O.Henry Profiles January 2026
O.HENRY PROFILES JANUARY 2026
The Remains of the Faux-Bituaries
THE REMAINS OF THE FAUX-BITUARIES
The Remains of the Faux-Bituaries
The following faux-bituaries came from members of our alive-and-well community and are listed in no particular order and exactly as received.
The Obituary
By Heather DeDona
Since things, such as age and place of birth can’t truly be proven, Heather would like to be known as having been born sometime in the early 1800s in the Countryside of Greece, though she has never been.
She would like to be remembered as a prolific writer that regaled others with her stories at the many cocktail parties to which she was never invited, from the books she never wrote.
She would like to be remembered as an eccentric in the best ways, always wearing a large peacock feather in her hat, though she owned none, for clothing she created from beautiful fabrics with deft hands though she owned no sewing machine and never learned to sew.
Those who were never invited to her home could tell you of her beautiful artwork hung on every wall found on far flung adventures in every corner of the globe, and one from Mars, perhaps. Her precious knick knacks were always dusted and well cared for, after all, they had been gifted to her by royalty, the famous, and her many suitors.
Her family and friends would like to remember Heather as one who lived a life of unfulfilled dreams that existed only in her fantastical thinking; dreams that only she knew could come true one day, just not in this lifetime or this place.
In lieu of flowers, the family asks that instead you share your dreams with others and pursue them as Heather might have wished for you.
Obituary of Nandrea J Ward
Imagine a marriage between Walt Disney and the Great American Song Book, all volumes. Here Lies their “Love Child”. Born a “Carolina Girl” in 1959 always daring “To dream the impossible dream”. She knew “Someday her prince would come”. Her first two marriages “Made her wanna holler”. She learned “When to hold them, when to fold them” and ultimately when to “Let It Go!” She found “A whole new world” as a mother of three, “Her Girl” Ciani and “Let’s hear it for the boys”, Alexander and Jordan. After “Staying Alive” through two divorces she found “Her Guy” and “Went to the chapel ,gonna get married” to Charlie Ward Sr.
In her ” 9 to 5” she gained “ R-E-S-P-E-C-T” in advertising and marketing. After three decades of “Heigh Ho, Heigh Ho it’s off to work I go”, with only the “Bear necessities” , determined to “Do it her way”, “On her own” she began a small business. Ain’t’ misbehavin’ ,not “Born to be wild” ,she was one of those “Everyday people” who always looked for “Nothing but blue skies”. Her mantra was “You’ve got A Friend In Me” and she was often a” Bridge over troubled water” for many. Never looking at “Yesterday” but ahead “Somewhere over the rainbow”, with a “Hakuna Matata”, “Don’t worry, Be Happy” attitude. Guided by the “Circle of Life” and the “Amazing Grace” of the almighty, she left this world with a “Halleluiah” , “Until we meet again”.
Tim Josephs
Born in Plainfield, NJ, Tim Josephs came into the world between two major snowstorms. He then proceeded to wear shorts seemingly every day of his life. After an unsuccessful stint in the Coast Guard (no amount of Dramamine could help his sea sickness) and an ill-advised investment in an armadillo farm, he found his true calling on the pie-eating-contest circuit.
For over a decade, Tim was the dominant eater at Midwest county fairs, school bake-offs, and local carnivals stretching from Shaddock, Alabama, to Mortsville, Kansas, setting confectionary records everywhere he went. To this day, people in Grassturn, Arkansas, still talk about the 17 1⁄2 Boston Creams
he ate at their Arbor Day festival. After retiring, Tim became the manager of an up-and-coming pie eater, but due to the scandal involving stomach-stretching supplements (which he claimed to know nothing about), he was forced to resign. Several years later, Tim attempted a comeback, but when he didn’t even place in what was later dubbed the “Blueberry Beatdown,” he hung up his napkin forever.
Tim lived out the remainder of his days watching Australian rules football, building bird houses, and making a cucumber-infused beer that Homebrewer’s Monthly once described as a “bold choice.” He died peacefully at home, wearing his favorite jean cut-offs. Tim is survived by his wife, Helga, of 47 years,
their three children, and eleven grandchildren. The family is asking that any donations go to the Indigent Pie Eaters of America.
Tony Peacock 1961-2062
Tony Peacock, who won The National Hollerin’ Contest at Spivey’s Corner, North Carolina six times between 1999 to 2014, has died at the age of 101. Peacock promoted hollerin’, a traditional form of communication and self-expression that was practiced by farmers before most people in rural areas had automobiles or phones, long after Spivey’s Corner held its final contest in 2015. During its popular years, Peacock hollered for radio personalities around the world and on national television shows, including for late night entertainment hosts David Letterman and Stephen Colbert. He hollered in hospitals, churches, and in a Buddhist Zen Center. Later, he continued to holler for thousands of elementary school children that he worked with through the Artists in the Schools Program in Wake County.
Inspiring kids to write their own stories when teaching his five-day residency program, “Practicing the Art of Narrative Writing,” was one of his greatest joys. He often told students that there was no practical need to holler in today’s world but that learning to write well was an essential skill in achieving one’s goals. Hollerin’ became a reward for young word artists after a week of writing well. A 1984 graduate of UNC Chapel Hill, Peacock was a life-long Tar Heel fan who bled Carolina Blue.
Peacock loved God. He loved his wife, Susan. He loved his golden retriever, Champ, and his orange cat, Raphael. He died peacefully in his sleep on December 4 at his home in Silk Hope.
C’est la vie!
By B. Rosson Davis
“Wish not so much to live long as to live well.” Ben Franklin 1738
Known for her hospitality and culinary magic, Ruby Trueblood left this earthly plain for higher ground when a flash-flood trapped her in the basement, causing her swift demise. So they say . . . (Drowned, with jars of Trueblood Pickled Beets floating around her.)
Ruby was famed for the mystery-ingredient in her dishes, plus, those Trueblood beets, and, her Succotash! (Really? Succotash?!)
Trueblood’s own words: “In my salad days, green in judgement, I had a flair for the rare (surprise) ingredient in my recipes. I catered parties, also entertained at home. I knew instinctively a little foolery makes a great show. My guests remember one such dinner party, when, after dining, I played dead . . . Sudden death . . . Chimes at midnight, (the whole bit). Uneasy lies the head . . . (Yes! My head, wherein All my secret recipes reside.) Forgetting that delays have dangerous ends, I played dead a bit too long! Alas, left breathless! On the dining-room floor! What can I say? . . . It’s not the years in your life, it’s the life in your years!”
