laid on my side to reach something.  Thank God I do yoga!”

Holliday laughs, “I felt like Toilet Tina.” 

Afterward, James sourced lighting specific to the scale of the space that wouldn’t compete with the artwork. “Sometimes it’s almost harder to do a small room given the scale. You can find a lot of what you like but you must narrow it down to size.”

Scale and color ruled.

“When you have a small room,” says James, “measurements count.”

The homeowner continues: “It was fun finding all the little things to complement a pretty little bathroom. I had two beautiful aged brass sconces I intended to use; except, when I went to a very pale palette, it made the brass look dirty and destroyed the look of a light and airy room.” Crystal sconces came to the rescue. “And I had parchment shield-shaped shades (made in Venice, Italy,) to complement the blue-and-white walls.”

James sourced rugs from Dash & Albert, towels from Matouk and ordered simple Delta taps.

A vision for the artist proved key.

“Don’t do it unless you have it nailed down,” agrees Holliday, who works with encaustic and acrylic paintings in addition to her commercial faux painting. 

(Holliday is currently providing art demonstrations at Zimmerman Vineyards in Trinity.)  OH

Cynthia Adams is a contributing editor of O.Henry.

Palm Beach Weekend!

Escape to the timeless, buzzy glamour of the Florida tropics for year-round summer sizzle

By Jason Oliver Nixon and John Loecke

 

The Knife at Rest

It’s the little things — and sometimes the finer things

 

By Cynthia Adams

We were lunching in rare style. Good food, good company, a splendid table before us — and everyone was in excellent spirits. The table? It looked like a page torn from Architectural Digest: heirloom china, delicate crystal and antique French silverware on creamy linens. 

An artist and her close friend paused mid-sentence, suddenly noticing a set of what turned out to be silver knife rests.

The artist’s mouth opened, then closed.

What are those? She pointed to the elegant silver rectangles positioned above the antique table knife. 

Our host, an enthusiastic collector, explained: they were, quite simply, a resting place for a used knife, which kept linens safe from the greasy slurry on the plate.

The artist began to speculate about tired knives requiring rest. 

“Too weary to cut it!” 

“Lying down on the job!” 

“Stop me before I cut in again.”

She held a handsome knife up for inspection. “After they rest, then what?”

“They obviously move in for the kill,” she quipped.

We laughed ourselves silly, enjoying the word play.

The fun added to a good meal at a great table. As the conversation evolved, someone mentioned how we, after all, eat with our eyes. True, yet times have changed. 

There’s always fashion and history at work in our kitchens and dining rooms, as good ideas come and go from favor. A knife rest is straight out of an Edith Wharton setting: a classic remnant of fine dining. 

What other objects are from tables past, things once used and now idling in the drawer? 

Those who love Wharton will reel from the pronouncements of Bob Vila, a former Sears’ pitchman who rose to fame with This Old House.

Despite This Old House, Vila has very modern opinions.

Here’s a short list on his outmoded and, therefore, verboten picks: fancy forks — including oyster forks, fish forks, salad forks, pickle forks and dessert forks. All out.

Other things deemed pointless by Vila: butter picks. (The butter pick is used for choosing/skewering single pats of butter.)

Napkin rings are also a thing of the past, Vila insists. I am glad my mother did not live to read this. If she were not dead already, this news would doubtless kill her.

Dedicated stemware is also outmoded, he claims. He says that it is completely modern to use a stemless glass for all wines. In fact, one multipurpose glass twill suffice. Even, dear God, a Mason jar.

To all my friends and family, I am sorry to convey this, not only because we are all stemware-struck, but because I personally own tons of outmoded glassware by Vila’s standards, including champagne coupes. 

I shudder to imagine the Queen being served her beloved Bollinger in a pickle jar. The mind reels.

Also, Vila says egg cups are déclassé. 

If you followed The Crown, you already know the Queen takes a morning egg in an egg cup and toast in a proper toast rack.

Jelly spoons are another fatality of Vila’s list, and so he would banish little Lilibet from taking her marmalade with a proper jelly spoon. (BTW, did you know that the British call congealed salads and gelatins like Jell-O “jelly”?)

Table runners, something many of us have clung to long after parting with other life niceties, are vile to Vila. Try telling that to Williams-Sonoma.

The shocker on Vila’s list may require sitting down (in the event you prefer to read standing):  wedding china. He deems it outmoded. Dated. Unnecessary. He asserts that we are a nation of casual diners who no longer eat off of fancy plates.

But any Southerner with a thimble full of sense knows there is no separating a Southern gal from her wedding china. His claim is a step too far.

Like our grandmother’s Blue Willow, we know and love it from the mists of time. We eat off our ancestral plates, even if chipped.

We stand in line to admire the White House china patterns.

When the late Julia Reed was promoting the entertaining guide, Julia Reed’s South, she talked about using antique wine rinsers for flowers and old silver ashtrays for salt cellars. “Use everything,” she said.  If it chips, it chips. 