Ruby Trueblood may, or may not, be food for worms. She left no forwarding address. Surprise! Ruby, on her patio, seen eating homemade Chili, and reading Poor Richard’s Almanac, Ben Franklin’s witty words: Fart if you must, fart often. Fart proudly!
Ruby, farting proudly, caught a whiff of . . . her newly conceived faux-obit . . . worthy of a FARTthing! C’est la vie!
Laura Smith
Laura died a happy person.
Knowing she had reached her full potential in this life.
Laura died knowing that the one person who taught her unconditional love, her beloved dad, would be proud of the beautiful, purposeful and intentional life she created for herself.
And to bestow upon those people and pets she loved the same unconditional love she received from him was her life’s goal.
Zen Achieved.
Sara Dutilly
Sara Dutilly was always searching for a pen, and often without a suitable one. She was also constantly losing her scraps of notepaper. (A $10 reward will be given to anyone who has found one, likely with scribbles and arrows and half of the words crossed out. Don’t be fooled; there’s a poem in there somewhere.)
Sara grew up on the beaches of central Florida and moved to the piedmont of North Carolina for college, swearing she would be sweating on her beach immediately after graduation, and would never get married.
A few months later, she met the only man she could ever live with. Together, they raised four children on used books, fresh bread, and plenty of beach vacations.
Sara forced her kids into learning French by randomly translating phrases as often as she could, which wasn’t that often since she never learned how to properly conjugate the verbs. Many thanks to the Scuppernong Books French conversation group where she learned she could at least follow a conversation.
Fully dedicated to her sourdough starter, Felicia, who was the real keeper of her happy home. We are now entirely unsure what to do with Felicia (does anyone need a starter?) I’m sure Sara would like nothing more than to sit on the porch with her husband one last time, especially during a rainstorm, sipping fresh, strong coffee and snuggling her children.
Sorry mom, we’re too big now, but we can still hear your goodnight whispers. Bonne nuit, Maman.
Shirley Topping Maxwell
I was born; I blinked; and it was over.
Before I died and went to heaven, I was 90 years old! It was such a short life. I thought I would live forever. Life was good for me! I had a ball! I did some remarkable things in my life! I also sinned and did some really bad things while praying and asking God’s forgiveness!
Coming thru the pearly gates and meeting Saint Peter was an ordeal because I didn’t think he would let me in. I was standing there with confusion and questions on my face, starring at him with eyes as big as saucers at all the beauty surrounding me. Just as I was getting ready to open my big, fat mouth, which had always got me into tons of trouble, and I knew that some someday it would keep me out of heaven: but no, here I stand at Heaven’s Gate trembling, facing Saint Peter, waiting on my fate, when he said to me, “Well, Missy, what are you waiting for, come on in before I change my mind.” His words threw me for a loop as I stumbled thru the gate like some drunk. So, this is how I got into heaven.
As I walked thru the golden gate, I heard choirs of angels singing and I said, “Thank you Jesus!” I breathed a sigh of relief and repeated my favorite hymn, “It is Well with My Soul.”
Duty and Kindness
By Jonathan Maxwell
In the 1940s, a gangly Duke Divinity student named Asmond Maxwell, traveling with a caravan of fellow seminary students, met a keen Stanford nursing student named Helen Gates at her home in Artesia, New Mexico. They were smitten.
From parents Asmond and Helen, Jonathan (Jon) and siblings Susan, Pete, and David learned two important lessons. First, work to discover a calling that you find meaningful and worthwhile (be it attorney, educator, Navy/commercial pilot, or textile executive). Second, as you go about your work and daily lives, conduct yourself with kindness toward others. What a perfect gift.
Jon was third born. Following college and law school, he served a year as a law clerk on the North Carolina Supreme Court, with Justice (and former Governor, and mentor) Dan K. Moore. Following a stint in practice, his career was primarily as County Attorney for Guilford County. He was responsible for
advising and representing several thousand county officials, departments, and employees, and over 400,000 county citizens in all venues, including the United States and North Carolina Supreme Courts. He was elected president, then outstanding county attorney, of the state association.
0n a fine summer day along the way, in Yellowstone Park, he met and married Caroline, which has lasted for 53 years. They have had many grand adventures. Their cherished son Gavin has produced three happy grandchildren. And Jon has been Big Brother to Russell for 47 years. Jon has been a lucky guy.
Rest in Peace
By Cindy Argiento
Let me say that my demise came at a bad time as I was grappling with the fact that I got my first gray nose hair. Embarrassing!
Years ago I accepted the gray hair on my head, but gray nose hairs? No way! This was adding insult to injury as another birthday was creeping up on me. I imagined people walking up to the coffin, looking at me and whispering to each other, “Oh, she really let herself go. Why, just look at those gray nose hairs!
Didn’t she see them?” Yes, I saw them! I had plans to go to Target for a nose trimmer, but obviously that didn’t happen! I know! I know! I should have ordered from Amazon, especially since it was a Prime Deal Day.
I couldn’t predict what course my life would take and how long it will last, but in closing I’d like to bestow upon you some nuggets of wisdom from my not long enough life. Cremation is the way to go; you can’t die of embarrassment twice!
I would like to say, “See you when you get here,” but that depends on which way you go.
Bernard Rascoe Jr.
To whom it may concern, I regret to announce the death of me. Bernard Rascoe Jr. My arrivial time July 28th 1961, Deported July 29th 2025. I would imagine that there are mixed feelings about this great event , I truly know I have some, willing and unwilling. If you can Dig Dat? Hopeful of me to be going Up There, Devilishly of Me the parties goin on Down there. To my own regret the opportunities of doubt that has led to the Sinlessness of Fun , Adventures and more Sex, HeeHee. Along with the Lifelessness of Not living on the Edge of the other side. For the Concerned and those Not concerned, It was told to me Many years ago, “ Don’t Take Life Too Seriously, You’ll Never get out of it Alive” Buggs B told Me Dat, while my Brain was still so very Young and Mushy. So Remember the Sand in Our own Hourglass, Mine has Ran out. What will You do with the Rest of Your’s ? One thing for sure I’ve never been to a Furneal where the light was shined on Both sides of The Honored Guest. Guess what I won’t start now, Yikes I just got a Tap on My shoulder, And a Kick in the Pants. I’m being summonsed to both places, Wondering Do I Have A Choice? Either way I’ll see some familiar faces. Your’s Truly. Bernard Rascoe Jr. Aka Lil Man !!!