And the unpretentious Reed added something worth noting:

“What I love about the South in general is that there is nothing too small to celebrate, and if you’re really lucky you learn about grace and small joys, which are, after all, what make up big lives.”

The clincher? “Keep the beautiful things alive.”

Long live the knife rest.  OH

Cynthia Adams, a contributing editor of O.Henry, is looking for a set of antique knife rests.

For the Love of Folk

Musical reads inspired by the return of the N.C. Folk Festival

 

Compiled by Shannon Purdy Jones

Culturally speaking, perhaps no loss in the pandemic has been as marked as the eclipse of live musical performance.

Something indescribable happens when people come together to make and witness music, a joyous spark that cannot be replicated even on the most well-executed Zoom concerts. Which is why we at Scuppernong Books are thrilled about the return of the North Carolina Folk Festival. We will never again take for granted coming together to enjoy live music with our community. September 10 – 12, we’ll see you downtown, where we’ll be masked up and singing off-key. Until then, get inspired by these musical reads that span the gamut from folk to pop, to rock and beyond.

Step It Up and Go: The Story of North Carolina Popular Music, from Blind Boy Fuller and Doc Watson to Nina Simone and Superchunk by David Menconi (UNC Press, $30) David Menconi spent three decades immersed in the state’s music, where traditions run deep but the energy expands in countless directions. Menconi shows how working-class roots and class rebellion tie North Carolina’s Piedmont blues, jazz and bluegrass to beach music, rock and hip-hop. From mill towns and mountain coves to college-town clubs and the stage of American Idol, from Blind Boy Fuller and Doc Watson to Nina Simone and Superchunk, Step It Up and Go celebrates homegrown music as indigenous to the state as barbecue and basketball. Spanning a century of history from the dawn of recorded music to the present, and with sidebars and photos that help reveal the many-splendored glory of North Carolina’s sonic landscape, this is a must-read for every music lover.

Glitter Up the Dark: How Pop Music Broke the Binary by Sasha Geffen (University of Texas Press, $18.95) Why has music so often served as an accomplice to the transcendent expressions of gender? Why is music so inherently queer? For Sasha Geffen, the answers lie in music’s intrinsic ability to express the subliminal, which, through paradox and contradiction, allows rigid gender roles to fall away in a sensual and ambiguous exchange between performer and listener. Glitter Up the Dark traces the history of this gender fluidity in pop music from the early 20th century to present day. Starting with early blues and the Beatles and continuing with performers such as David Bowie, Prince, Missy Elliott and Frank Ocean, Geffen explores how artists have used music, fashion, language and technology to break out of the confines mandated by gender essentialism and to establish the voice as the primary expression of gender transgression.

Beeswing: Losing My Way and Finding My Voice 1967–1975 by Richard Thompson with Scott Timberg (Algonquin Books, $27.95) In this moving and immersive memoir, international music legend Richard Thompson recreates the spirit of the 1960s, where he found — and then lost, and then found! — his way again. Known for his brilliant songwriting and haunting voice, Thompson is also considered one of the top 20 guitarists of all time. In his long-awaited memoir, the British folk musician takes us back to a period of great change and creativity, both for himself and for the world at large. During the pivotal years of 1967 to 1975, just as he was discovering his passion for music, Thompson formed the band Fairport Convention with some schoolmates and helped establish the genre of British folk rock. That led to a heady period of songwriting and extensive tours, where he crossed paths with the likes of Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and Jimi Hendrix. But those eight years were also marked by upheaval and tragedy. Then, at the height of the band’s popularity, Thompson left to form a duo act with his wife, Linda. And as he writes revealingly here, his discovery and ultimate embrace of Sufism dramatically reshaped his approach to music — and, of course, everything else.

The Mbira: An African Musical Tradition by Māhealani Uchiyama (North Atlantic Books, $14.95) In this accessible overview steeped in history and tradition, teacher and student Māhealani Uchiyama offers insights for learning all about the mbira, a wooden soundboard with hammered metal keys. In traditional Zimbabwean culture, playing the mbira is a spiritual practice that bridges worlds. Supplemented with 32 images and a glossary of terms, this book covers, among other things: codes of conduct for respectfully playing the mbira and for taking it up as a practice; how the mbira can connect people severed from their African roots; and how appropriation and commodification have contributed to the mbira’s popularization around the world.

Saved by a Song: The Art and Healing Power of Songwriting by Mary Gauthier (St. Martin’s Essentials, $27.99) Mary Gauthier was 12 years old when she was given her Aunt Jenny’s old guitar. Music gave her a window into a world where others felt the way she did. Songs became lifelines. One day, she told herself, she would write her own songs. Sadly, Gauthier’s dream faded, overshadowed by her struggle with addiction for a decade. It wasn’t until she got sober that her purpose became clear: not only did she still want to write songs, she needed to. Today, Gauthier is a decorated musical artist with numerous awards and recognition for her songwriting, including a Grammy nomination. In Saved by a Song, Gauthier pulls the curtain back on the artistry of songwriting. Part memoir, part philosophy of art, part nuts-and-bolts of songwriting, her book celebrates the redemptive power of song to inspire and bring seemingly different kinds of people together.

Bessie Smith: A Poet’s Biography of a Blues Legend by Jackie Kay (Vintage, $16.95) Born in Chattanooga, Tennessee and orphaned by the age of 9, blues singer Bessie Smith sang on street corners before becoming a big name in traveling shows and eventually catapulting into fame. Known for her unmatched vocal talent, her timeless and personal blues narratives, her tough persona and her ability to enrapture audiences, this blues Empress remains both a force and an enigma. In this remarkable book, Scotland’s National Poet Jackie Kay blends poetry, prose, fiction and nonfiction to create a unique biography and a personal story about one woman’s search for recognition.  OH

Shannon Purdy Jones is store manager and children’s book buyer at Scuppernong Books.

Overseeing the Evil and the Good

Wiley Cash’s new novel weaves a tale of mystery

By Stephen E. Smith

It will come as no surprise to anyone who’s read Wiley Cash’s previous bestselling novels — A Land More Kind Than Home, This Dark Road to Mercy and The Last Ballad — that his latest offering, When Ghosts Come Home, is a sophisticated, skillfully rendered mystery that focuses, despite being set in late October and early November 1984, on the personal, societal and racial conflicts that trouble Americans in the moment.

Cash, like most accomplished writers, is attuned to the environment from which he’s writing (even if the events he’s describing occurred decades ago), and he has, with good reason, consistently drawn on North Carolina as his setting of choice: He was born and raised in Gastonia, teaches at the University of North Carolina at Asheville, and lives in or around the Wilmington/Oak Island area, the region of the state that serves as the locale for his latest mystery.

The coastal setting may be familiar to many North Carolina readers, but the story that unfolds has nothing to do with a family outing at the beach. If the region suggests tranquility, it’s also the source for the grisly ingredients that make for a good whodunit, and Cash’s leap-frogging narrative continually moves forward with an economy of style and structural tension that’s a balance of the familiar with the unexpected. Despite numerous twists and turns, Cash is always the consummate craftsman; not a word or gesture or errant piece of information proves irrelevant.

Moreover, the characters he creates aren’t easy Southern stereotypes; they may live in an atmosphere troubled by shifting notions of race and social standing, and they are almost always dangerous to themselves and each other, but their view of the world is more comprehensive, more contemporary, than those of the usual Faulknerian rabble. If his characters exhibit anger, bigotry and violence — all in plentiful supply in the South — Cash never displays contempt for the foolish and unwashed, never sets himself up as arbiter. He simply oversees the evil and good, and allows his readers to make their final judgments based on their view of the available world.

The mystery opens with 63-year-old Winston Barnes, the Brunswick County sheriff and the novel’s protagonist, awakening to the roar of a low-flying aircraft approaching a little-used local airport on Oak Island. Barnes is at a crisis point in his life: His wife is being treated for cancer; his daughter’s marriage is failing after the loss of a child; and he’s up for re-election in a few weeks. He knows that the disturbance created by the aircraft is reason for concern, and that the publicity generated by his handling of any criminal activity on the island could be crucial to remaining in office.

Cash’s strong sense of place is apparent when Barnes leaves home to investigate the downed aircraft, and his use of detail and small observations deftly and beautifully brings the moment into focus: “Winston watched the light from the Caswell Beach lighthouse at the far eastern end of the island strafe the waterway in perfect increments. It flashed in his rearview mirror, and for a moment he could both see and feel its light in his eyes. . . . He had been at this exact spot on the bridge at night what must have been a million times over the years, and each time he felt like he was leaving the bright gleam of the lighthouse for the tiny spot of the beacon light, a light that was overwhelmed by the darkness of the mainland that waited for him in the woods across the water.”

As a young man, Cash took in those same sights on mornings when he drove to catch the ferry to Bald Head Island, where he worked as a lifeguard. “I made this same drive every morning before dawn during the summer of 1998 when I was 20 and my parents had first moved to Oak Island,” Cash revealed in a recent pandemic/email interview. “I had to leave my parents’ house to catch the ferry to make it to a shift that began at 7 a.m. It was summer, and the island was incredibly busy, but I was always struck by how those pre-dawn hours were so still and haunting. I was observing as an outsider because I didn’t belong to it, and neither does Winston.”

When he arrives at the airstrip, Barnes discovers an abandoned DC-3 with its cargo hold empty. Not far from the plane, he happens upon the body of a local Black man, Rodney Bellamy, who has been shot in the chest.

The essential characters are quickly introduced — Colleen, Barnes’ daughter; Jay, Rodney Bellamy’s teenage brother-in-law; Ed Bellamy, Rodney’s father and a former Marine sharpshooter; Deputy Billy Englehart, a furtive white supremacist; Bradley Frye, Barnes’ opponent in the upcoming election and the obvious antagonist; and FBI agents Roundtree, Rollins and Grooms, who have ostensibly been assigned to investigate any drug connections with the case. Add to these a cast of cameo characters who agitate the subplots and there’s much to consider by way of human imperfection — race, class, jealously, betrayal, old animosities, personal history — all of it churning up a jumble of possible suspects.