Obituary for Larry Tomar
On this date Larry Tomar from Greensboro, North Carolina passed away peacefully at his home. The native of Pennsauken, New Jersey was a man of many talents including a gifted athlete, a singer, a guitar player, a racing photojournalist, and a trout fly fishing enthusiast. A 1968 graduate of Rider University (Lawrenceville, NJ) with a Bachelor of Science Degree in Insurance, Larry served in the US Army for 3 years, stationed in Korea and at Ft Bragg, NC where he met his wife and decided to make this state his new home for over 50 years. Larry worked for several insurance companies as a Personal Lines
Underwriter for 35 years and earned the prestigious CPCU designation in 1984. Larry worked in racing for over 45 years winning several awards for his photography and writings. He was the General Manager at Ace Speedway a NASCAR Weekly track for five years, the track announcer at Caraway Speedway another NASCAR track for 2 years, and held several positions at NASCAR’s oldest weekly track, Bowman Gray Stadium for over 40 years. Athletically he competed in the North Carolina Senior Games winning many gold medals in the basketball, softball, and football events. He also played competitive basketball until his death three times a week. Larry was a member of two singing groups that specialized in performing 50’s and 60’s music. And at the young age of 76 he started taking guitar lessons. He simply lived life to its fullest in all his activities.
Obituary of Kristi J Benedict
Kristi passed away peacefully, surrounded by loved ones.
She entered into eternal rest, having completed her life’s journey.
She leaves behind friends and family, the loves of her life.
She worked, she played, she learned.
She had a few jobs, she cleaned, she fixed, she created.
She made mistakes, she did better.
She struggled, she triumphed, she mourned.
She made a great grilled pimento cheese sandwich.
Most of all, she did her best and was thankful for the goodness in her life.
Mr. Jack Barry
Mr. Jack Barry, age 81, of High Point, concluded his earthly odyssey on Saturday, June 28, 2025, in Atlanta, Georgia. Born in Scratch Ankle, Alabama on August 26, 1943, his parents were anonymous “carnival side-show folk”.
The circumstances of Mr. Barry’s unfortunate demise should be a lesson to all. According to The Atlanta Journal-Constitution Mr. Barry was visiting Zoo Atlanta at the time of his death. At the gorilla habitat he inexplicably decided to climb onto the railing and “moon” Kudzoo, a 31-year-old female Western Lowland Gorilla who was lounging in the shade of a faux rocky outcrop near the moat. Trousers around his ankles, the aged Mr. Barry lost his balance and tumbled backwards into the moat. Kudzoo, who had been following Mr. Barry’s antics with keen interest, immediately leapt into the moat and pulled him to
safety, dragging him kicking and screaming to the rocky outcrop where she amorously cradled him in her arms and made cooing sounds to calm him. This idyllic scene was soon interrupted by a 400-pound silverback male named Taz who rushed up to the now peaceful couple, roaring and thunderously pounding his chest. The enraged Taz then grasped Mr. Barry and cuffed him repeatedly about the head and shoulders before tossing him back into the moat, where he drowned.
Mr. Barry was likely preceded in death by his parents. He is survived by several siblings, a wife, children, and grandchildren, all of whom, understandably, declined to be identified.
Jenny Kim
Jenny Kim passed away at 105. Jenny really started living during the second half of her life, so that is where we will start. After spending the first half chasing accolades, job, marriage, and doing her deeply flawed but best personal efforts to raise two beautiful children, she realized that the big 5-0 milestone was not that far away. “Wait!” she cried in her head. She vowed to let herself play – yes play again!
She took guitar lessons and a Zoom singing class. Within 2-3 years she was writing her own songs, sometimes as many as one new song a month! There was so much she needed to express unapologetically to herself and the Universe.
She started a cold plunge club called the “Brave Souls”.
She played pickleball, dodgeball, softball, and ping pong.
She got a part-time job teaching yoga again after a long drawn out hiatus and added waterfit to her teaching repertoire. This shy introverted woman was now jumping to dance hits on the pool deck.
She started drawing dog comics and published them into a book. See https://www.amazon.com/Empty-Nester-Dog-Children-Jenny/dp/B0F84FHJZB
She loved studying and teaching tai chi to bring others into the “power of now”, as coined by Eckhart Tolle. She encouraged others to embrace personal growth and the discomfort of working outside of their comfort zone. She practiced regularly until the very end and had amazing presence, poise, strength, and youthfulness.
Jenny was a late bloomer to life. But she truly lived before she died. Ahh satisfaction.
Nancy Runner’s Obit in 250 Words
Nancy has left the building. She Got Stung by A Sweet Honey Bee. She leaves behind her beloved children Bubba, Jr. and Little Sister and four grandchildren. They Were Always on My Mind, she said. Her former husband, Bubba, Sr., survives. A long time ago he asked Nancy to Wear My Ring, Around Your Neck. Back then, they both said Love Me Tender. Now, Marie’s the Name (of His Latest Flame). But please, no Crying in the Chapel.
Nancy stayed out of Heartbreak Hotel. She was unique. A new friend may come along, but She’s Not You. So, Rock a Hula, baby, and have A Little Less Conversation. It Won’t Seem Like Christmas (without her). But Party on, Until It’s Time for You to Go.
Of course, she could be A Hard-Headed Woman, but she was only a Devil in Disguise. You Can’t Help Falling in Love with her. There were some Suspicious Minds, those with Wooden Hearts. They are All Shook Up now, to have lost her friendship.
Are You Lonesome Tonight? With A Mess of Blues? Is Nancy Always on Your Mind? She sends you A Big Hunk O’ Love. Remember Viva Las Vegas and all the good times. Don’t waste your precious life. It’s Now or Never. Nancy loved Amazing Grace and she has Returned to Sender. She said, I Just Can’t Help Believing.
She’ll always remember The Wonder of You.
Clint Bowman’s Obituary
Clint Bowman, 30, died this past Sunday at 11:00 a.m. as the church crowd exited the sanctuary. He passed away peacefully in his garden while watering a weed beside his prized lilac bush. His old dog, Hugo, also took his final breath upon realizing his best friend had left.
A neighbor found them curled up together, with Hugo content as a little spoon.
Bowman, known for his contributions to the Sunday School Happy Hour, is survived by his wife, Britney, and orange tabby, Hazel. Both have requested donations to Bowman’s favorite charity, To Hell With Urban Sprawl, in lieu of flowers.
Bowman’s funeral will take place in his garden next Sunday at approximately 10:00 a.m., when the church will be participating in communion. Hugo’s funeral will immediately follow during the “greet your neighbor” portion of the service.
Britney has requested all attendees to mark their calendars for the same time on the following Sunday, when she and Hazel will be laid to rest next to Bowman and Hugo. Donations for their service should be directed to the Pink Pony Club of Black Mountain, NC. Celebrations for the whole family will cease at the end of the month, or when the kegs run dry.