When Cash digs deep into his characters, he reveals the secrets that shape their prejudices, and the straightforward structure of the traditional mystery assumes a vaguely parabolic intent. Set in a time when, believe it or not, racial attitudes were less obvious, readers will sense that Cash is addressing the present racial tensions that plague America. This is no more apparent than in a scene that plays out between Barnes and Vicki, a long-time receptionist at the sheriff’s office. She’d received a deputy’s report concerning Klan members who have been cruising a Black neighborhood brandishing weapons and a Confederate flag, but she’d failed to pass this information on to Barnes, and he’s forced to confront her.

“She hesitated. Winston looked into her eyes, imagined her mind tossing around words and phrases she’d grown up hearing, long-held beliefs that she insisted on holding against Black men like Ed Bellamy and his dead son. Asking her to work against suspicions and beliefs so deeply held as to seem intrinsic to life was like asking Vicki to attempt the impossible task of separating her skin from her own skeleton.”

This epiphany must be similar to what many Americans have experienced in recent years. In a country divided against itself, we are suddenly forced to confront the frightening truth that underlies the attitudes and beliefs of once-trusted friends and acquaintances. 

When Ghosts Come Home is a mystery that’s compelling in its suspense and topical intrigues. Cash creates a wealth of fully dimensional characters, and he permeates the novel with a melancholy that will leave readers wondering about an open-ended denouement that invites them, via a gentle authorial nudge, to participate in fleshing out the novel’s most brutal and unexpected consequence, an act of dehumanizing violence and betrayal that could only occur in the frightening world in which we now find ourselves. 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.

Moving On Up

History is brewing again in downtown Asheville

 

By Wiley and Mallory Cash

In 1994, Oscar Wong began brewing beer in the basement of Barley’s Taproom and Pizzeria in downtown Asheville. Wong, the son of Chinese immigrants, grew up in Jamaica and moved to the states to study civil engineering at the University Notre Dame. After forging a successful career in nuclear engineering, he would later create an innovative nuclear waste disposal company and then go on to found Highland Brewing Company, Asheville’s oldest independent brewery. As the first legal brewery in Western North Carolina following the repeal of prohibition, you can imagine its allure. Still, it took Wong eight years to break even. Why? Because he was determined to produce a high-quality product on a consistent basis. He invested in his vision. While that superior quality persists, little else remains from those early days in the basement.

In 2011, Wong’s daughter, Leah Wong Ashburn, officially joined the team at Highland Brewery. More than a decade earlier, Ashburn had applied for a position with her father’s company after graduating with a degree in journalism from UNC-Chapel Hill, but her father turned down her application. He wanted her to find her own way, he told her. And so she did.

Years later, after Ashburn built a thriving career in sales and marketing with a yearbook publisher in Charlotte, her father actually recruited her for a position at Highland, but in the intervening years, the tables had turned: He could no longer afford her.

But blood is thicker than water, and, apparently, so is beer.

“Other things became more important and the brewery was one of those more important things,” Ashburn said in a 2018 interview with Business North Carolina. “It was about being part of the community. You can’t put a value on that.”

Leah Wong Ashburn is now Highland’s president and CEO, and her tenure has marked an era of rapid change, both for the company and the city of Asheville. In 2011, Highland opened a tasting room at their mountaintop manufacturing facility in east Asheville, which has now grown to 70,000 square feet and offers complimentary tours of their onsite brewery, a lively taproom with ample seating, a performance stage, a rooftop garden bar and an indoor event space. According to Brock Ashburn, Leah’s husband and the company’s vice president, “We built the taproom to accommodate the throngs of people who were showing up, part of an ever-increasing interested public who wanted to drink our beer where it was made.”

Over the past decade, a lot of people have — as Brock Ashburn puts it — “shown up” in Asheville, and the city is now an international destination for foodies, beer connoisseurs and outdoor enthusiasts. “There’s always been a soul and a spirit in Asheville,” Leah says, “and Highland got to join up with other people who believed in the potential for Asheville. Great beer is a complement to great food and quality of life.”

Community and regional pride are more than just branding tools; Highland is a company whose culture is built on stewardship and community responsibility, tenets made apparent in their practices of reducing or reusing waste, partnering with local nonprofits and embracing solar power. The company also collaborates with the Southern Appalachian Highlands Conservancy, naming seasonal beers after unique regional landscapes. Ashburn has always made clear that she intends to keep the company concentrated on regional endeavors and has no plans to ship beer across the country, choosing instead to focus the company’s efforts within the confines of the Southeast. This comes as no surprise for a brewery that has spent two and a half decades fostering a regional brand in a region that has quickly gained international attention. 