In Loving Memory of Verity Smith
(January 10, 1924- March 7, 2025)
By Kendra E. Winston
Upon my death, I transformed into a scented Monarch Butterfly. As I fluttered with a large kaleidoscope of butterflies with great strength in the sky, the weather was beautiful. I love to fly in the radiant sunlight and stop for a break to drink diet nectar.
I choose to write this obituary because I wanted to be remembered to all as having spread my wings to fly away to a higher place. I leave behind my last words: “Please don’t mourn for me, make good choices and stay out of trouble. As it is hard to identify me amongst all the multicolored wings in the wind. I’m okay and love good ole sweet freedom for several days until I die again.”
Before I died, I was Verity Smith, a young, bright homemaker and a humming gardener and 101 years old. I passed away while sitting on the back porch and chatting with my younger sister, Mary Ann, in Oconee, South Carolina. My birthdate is 1/10/1924. I obtained my Greenhouse Degree in 1944 at the age of 20. I loved growing sunflowers and never got to live on a farm and grow Christmas Trees.
Surviving members include my parents, grandparents, great grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles. A memorial service will be held and is open to the public. Funeral arrangements are private as the family grieves the loss of me.
Donna Finley Combs
Would you come to my funeral if I die today?
Would you speak of me, sing a song and offer to pray?
Now death is not the end – I hope you think there’s another gig.
And if I kick the bucket, plan a rousing, super shindig.
I want to go out with bright lights shining colorful and bold,
Music playing, people swaying, and food to suit all told.
Sing the songs of Charles Wesley, Bill Gaither, of course some rock and roll,
Don’t forget the big band era, jazz and blues, a waltz smoothly slow.
There won’t be time to do this party if you start in the afternoon,
So get it going a 9:00 am and play ’til half through June.
I would love to have some roses, Queen Elizabeth, and Double Delight.
Maybe a few Blue Girls, Mr. Lincoln, and Nicole Carol Miller cut right.
Now it’s important to me that you honor my last big request.
Would you put it on my gravestone where I lie at Mt. Pleasant in rest?
“Here lies another person, not wealthy of fame or gold,
But one who loved our God and all those in His fold.”
Emboss a glorious oak tree upon the face of my graveyard granite
So others will see what I treasured most on this earthly planet.
Remember that I love you and you are precious to me,
May your life be full of love and wisdom for eternity.
Charlie McBrayer Broadway Jr.
I am Charlie McBrayer Broadway Jr. age 67 and I wrote this O bitch,uary Numerous head injuries and concussions (Been knocked out nine times not counting football),and some recent heart diagnosis made me want to do this as I do not wish to burden my family with this chore. Hopefully I’ll live a long time and nobody will read this for at least 20 years! I was born June 1st 1955 and I’ve lived almost my entire life in Greensboro. I had a wonderful family life and was blessed with two very loving, caring and kind parents,Sarah and Charles Broadway. I was also blessed with such a wonderful sister and brother-in-
law,Jean and Bill Skidmore! Although we had a modest upbiringing, it was very loving, and had so many happy memories. I graduated Wake Forest University in 1977 and was lucky to graduate as I was not the scholarly type. In fact, some say first grade was the best three years of my academic career.. Later in life, I found out I was dyslexic, ADD and totally color blind which helped explain a lot. At Wake Forest I was in the sigma phi epsilon fraternity and majored in business and minored in philosophy. After graduation, married my high school sweetheart, Anne McCoy and we had two beautiful children
Katherine and Charles (now Chuck).They have been an extreme source of happiness ever since birth.Shortly after graduation, I was employed by McCoy Lumber and learned a great deal from my ex-father-in-law Hal McCoy who I am eternally grateful for! In 1990 with the insolvency of McCoy Lumber (and my marriage)I decided to start Spartan Forest Products.A though I did not have much money or talent I was blessed with much “Luck” and in 1995 Spartan Forest made “The Inc. 500″” as the 111th fastest growing private US companies. My second marriage was to Elaine Victory. Both marriages provided much happiness but were like a square peg in a round hole. I am grateful to both as I have learned to appreciate my partner Gail Fulp.
Michael Chamelin
Chaos Theory
CHAOS THEORY
Partners in Grime
A bit of a fixer-upper
By Cassie Bustamante
The summer I turned 7, my family moved from small-town Upstate New York to Wilbraham, a small-town in Western Massachusetts. Picture quaint, 200-year-old homes, churches surrounded by old, stone walls and even a very old, red schoolhouse-turned abode. Everywhere you looked, the streets bubbled over with New England charm. But our new house? Not so much. It bubbled over with ick.
My mother and I made the trek across states together, leaving my father behind to cheer on my older brother, Dana, who was playing in a little league tournament. I hadn’t yet seen any photos of the new digs, but I’ve always thrived on change and the opportunity to meet new people. And, this time, we were moving to be closer to family. We’d be in the same town as both sets of grandparents and close to all sorts of cousins, aunts and uncles.
In fact, Wilbraham was the town where my parents met as high school students with backyards abutting one another. Back then, my dad wore his white-blonde hair in a 1970s swoop that cascaded in front of his eyes, suiting his shy personality. My mom, a petite brunette with a Farrah Fawcett ’do, was gregarious and often teacher’s pet. Come to think of it, a lot like me. It wasn’t until they both enrolled at Springfield College in the fall of 1974 that sparks flew.
All along the drive, I chattered away excitedly, driving Mom bonkers. The anticipation came to a jarring halt when we pulled into a driveway. This could not be it. I prayed that this was some kind of joke and, surely, Mom was about to shout, “Gotcha!” In front of me stood a dilapidated, brown 1964 Colonial with red shutters — the worst color combination known to man — and an attached two-car garage. The paint was blistered and peeling, rot everywhere. This was it? I wept.
When my brother arrived a week later, he had the same reaction. In fact, he packed a suitcase and said he was going to ride his bike back to New York and live with friends. I wondered how he’d manage the suitcase while pedaling, but I never witnessed that level of stunt mastery because he stayed.
Beyond the front door, the family room featured the inevitable ’60s faux-bois paneled walls and linoleum flooring that vaguely resembled bricks. The tacky residue left behind by a rug adhesive attracted the fur of our golden retriever, Butterscotch. In fact, every surface seemed sticky and dirty.
But it was as if Mom and Dad could see into a crystal ball, which magically showed them something I couldn’t see — the spark of potential underneath all that grime. They rolled up their sleeves and got to work. In sections, they replaced wooden siding along with rotten windows. They repainted the exterior a soft gray and gave it new barn-red shutters, a color combo that still remains in place today, according to my Google search, almost 40 years later. I recall many days spent outside, flipping over rocks in search of salamanders, while Dad sat atop the house with his cousins, hammering down a new roof.