Today, Leah and Brock are sitting at the brewery’s new downtown taproom in the old S&W Building, a quintessential example of Asheville’s stunning 1920s Art-Deco architecture. Late morning sunlight pours through tall windows that look out on Pritchard Park, illuminating the gold-plated fixtures and ceiling tiles, the two-story marble columns and tiled floors in a glowing aura that sweeps visitors back into the roaring ’20s. You can almost sense what Asheville must have been like a century ago, when it was first known as a destination for Hollywood stars, politicians and titans of industry. Highland anchors the new S&W Market’s downstairs dining area with a taproom, along with several local restaurants that provide counter service. Upstairs, on the mezzanine level, Highland has opened a full bar and tasting room with ample space for guests to relax over a pint.

One can only imagine what it must mean to Leah for Highland to return to downtown, where it all started from such humble beginnings over a quarter century ago.

“As a second-generation owner, I was encouraged to make the brewery my own,” she says. “That did not feel safe to me at first because of the long history of Highland, but my father’s sentiment was honest, and he’s let us create our own vision.” That meant changing the beer portfolio and re-envisioning the brand. She says it also meant improving the property: “We started as a manufacturing company, but Brock’s an engineer and a builder, and I’m a marketer,” Leah says. Combining all of those interests and backgrounds led to a complementary hospitality component. “It appeals to tourists because it highlights some of the great things about Asheville in one location.”

Outside, people are waiting for the S&W Market’s doors to be unlocked for the day’s business. A line of tourists and downtown office workers in business attire snakes down the sidewalk. Leah and Brock look out the window and pause for a moment, perhaps recalling the throngs of beer enthusiasts who showed up the minute the first taproom opened at Highland’s manufacturing site a decade earlier.

“This is an opportunity to tell our story downtown and also attract people to come out to East Asheville to visit our brewery,” Brock says. “It’s a great opportunity to get our brand out there and let people know where this all started.”

From a downtown basement to a mountaintop in East Asheville to the second floor of one of the city’s most iconic downtown buildings, Highland has come a long way. But whether it’s the quality of the beer or the family name, some things never change. 

Wiley Cash is the writer-in-residence at the University of North Carolina-Asheville. His new novel, When Ghosts Come Home, will be released this month. Mallory Cash is an editorial and portrait photographer.

A Visit to the iDoctor

The genius will see you now

 

By Maria Johnson

I sigh as I pull into the crowded parking lot. Everyone is here because they have reached a critical juncture in their lives.

Somewhere behind these walls, we hope, there is someone with enough wisdom and compassion to guide us through an important passage: the birth of the next generation, the patching of the broken, or the saving of the acutely ill.

That’s right. I’m at an Apple store.

I take a deep breath and check my cute coral iPhone XR one more time. Maybe her symptoms have miraculously disappeared?

No such luck. Her camera screen is dark, and I’ve tried all of the home remedies. I need help.

I pry open the front door, a heavy glass slab that announces I’m entering a cultural institution.

Inside, the air and the environs are undeniably cool.

A muscular iBouncer awaits.

“What can we do for you today,” he says through a mask. It’s not really a question.

I explain the problem and he points me to the next stop, a young woman who’s wearing a bucket hat and wielding a tablet. I wade through the nursery, where they keep the new phones. So bright and unscratched and full of unused storage.

This phone here? Why, it could shoot and edit an Oscar-winning movie.

And this one? It could discover and model the Grand Unified Theory.

Such promise.

I check in with Ms. Bucket Hat, who walks me, tap by tap, through a number of settings.

Her diagnosis: I need an appointment at the hallowed Genius Bar.

How long will it take to get in? Hours? Days? Weeks?

Twenty minutes??!!! I fairly jump for joy. I’m a walk-in, and the docs will see me in 20 minutes!

I prop myself on a stool in the waiting area. Everyone looks nervous. Some of us cradle our loved ones. Can they be restored to what they were? Can we go home today, or will this require an admission?

“Mara?” a voice asks gently.

Close enough.

I turn.

“My name is Ahmad” — of course it is; Ahmad is a cool name — “and I’m here to be the nurse to your doctor.”

I swear on a stack of iPhone 12 minis that he says these words.

“Can you tell me what the problem is?”

I spill the symptoms again, as one must do in these situations. He gently removes my phone from her OtterBox and runs some diagnostics. The results appear, wirelessly, on his tablet. He furrows his brow.

What? What?!

He tells me to wait for the doctor, who breaks the news that my phone will have to be admitted, though hopefully as an outpatient.

“This is more than a software issue . . .” he says gently. “It’s a hardware problem.”

“But I didn’t even drop her,” I protest. “OK, once. Last week. But she didn’t crack, and she took pictures after that!”

He nodded patiently. He’s heard this all before.

I return later that evening to pick her up.

She looks so thin and vulnerable when they bring her out.

But she powers up immediately. That’s my girl!

They have performed a total camera replacement.

But for some mother-boardin’ reason that Phillip, the discharging doc, attempts to explain, her back camera (the one I use to take pics) will work but the front camera (the one that handles facial recognition and selfies) will never be the same.