Grampa, Dad’s dad, was a self-made entrepreneur who owned a wholesale hardware company, and thus understood the world of home renovation. He’d appear from time to time to “help” Dad with weekend warrior projects. But not until he’d sat on the porch munching on a donut and sipping coffee, followed by playing basketball with me and my brother in the driveway. And then, “Oh, would you look at that? I’ve got to go if I am going to make my tee time!” Maybe he took it too easy, but we all look back on those moments with laughter. Cancer took his life way too soon just a couple years later when he was just 59.
On weekends when repairs weren’t being made, Bob Vila’s voice rang through the kitchen while I ate my grilled peanut butter sandwich, This Old House playing on our wooden console television set in the nearby family room. YouTube and TikTok were still decades away from being created, kids. My parents had to learn about DIY through reading books and checking the Sunday paper’s TV schedule to make sure they didn’t miss their favorite DIY shows.
Mom, an avid gardener who knew just what would thrive where, planted flowers aplenty to create a lush and vibrant yard. Lilac bushes lined our white picket fence. Just outside the back door, an herb garden’s fragrance wafted through our kitchen window all summer long. We teasingly called it the “Herb”— with a hard “H” — garden, naming it after the endearing, out-of-shape man in one of Mom’s Jane Fonda exercise videos.
My parents poured everything — blood, sweat, tears and what little money they had — into making that hideous monstrosity a jewel of the neighborhood. As a 6-year-old, I hadn’t understood the possibility, but as a 46-year-old I’ve learned something about compromise and seeking out hidden potential.
Over the 21 years that my husband, Chris, and I have been married, we’ve bought a few well-worn homes. And every one, we’ve made our own with paint and — like my parents — blood, sweat, tears and all the money we could muster. When we arrived in Greensboro in January 2019, the 1960s Starmount Forest ranch home we moved into was far from a looker, but it ticked the boxes for a family of five. Though our new house was not nearly as neglected as my childhood home in New England, my own kids felt a little like I had the day I arrived in Wilbraham with my mom. The magic simply wasn’t there. But, thanks to my parents, I’ve realized that magic is something you create through a combination of creativity, hard work and collaboration that includes the kids. And as the months have turned into years, we’ve turned a house into a home, one that our two older kiddos will look forward to returning to next fall when they’re both away at college. That is, until they have their own fixer upper to make their own.
Poem June 2024
Poem June 2024
Poetry
This came before Hip Hop
This plants street crops
Won’t stop for red octagons
This thing sings songs
Prolongs life after death
Moves in stealth
Improves the quality of your life
Flows through pipes to irrigate land and turn grass green
This thing steams the wrinkles out of my daily
Therefore you’ve got to pay me
For this is Poetry
And. I never realized the power of my voice in this world
The power of this ink merged with this paper
And each day I laugh at my countless attempts to make sense of this gift
And each day it lifts me higher
Lights my soul on fire
And I wire these words like a telegraph to anyone that will listen
And some that won’t, so please don’t test me
Because this is dangerous
It’s like skin to me, it’s like kin to me
This thing befriends me when all else seems lost
I’ve paid my way by showing a way to the lost
And it came before Hip Hop
This plants street crops
Won’t stop for red octagons
This thing sings songs
Prolongs life after death
Moves in stealth
Improves the quality of your life
Flows through pipes to irrigate land and turn grass green
This thing steams the wrinkles out of my daily
Therefore you’ve got to pay me
For this is Poetry
— Josephus Thompson III
Greensboro’s first poet laureate, Josephus Thompson III, has created both a
song and a book out of this poem. The book, Poetry Is Life, can be found here: josephusiii.com/product-category/books; the song can be found here: youtube/91K-WmDcMpQ.
Almanac June 2024
Almanac June 2024
June is a luscious muse, generous with her wisdom, lips to the ears of all who seek her.
Want to know how to dance? Move as the dragonfly moves, she whispers, guiding your eyes to shallow waters. Iridescent wings shimmer in hypnotic circles. The pond reflects the magic back.
In the meadow, the muse beckons a gentle wind. Be danced, she sings among the rolling grasses. Let the movement find you.
Artists: Dip your brush in milkwort and rosinweed. Watch sunlight transmute meadow-beauty. Express with the boldness of spider lily.
Poets: Attune to the frequency of bees. Can you taste the earth through your fingertips? Spend the day supping honeysuckle and catmint, then cover your legs in clover pollen.
It’s all for pleasure, the goddess intones. You cannot do it wrong.
See for yourself.
Study the language of lark sparrows. Become fluent in butterfly pea and blooming thistle. Chime in with a choir of cicadas.
Dress yourself in Queen Anne’s lace. Map out the route of a swallowtail. Translate the essence of snap beans and squash blossoms.
Let listening be an artform. Or seeing. Or tasting.
How fully can you receive the richness of sound and color? The texture of nectar on your tongue? The depth and sweetness of these early summer days?
It’s simple. Surrender to the wild beauty. Let it move you. This is the mastery of June.
It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside. — Maud Hart Lovelace, Betsy-Tacy and Tib, 1941
Night Bloomers 
The full strawberry moon rises on Friday, June 21 (one day after summer solstice). What could be dreamier than a near-full moon on a midsummer’s night? Enter the moon garden. Breathe in the earthy-fresh fragrance of evening primrose (Oenothera laciniata). The sugary sweetness of moonflower (Ipomoea alba). The citrus-laced ecstasy of night-blooming jasmine (Cestrum nocturnum).
While not technically a night bloomer, the timeless aroma of gardenia (Gardenia jasminoides) is anything but subtle. Awash in the gentle glow of moonlight, the delicate white blossoms of this evergreen shrub are a wonder to behold. Linger among them. Tell them the quiet longings of your heart. If you lean close, you just might hear their secrets, too.
Puck & Co.
Nature spirits have long been associated with the magic of summer solstice. Fae folk in particular. But what kind of mythical being is that?
The rosy maple moth is as storybook as it gets. With its woolly body, bushy antennae and candy-like pink and yellow coloration, this small silk moth is nearly unmistakable. As its name implies, maple trees are the preferred host for this visual wonder, which can be seen fluttering near forest edges throughout the state.
Perhaps you’ll catch a glimpse of one this month. Though who’s to say it won’t be Puck, stirring up a bit of mischief? OH
Poem February 2024
12 DAYS OF CHRISTMAS
Onward
Here we are again
on the back porch.
Bluebirds eating mealworms
from the feeder
while the brown-chested
nuthatch takes its time
with the sunflower seeds.
Lili, the pup, is at my feet,
and the sun, my God,
this sun feels so good
on a February afternoon.
There’s coffee and a friend’s
new book of poetry.
Can you hear the saxophone
from the jazz man practicing next door?
A sparrow flies over
lands a foot away
on the edge of the table,
looks at me, as if to say
what more do you want?
— Steve Cushman
Steve Cushman is the author of three novels, including Portisville, winner of the 2004 Novello Literary Award. His poetry collection, How Birds Fly, won the 2018 Lena Shull Book Award and his latest volume, The Last Time, was published by Unicorn Press in 2023.
Wandering Billy
Wandering Billy
Tales of a Fisher Park Paperboy
What was once a way of life is now unthinkable
By Billy Ingram
“The newspaper carrier hasn’t time to get into trouble. He finds it fun to hold a job, to earn money and learn to meet people. He may not be aware of it, but he is developing individualism and learning to accept responsibility.” – J. Edgar Hoover
Can you imagine allowing — no, encouraging — your preteen to leave the house unaccompanied during the twilight hours before sunrise, meet up with some random stranger in a pickup truck, then roam the neighborhood going door-to-door before your alarm even goes off in the morning? Inconceivable? Yet, that was a common occurrence in my youth, no less than a Norman Rockwellian cultural touchstone . . . the hometown paperboy.
Technically, I suppose Ben Franklin could be considered America’s first newsie as he handed out the Pennsylvania Gazette he published in the 1700s, but in truth that distinction belongs to 10-year-old Barney Flaherty, who was hired in 1833 to deliver The New York Sun. At that time, child labor was an accepted practice in factories and sweatshops around the country. That now unthinkable practice was outlawed a century later, but employing schoolboys to distribute the local news continued unabated by simply labeling these pint sized couriers “independent contractors.”
Dr. Martin Luther King, Tom Cruise, our current President? All paperboys at one time, as was a friend I met at Mendenhall Junior High in the late-1960s, John Hitchcock.
Being a morning person as a youngster, I would occasionally tag along on weekends, when bundles of newspapers were tossed off a truck at 6 a.m. for 12-year old Hitchcock and another nearby paper carrier, Norfleet Stallings. Pick-up was at what was once a spectacular 1920s-era, California Art Deco-inspired former firehouse once occupied by the City and County Council of Civil Defense. It was not in the best of neighborhoods, located alongside the railroad tracks on Church Street between Hendrix and Bessemer.
After rolling the papers, then fastening them with rubber bands, Hitchcock would throw a Greensboro Daily News-branded canvas bag over his shoulder and slide onto his silver Stingray 3-speed bike’s banana seat. Then he’d peddle and fling that morning’s edition onto dewy lawns across a seven-block route bordered by Bessemer Avenue, Church Street, Elm Street and North Park Drive.
His take for the week was 5 or 6 bucks, around $50 adjusted for inflation. “I was the richest kid in town,” Hitchcock says, perched behind a crowded counter at his shop, Parts Unknown: The Comic Book Store. “I could buy all the comic books I wanted and, if it was cold, get a bowl of chili, a bag of Fritos and a drink at Woolworth’s for like 35 cents. Then I’d high tail it home.”
Hitchcock still lives in the Fisher Park Craftsman-style home on Olive Street his family has owned since the 1930s. One recent evening, the two of us wander the neighborhood while Hitchcock points out houses and mentions some of the customers that lined his route.
“Mrs. Coble lived there forever. She was the sweetest old lady,” Hitchcock tells me as we approach 904 Olive. “After her kids were grown, she started renting out rooms.” Behind her house sat a square cinder block hut, no longer there. Word has it that back in the early-’50s, “for about a month, legendary Hall-of-Famer Mickey Mantle and a couple of bonus babies [rookies] lived in that house when they were sent here to get seasoned for playing with the Yankees.” After the games as those ballplayers would hang out drinking beers, Hitchcock’s uncle would join them. “He said they were really down-to-earth guys.”
This former paperboy had his share of eccentrics along the route. “My friend, Ken Edwards, came to my house one day and he says, ‘Look what I’ve got,’” showing Hitchcock a stack of early Fantastic Four and Spider-Man comics. Edwards explained that one subscriber on Hendrix was selling 12-cent Marvels for 10 cents apiece. “I slowly ended up buying all of them from him. What was weird about the guy, and I mean really weird,” says Hitchcock, “is he would give you a comic if he could spank you with a paddle. I never did it, but Ken did, and he said the guy didn’t hit worth a damn compared to his dad.”
A couple of blocks west at 113 Hendrix sits a large two-story duplex. “Alan McLeod had one of the greatest butterfly and moth collections anyone ever saw,” Hitchcock recalls. “He would buy cocoons, hatch them and mount them for display.” McLeod’s grandmother resided in the adjoining unit. “There was a welcome mat in front of her door. The paper had to be placed directly on the mat. If it wasn’t there, she would call and tell me to ‘bring my paper in.’ Sometimes it would be just a foot away. And I never got a tip.”
On the corner of Hendrix and Church, there’s a house Hitchcock remembers well. “Behind that house was a square metal cage where this guy kept squirrels,” he says. “Don’t ask me why, but he did.” Crossing the bridge over the railroad tracks to the other side of Hendrix was a dwelling with a more exotic habitat. “They had monkeys in a 5-foot by 8-foot pen. We’d bring pecans for the monkeys to eat and the homeowners would yell at us to get the hell out of there.”
In a charming bungalow at 1005 Magnolia, “There was a wonderful woman, Mrs. Noah. She lived by herself,” Hitchcock recalls. “She had a framed lithograph of Robert E. Lee, must’ve been passed down through the family. She told me that her daughter was seeing a guy and when the boyfriend walked in, saw the picture of Robert E. Lee, he says, ‘Why, General Grant! I’m glad you have such a nice place in this house.’ Mrs. Noah looked at her daughter and said, ‘He’s got to go.’”
In the 1980s, papergirls joined the carrier ranks. During the next decade, falling circulations and rising liability costs spelled the end for an American childhood tradition stretching back to the pioneer days.
Perhaps J. Edgar was right. John Hitchcock’s business on Spring Garden will be celebrating its 35th anniversary next year, so that entrepreneurial spirit did indeed start early and stuck. OH
When not wandering, Billy Ingram can be found on Tuesday afternoons behind the counter at Parts Unknown, where one of the shop’s best-sellers is Brian K. Vaughan’s acclaimed graphic novel series Papergirls, which he highly recommends.