Do I want to trade her in?

Hmm. I don’t take many selfies, and I really don’t like the idea of facial recognition anyway.

Thanks, but no thanks.

It’s dark when I throw my weight against the heavy glass door for the last time.

It’s slightly chipped around the edges, I notice.

One day, it’ll be replaced.

But for now, it’s still formidable. And functional. And cool . . . enough.  OH

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

Virgo (August 23 – September 22)

You’ve seen the cymbal-banging monkey — eyes bulging while relentlessly slamming brass cups together. Virgos are wound tighter than most. And when you consider that they are, indeed, Earth signs, you begin to realize what an enigma these strong-willed, tragically tender creatures actually are. This month, astrologically, is a bit of a perfect storm for you, Virgo. But here’s a mantra that might help: I control nothing. Try repeating this silently to yourself throughout the day, especially when you feel the overwhelming desire to fix what’s not yet broken. There may be a gift in it for you.

 

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Libra (September 23 – October 22) Perspective is everything. You’re only a fish out of water until the rain starts. Think about it.

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21) Spoiler alert: The world won’t end. It’s time to stop banking on it.

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

There’s a Bill Withers’ song that comes to mind. You know the one. And you know just what to do.

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19) A ghost from the past wants your attention. But what do you want? Focus on that. 

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18) Things are in motion this month. Like, warp speed. Try sitting still. 

Pisces (February 19 – March 20) No need to reshuffle the deck. Just play the cards.

Aries (March 21 – April 19) Radical trust. You don’t have it. But do you actually want it?

Taurus (April 20 – May 20) You can’t have the sweetness without the sting. And you wouldn’t appreciate it otherwise.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20) Ever tried talking to the moon? Good. Now try listening.

Cancer (June 21 – July 22) What is meant for you will come to you. You’ll be ready — but not a moment too soon.

Leo (July 23 – August 22) “No mud, no lotus.” You’ve heard that before, right? Keep the faith.  OH

Zora Stellanova has been divining with tea leaves since Game of Thrones’ Starbucks cup mishap of 2019. While she’s not exactly a medium, she’s far from average. She lives in the N.C. foothills with her Sphynx cat, Lyla.

Fresh New Look

Want to breathe new life into your garden? How about an outright redesign? On Saturday, October 16, from 10 a.m. until 4 p.m., The Greensboro Council of Garden Clubs will deliver some fresh inspiration at its Garden Designs and Plants for 2021 symposium. Featured speakers include landscape designer Lee Rogers (“Landscape Design Concepts and Principles”), Reynolda Gardens’ director Jon Roethling (“A Vision for Reynolda Gardens”) and Christina Larson of Guilford Garden Center (“Native Plants for Birds”). Bring your garden design questions to the experts and, with a little luck, vision and time, your future garden will thank you. Tickets: $20. Greensboro Science Center, 4301 Lawndale Drive, Greensboro. Info:  www.thegreensborocouncilofgardenclubs.com.

 

Pow Wowed

Close your eyes . . . listen. Can you feel that? How the beat of the drum has somehow become a part of you? The Guilford Native American Association hosts its 44th annual Pow Wow on Friday, September 17, through Sunday, September 19, at Greensboro Country Park. Historically, pow wows were ceremonial gatherings centered around drumming, dancing, chanting, food and healing rituals. This pow wow will feel a bit more like a festival, yet all will be invited to experience the Native American traditions that have been practiced, honored and nurtured for thousands of years. “Many Nations . . . Building Community” includes spirited dance and drum competitions, colorful regalia, arts and crafts, plus traditional Native American food (like fry bread, for example). Host drum Ottertrail (an intertribal southern style powwow singing group) will set the jubilant tone and J.D. Moore (Waccamaw/Siouan) will emcee. It’s pow wow time in the city, folks. Admission: $7. Weekend pass: $18. Free for children 6 and under; discounts for seniors and children 12 and under). Complete schedule: guilfordnative.com.

Funny Business

A comedian walks into a bar. And a brewery. And The Idiot Box Comedy Club. No, really. The 2021 NC Comedy Festival will tip the funny scale in Greensboro this month when, from September 3–12, literally hundreds of comics will roll up their sleeves and hit us with their best medicine. (Is this thing on?) Sponsored by The Idiot Box Comedy Club, this year’s festival features headliners Laura Kightlinger (yep, Nurse Sheila from Will & Grace) and Brian Kiley (head monologue writer for Conan O’Brien). If you want to catch back-to-back shows opening weekend at the festival’s home base (The Idiot Box, duh), snag the Improv Sketch Pass. And for the complete list of comics and participating venues (including Next Door Beer Bar & Bottle Shop, CTG’s Starr Theatre and Little Brother Brewing) plus tickets,
visit nccomedyfestival.com.