Visual language
Visual Language
Jennifer Meanley creates kaleidoscopic realities
By Liza Roberts
. 
. 
Center: As if smoldering and smoke were oneness evoked by thought and expression, oil on paper mounted on panel, 15 x 15 inches, 2019.
Right: Milk-Ersatz, spilt, oil on canvas, 48 x 56 inches, 2017.
Intimate but alienating, lush and allegorical, Jennifer Meanley’s paintings appear to capture the moments upon which events hinge. Figures, often out of scale with their environments, gaze at odd angles within untamed, kaleidoscopic settings, more consumed with their interior lives than with the discordant scenes they inhabit. Animals, alive and dead, sometimes share the space. Something’s clearly about to happen, or might be happening, or perhaps already has happened. Are her subjects aware?
“There is often a sense of lack of synchronicity between how we experience our bodies and how we experience our mind, our emotional states,” Meanley says. Her paintings “often register that paradox, whether that’s with the animals, or the symbolism with the space itself . . . or whether the figure seems to be looking and registering and connecting” to reality. Or not.
At UNC-Greensboro, where she teaches drawing and painting, Meanley paints these large-scale depictions of human experience. Simultaneously capturing the spheres of action, memory, participation and observation, she invites a viewer to examine the parts and absorb the whole. Like poetry, her works reveal themselves in stages and elements: image, rhythm, tone, vocabulary, story. Color plays a major role. “I’ve always had a penchant for really saturated colors,” she says, especially as a way to indicate atmosphere, like light, air, wind and the grounding element of earth.
Does she begin with a narrative? Not really, or not always. In a painting underway on her working wall — in which a caped, gamine figure gazes upon a flayed animal, possibly a deer, within a riotously overgrown landscape — the New Hampshire native describes her impetus: “I was thinking of this sort of crazy Bacchanal,” she says, “or of a surplus, imagination as a kind of surplus.” Anything is possible in the abundant realm of the imagined, she points out. The real world is another matter.
It’s no surprise to learn that Meanley writes regularly in forms she compares to short stories that emerge from streams of consciousness. It’s a process she describes as if it’s a place where she goes: Language is “like a field that I experience, stepping in and noticing punctuation, noticing the spaces between things, or the pauses, the way breath might be taken. That’s all really, really fascinating to me.” When she’s teaching, she tries to create a corollary to visual language in much the same way: “What does it mean to literally punctuate a drawing, in a way that you would take a sentence that essentially had no meaning, and make it comprehensible?” she asks her students. “Through timing, and space, and rhythm, and breath.”
All of which connects to physical movement, another practice Meanley credits with fueling her creative process. Long walks with her dog in the woods spark marathon writing sessions, which then engender drawings and paintings.
In the last year, her writing sessions have taken on new importance, Meanley says. Writing “is a way for me to deepen my personal exploration of my own psychic space, which is the origins of the paintings as well.” Though she doesn’t intend to publish these writings, Meanley is open to the possibility of including some of her words in new paintings. “I think the world that I’m exploring has to do with the idea of psychological interiority and how that can find representation” through words and images. In the meantime, the kinetic activity of walking continues to fire her imagination.
It has also attuned Meanley to the natural environment of the South, so different from what surrounded her in New Hampshire, where she grew up, and where she also earned her BFA at the University of New Hampshire, or even at Indiana University, where she received her MFA. In and around Greensboro, she finds nature so lush, so green, so impressive. “I started realizing that there’s this battle within the landscape. Just to even maintain my yard, I feel like I’m battling the natural growth here. It did amplify that sense of tension, of creating landscape as a narrative event . . . as an important space to contemplate hierarchies of power.”
Summer, with its time away from the demands of academia, provides Meanley with more time for outdoor exploration and for contemplations of all kinds. She’s also looking forward to having time to tackle larger works, with the hope of a solo exhibition later this year or in 2024. “Doing a solo show is an endeavor,” she says. “Right now I’m gearing up.” OH
This is an excerpt from Art of the State: Celebrating the Art of North Carolina, published by UNC Press.
Simple Life
Simple Life
A Little Stuffed Potato Wisdom
Lessons from full-grown tater tots
By Jim Dodson
Someone once said to me that it’s not happiness that makes one grateful, but gratitude that makes one happy.
Looking back, I may have seen this poetic syllogism scrawled on an ancient stone wall several years ago while hiking with my wife in Tuscany (where every graffiti artist is a philosopher-in-training). Or maybe I heard Oprah Winfrey say it in one of her SuperSoul Conversations that the aforementioned wife suggested that I listen to on long drives.
Whoever said it, I’m grateful for its pithy wisdom because I’ve suddenly reached an age where I know it to be true.
Back in February, I turned 70, a milestone that took me by surprise.
It’s not that I was unprepared. In truth, I’ve enjoyed getting older and slowing down a bit, giving me the chance to notice the evening sky.
Also, I am not alone in this epic journey into the great gray age and the unknown, as my late father — who lived a full and active life right up to a week before he died at 80 — used to joke. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, there are 69.2 million baby boomers alive and kicking today in America, the second-largest population group next to our children, the millennials (73.9 million born between 1981 and 1996 ). My particular group was born in 1953 ands falls somewhere in the lower middle of the boomer years between 1946 and 1964.
According to the latest actuarial projections used by our friends at the Social Security Administration to calculate how much longer the agency will have to give us back all the money we spent decades putting into the system, my age and gender group — males aged 70 — can expect to live another 14.5 years, while our female counterparts come in at a 16.75. Good for them, I say! Sell the house, dump the stocks, give away the dog and go sit on a beautiful beach in Tahiti for the rest of your days!
By the way, that’s exactly what my wise but cheeky and younger wife Wendy says she plans to do with her giddy 10 extra years after I check out of the Hotel California.
Meanwhile, according to the CDC’s Center for Health Statistics (NCHS), life expectancy at birth in the United States declined nearly a full year from 2020 to 2021, a worrying dip from 77.0 to 76.1 years that is the lowest level since 1996, probably due in part to a thing called COVID. The 0.9 year drop in life expectancy in 2021, along with a 1.8 year drop in 2020, was the biggest two-year decline since 1921–1923, years in which the Spanish flu wiped out millions worldwide, including my own maternal grandmother.
Actuarially speaking, it could be worse, of course. Afghanistan’s current life expectancy is just a hair over 56 years, considerably shorter if the Taliban’s Morality Police catch you whispering about the need to educate girls and women.
Singapore’s life expectancy, on the other hand, is a bonny 86.5 years. Perhaps this means that Dame Wendy — the future merry widow — should consider moving there instead of Tahiti (which has a mere life expectancy of 78.82 years) where she’s likely to make lots of older gal pals living the good life off the insurance money on a lovely Asian beach. As any veteran foreign traveler knows, however, Singaporeans are obsessed with public cleanliness and strict social order. Littering, chewing gum in public or failing to flush a public toilet can land you a whopping $1,000 fine, while showing your bare feet or skin of any sort can earn you three months in jail. That sensational black one-piece my 61-year-old lover debuted at the pool last summer probably won’t fly with Singapore’s own Morality Police. So on second thought, perhaps I won’t suggest Singapore and just leave well enough alone. That’s probably the wisest thing I’ve learned from being happily married for 20-plus years.
The point of all these dizzying numbers, as Oprah or any Tuscan street poet with spray paint can tell you, is to live the best life you can and be damned grateful for whatever time you have left.
That’s exactly what my fellow members of the Stuffed Potatoes Lunch & Philosophy Club try to do on a daily basis.
For the moment, there’s just three of us in the club. We meet every other week or so in the shadowy booth of a popular restaurant to discuss the current state of the world, the wonders of our grown children and the enduring mystery of our wives.
Remarkably, as this March dawns, all three of us will have turned 70 by the end of the month. Joe hit the mark in late January, I did so in early February, and Patrick achieves the milestone later this month.
I’m told none of us actually looks 70 years old, though wives, golf pals and fellow Stuffed Potatoes can scarcely be considered objective sources.
For that matter, we probably don’t even act like old men, save for when we complain about dodgy knees and idiots who run red lights. As a kid, I once asked my lively grandmother on her 84th birthday if she was afraid of dying. She grinned and patted my rosy little cheek. “Not a bit, sugar pie,” she said. “Just afraid of falling.”
None of the Stuffed Potatoes, I can reliably report, are afraid of dying. We’re too busy for that.
January Joe is a professional forester helping set aside beautiful lands for future generations. Patrick, the marketing whiz — I fondly call him the “Irish Antichrist” — is keeping the national economy afloat. And I’m just a humble scribbler trying to finish three books this year alone.
Given that we collectively amount to 210 years of accumulated life experience, I put to my fellow Stuffed Potatoes a timely question the other day: What is the one thing you’ve learned in 70 years?
January Joe, our resident sage, didn’t hesitate. “There are wonders ahead. Don’t fight them — just surrender!” This from a lovely fellow who gets to walk in the woods for a living and surrenders most weekends to the joy of several beautiful grandbabies.
My old friend, Patrick, offered with a hearty laugh, “There’s no good news or bad news. It’s all information. Just keep doing what you do and don’t look back.” The Irish Antichrist means business.
As for me, I hope to finish half a dozen more books over the 15.5 years I may or may not have left. Only time will tell.
In the meantime, we have a joyous new puppy named Winnie and a garden that is springing gloriously back to life by the minute.
I’m deeply grateful for both, not to mention a fabulous wife who says she really has no interest in going to Singapore or Tahiti. And was probably only joking.
That makes me a really happy guy. OH
Jim Dodson is the founding editor of O.Henry.
Scuppernong Bookshelf
In the Lonely Backwater
An excerpt from local author Valerie Nieman’s latest novel
Introduction by Cassie Bustamante
Local author Valerie Nieman knows a thing or two about weaving a thrilling tale of mystery complete with compelling and intricate characters. And her latest novel, In the Lonely Backwater, happens to be the perfect size for stuffing into your favorite reader’s stocking.
Maggie, an awkward high-schooler, is an outsider who lives on a small houseboat with her drunkard father in a sleepy North Carolina lake marina town, her mother having long run off to start a new life without her. In her disordered life, Maggie finds solace and order by losing herself in categorizing the plants around her.
Her world is disrupted when the body of her cousin Charisse is found shortly after a school dance. Because they’ve never been on the best of familial terms, Maggie is marked as a person of interest from the beginning.
Nieman tells us this book was inspired by an inscription on her senior yearbook: “A girl I barely remember wrote, ‘I hope all our misunderstandings are cleared up,’ and signed it, ‘Love.’ I do not remember the disagreement, but the emotional storms of high school came slamming back.”
Now, a peek inside:
I wondered if Detective Vann had memorized all the stuff in that little red notebook, which was nowhere in sight.
“She was messed up. I don’t know if it was drinks or something else. There was that big rip down the front of her dress.”
“Did she say anything about that?”
“Not to me. She and Nat went back in the trees and were talking. Then they came back and we all sat around and finished the bottle. I walked home.”
“Leaving Charisse and Nat and David all in the graveyard.”
“That’s right.”
“Anything else you remember?”
He doesn’t need to know all that I remember. I remember better about the real world than all this stuff with Charisse. I remember that Easter had come right when it was supposed to, the woods filling in green, with dogwood and fading redbud coloring the edges. Prom day came two weeks after Easter, even the oaks pushing out their leaves by that time. It had been a cool spring, late frosts, but the Thursday before prom the winds shifted; a breeze filled in from the southwest and put a chop on the lake. It turned really hot really fast, 90 degrees that afternoon. It was enough to raise a sweat during the day. By the time I got done with work and made it up to the gas station, it had cooled, just warm and nice, smell of cut grass and narcissus. The air began shifting around, more from the west, gusts and then dropping to nothing. By the time we headed to Old Trinity graveyard, clouds were filling in fast.
I remember in the graveyard, the smell of flowers rising up from Wisteria Lodge, a fallen-in plantation house whose owners now lived under the gravestones we sat on. I remember how headlights from cars on the highway moved across the graves in a certain way, depending if they were headed north or south. But then lights swung all the way across as a car turned onto the pike and stopped, and the lights stayed on, casting giant tree-shadows against the church for a long time. We could hear the motor running. Nat came out of his funk and was looking like WTF?, and Hulky stood up and started that way, then the lights and the engine cut off. We heard one door open and close. Next thing we knew, Charisse was standing inside the gate.
“Hey, guys?” Her voice rose way up at the end.
“Hey Charisse,” Nat blurted out. She followed his voice, uncertain as she walked across the graves, maybe because of high heels, but when she got to us we could see she was barefoot and there was a gash down the turquoise shimmer of her dress. Her face didn’t look right, but everyone looked ghoulish as the moon went in and out of the clouds.
I could feel the boys sweat, see how they repositioned themselves as they sat. Charisse was Charisse. Not Maggie. OH
Valerie Nieman is the author of In the Lonely Backwater and four earlier novels, and books of short fiction and poetry. A graduate of West Virginia University and Queens University of Charlotte, she is professor emeritus of creative writing at North Carolina A&T State University. In the Lonely Backwater can be found wherever books are sold.