 

Born This Way

Ready to paint the town red? And yellow? Orange, green, blue and violet? When the Greensboro Pride Festival returns on Sunday, September 19, prepare to experience South Elm Street in its full, prismatic glory. Imagine a rainbow sea of vendors flanking the sidewalks (11 a.m. – 6 p.m.); live entertainment strutting and shimmying across the main stage (noon until 5 p.m.); and a palpable spirit of love, harmony and pride pulsing throughout downtown Greensboro. Presented by Alternative Resources of the Triad (ART), this family-friendly celebration is open to all in support of the LGBTQ community. Now crank up the Lady Gaga and put your most fabulous foot forward. Info: GreensboroPride.org. 

 

Shakespeare + Music

How do we like it? With singing and dancing, please. If you’re into iambic pentameter and magical
stories of transformation, don’t miss the UNCG Theatre perform a musical adaptation of William Shakespeare’s As You Like It. Adapted by Shaina Taub and Laurie Woolery, this dramatic comedy was named one of the best shows of 2017 by The New York Times. It’s full of surprises (like gender swapped rolls and folk-pop scores). And given that the tale is a celebration of community and acceptance, it couldn’t be timelier. Show times: September 24 and 25 (7:30 p.m.); September 26 (2 p.m.); September 29 through October 2 (7:30 p.m.) at Taylor Theatre (406 Tate Street, Greensboro). On-demand streaming: October 14–16. For tickets, call the UNCG Theatre Box Office at (336) 334-4392 or visit www.uncgtheatre.com.

 

OGI SEZ

By Ogi Overman

If August reopened the door to live music in all its glam and glory, then we can only hope that September will blow the doors off and smash them into oblivion. Indeed, this month’s scheduled events signal the return of real touring acts on real stages in real venues. So long, Zoom — and good riddance.

• September 1, Ramkat (Winston-Salem): It is no coincidence that the term “Americana” was coined almost simultaneously as the artist Todd Snider burst upon the scene in the mid-’90s. In fact, one could make the case that the idiom was formed to describe the music that Snider and a handful of other not-country-not-rock-not-pop artists made. A songwriter in the John Prine/Jerry Jeff Walker vein, Snider is The Man.

• September 2, Tanger Center: When Rhiannon Giddens appeared at the N.C. Folk Festival year before last, a couple to my right came from Atlanta to see her and a couple to my left came from Kentucky. Both raved about how lucky we were that she was from Greensboro. Yep, we knew her when she was playing the Church of the Covenant and Lucky 32. And we agree that all the success and accolades that have come her way couldn’t have happened to a nicer and more deserving person.

• September 10 & 11, The Crown at The Carolina Theatre: I hate to use the phrase, “You had to be there,” but, well, you would’ve. Millennials have no clue about the local stir created in the ’90s by Bus Stop, Evan Olson and Athenaeum. The buzz started local and went international, and they still have fans overseas today. This one-time reunion deserves two nights, with Athenaeum frontmen Mark Kano and Mike Garrigan opening for Olson, Britt  “Snüzz“ ” Uzzell, Chuck Folds and Eddie Walker.

• September 18, Greensboro Coliseum: I have to admit I’m not too keen on contemporary country music. Give me some Merle, George, Conway and Reba any day of the week. But I also have to admit that Dan + Shay have forced me to reassess my negativity over Nashville yadda yadda. This über talented duo is nearing the top right now and will soon be up there with whatGs-his-name from The Voice.

• September 26, Haw River Ballroom: This lovely Saxapahaw venue may seem off the beaten path, which makes it the perfect spot for the legendary Ani DiFranco. Years ago she told the label vultures to stick it up their mercenary bee-hinds and charted her own course. And that course has made her a goddess with the largest and most loyal cult following imaginable. She takes no prisoners.

Golf and Marriage

True love and harmless fun on the links

By Jim Dodson

Not long ago, my wife, Wendy, and I were discussing our 20th wedding anniversary.

“So, Old Baggage,” I said, affecting the accent of a toffee-nosed English aristocrat. “Where exactly would you like to go? SkyMiles and hotel points are the limit!”

“Oh, no,” she came back with feigned horror. “I thought we’d seen the last of that old boy!”

Needless to say, I was pleased when madam suggested motoring down to a lovely old hotel and sporty golf course in South Carolina where we celebrated our 15th anniversary.

But first, friends, a word of caution.

Referring to your dearly beloved as “Old Baggage” does not come without certain risks to domestic harmony, though in this instance it was one of those affectionate inside jokes that long-married couples share to remind themselves of their matrimonial journey through the fairways and thickets of life.

At any rate, while participating in a mixed foursomes tournament during the annual Royal & Ancient Golf Club autumn meetings some years ago, we got paired with an elderly English couple straight from the pages of P.G. Wodehouse — a crusty old RAF Colonel and his long-suffering wife, Edyth, who spent an entire trip around the Duke’s Course in St. Andrews tossing colorful insults at each other.

“Alright, Old Baggage, put your considerable rump into this shot!” he urged his bride. “No half-way measures, girly! Give the old wedge a solid knock!”

“Sod off,” she muttered as she settled over the ball. “How about I give you a solid knock instead?”

Round they went, hole after hole. He grumbled about everything from “elephants buried in the green” to his wife’s choice of exotic leopard-print golf trousers, giving unsolicited advice on almost every shot.

“Try and roll this one close to the hole for a change. Remember, never up, never in!”

“You would know about that,” she snipped. “Perhaps you’d enjoy a nice nap in the bunker?”

Over drinks afterwards, we were surprised to learn they’d been married for 40 years, and that their entertaining Tracy-Hepburn routine was designed to amuse themselves and startle unsuspecting playing partners.

“Lovely way to relieve the marital tensions,” Edyth advised matter-of-factly over her raspberry gimlet.

“Just a bit of harmless fun to keep mixed opponents off balance,” Lionel chortled. “Never fails to put them off their game.”

“It keeps both golf and marriage interesting,” she added coyly.   

“True, Baggage,” he rumbled. “Damned shame, though, about that easy 10-footer for the win you missed on 17.”

“Ah, well.” She gave us an unconcerned smile. “Maybe next time you should hit the ball where you were instructed.”

To paraphrase our late friend John Derr, the CBS Sports broadcaster who worked with the inimitable Henry Longhurst for years (and quoted him frequently), the institution of marriage is only slightly older than the game of golf and not quite as fun. Golf has probably saved at least as many marriages as it’s ruined — and vice versa.

“Blessed be the man or woman who enjoys their spouse’s company on the golf course,” the ageless “One Derr” — as Wendy and I called him — declared at our supper table one evening after we told him about our encounter with the English aristos. “For theirs is a shared adventure of fond memories and pleasant disasters, an unbreakable bond of friendship forged by generous mulligans and preferred lies in a game that cannot be beaten — only endured.”

With his next breath, Derr glanced at me, smiled and added, “You’re a fortunate man to have a beautiful golfing wife, James. But I am placing you on notice that if you pre-decease me, I’m moving in on Wendy.”

He’d recently turned 96.

But John’s point was well-taken. Like many couples who share a love of the game and each other, golf has been a feature of our romance almost since our first hours together.

The day after meeting Wendy at a dinner party thrown in honor of my first golf book, we took a casual Sunday drive that took us to one of Robert Trent Jones’ early golf course designs in upstate New York.  It was there — upon the discovery that she once played in an after-work golf league and had a germ of interest in the game — that I stole my first kiss and Wendy Ann Buynak stole my heart.

The last two decades have indeed been a shared adventure of bogeys and birdies, colorful characters and memorable places, beginning with our first trip out West after we got engaged at The Lodge at Sea Island, where I threw her into the breach at Pebble Beach with a new set of Callaway golf clubs. It was her first full 18 holes of golf, as she later pointed out.

Her caddie that morning had eyes like a roadmap from hell due to an all-night bachelor party. He and half a dozen Japanese gentlemen with video cameras bore witness as Dame Wendy teed up her ball and made a fierce swing. The ball trickled a few feet off the tee.

Without hesitation, she fetched her ball and tried again. This time the ball rolled 10 feet.

“Listen, ma’am,” groaned her suffering caddie, massaging his pink eyes. “Let’s just pick it up and go.”

She blissfully ignored him, teed up again, took dead aim, and calmly swatted her drive to the heart of the fairway. The Japanese gentlemen broke into applause, and I realized this was true love on the links.

The first time my bride broke 100 was on a work trip to France. It happened at the elite Golf Club de Chantilly, a famous old Tom Simpson layout. Nary a soul was visible that drowsy summer afternoon following a leisurely lunch of crusty bread, foie gras and considerable sparkling wine.

The girl in the golf shop — buffing her nails with exquisite boredom — waved us out to an utterly empty course, cuckoos calling dreamily from the surrounding forest.

Somewhere on the back side of the masterpiece, after all that wine and no relief station in sight, nature summoned me into the forest, after which I joked that the lone advantage God gave man over woman at the dawn of creation was the ability to make water on an empty golf course, if need be.

A few holes later, I heard someone call my name and turned to see my new wife squatting behind a clump of bushes, grinning like a schoolgirl. “What was that about man’s advantage on the golf course, monsieur?” she teased.

I had to laugh. “Monsieur is certainly enjoying the view,” I pointed out.

Through a gap in the foliage directly behind her, an elderly gentleman in a blue beret was raking out his veggie garden. He was grinning like a teenager, too.

“Bon soir!” he called out, waving.

“Wee wee,” I replied in the American vernacular.

We’ve had many memorable golf journeys since that incredible week of our early married days, but that time in France ranks atop both our lists of favorite moments.

  Which is why it was no surprise that our anniversary interlude in South Carolina was such a quiet success, a reflective moment that scored well under par as both a golf getaway and a marriage milestone.

The only “baggage” we brought with us was a dozen new golf balls, 20 years of great memories — and a hope for 20 years more of the same. OH

Jim Dodson is O.Henry’s founding editor and ambassador-at-large.