Glory Days

GLORY DAYS

Glory Days

These men aren’t kids anymore, but when they were, they forged a legacy

By Ross Howell Jr.

Photographs by Tibor Nemeth

Former Greensboro Generals ice hockey players Ron Muir, Harvard Turnbull and Stu Roberts have a pretty good idea of what our new professional team, the Greensboro Gargoyles of the East Coast Hockey League, have on their minds.

A league championship.

That’s something the Generals, the city’s first professional hockey team, achieved in the 1962–1963 season of the old Eastern Hockey League. (A later franchise, the Greensboro Monarchs, won the ECHL championship title in the 1989–1990 season.)

After I schedule an interview with Ron Muir, I find it to be wonderfully apt that he lives just across the road from the Guilford Courthouse National Military Park and its monument to General Nathanael Greene.

One old general near another.

Muir’s 89 years old now, and I’m greeted at his door by two of his daughters, Elaine Miller and Susie Barham. Elaine teaches elementary school in Blowing Rock and Susie lives in Myrtle Beach.

Muir is sitting in a big recliner and is wearing a Wayne Gretzky jersey — for those of you who don’t follow the sport, Gretzky is a legendary National Hockey League player from Canada who was nicknamed “the Great One.” A hockey game set on mute slashes across the flat-screen TV facing Muir’s chair.

Hailing from small-town Seaforth, Ontario, between Lake Huron and Lake Erie, Muir was an athlete’s athlete — playing soccer, lacrosse, football, baseball and, of course, hockey.

“I decided I wanted to play professional hockey when I was about 10 years old,” Muir says.

Ron Muir

“He’s always had his goals,” Elaine laughs.

And play professional hockey he did. Before moving his young family to Greensboro for the 1960–1961 EHL season at age 25, he’d already played professionally in Canada for three years. Standing 5 feet 11 inches tall and weighing a bruising 190  pounds, Muir played left wing.

Because of his experience and age, many of his teammates looked at him as a father figure.

“Many of them were these 18-, 19-year-old boys, and their families were all back in Canada,” Elaine says.

“At Christmas, Mom and Dad would have a huge party, and the whole team would show up in our little house,” she adds.

Muir remembers that the person who convinced him to join the Generals was the late Don Carter, who was from Toronto. The two men were the same age and had first met at a Chicago Blackhawks tryout in St. Catharines, Ontario.

When they saw each other again at a training camp, Muir had been scouted by an EHL team in Johnstown, Penn., and was ready to sign with them.

Carter was already a star with the Generals. Playing defenseman, he stood 5 feet 11 inches tall, and weighed 185 pounds.

“So Carter says to me, ‘Ron, you don’t have to go to Johnstown. Come on, we’ll go to Greensboro. I played there last year and it’s a good town,’” Muir recalls.

“I thought, hell, I haven’t signed a contract,” Muir continues. “So, I signed up with the Generals’ manager, who was also at the camp, and loaded up for Greensboro.”

“My father drove us down,” Elaine says. “It was a two-day trip back then, and Susie and I were toddlers.”

“And we just ended up staying,” Muir says.

Two more daughters came along, Sandy and Cindy, and both still live in Greensboro. After Muir’s first wife passed away, he remarried, and a stepson, Jason, became family, too. Now Muir has nine grandchildren and four great grandchildren.

The first season Muir and Carter skated together as Generals, the team made the finals. The second season, they won the EHL championship.

In those days, there was no Plexiglas around the rink, just boards and wire. The girls would sit close to the ice, and, when Muir skated by them, they’d shout, “Hey, Dad!”

“The kids from the other hockey families would be all around us in the crowd,” Elaine says. “It was great.”

Greensboro was a hockey town — and “the Generals were superstars,” Elaine says.

“My husband, Eric, played little league hockey,” she adds. “So he knew about Dad long before he met me.”

Susie laughs.

“Oh, yeah, my husband knew Dad before he ever asked me out,” she chimes in.

Elaine smiles.

“We’d date these guys, and they’d say, ‘You’re Ron Muir’s daughters?’ That was a bonus.”

Harvard Turnbull suggests we meet for a drink at Fleming’s Prime Steakhouse & Wine Bar. Turnbull is 84 years old. Originally from Toronto, he skated at the center position for the Generals, standing 5 feet 9 inches tall and weighing 160 pounds.

Though he was an experienced and skilled hockey player, Turnbull was still a teenager with a dream of making the National Hockey League (NHL) when he arrived in Greensboro. Signing with the Generals represented a big step toward achieving that dream.

Turnbull met with members of the Generals’ staff at the Sedgefield home of businessman Stanley Frank, one of the founding owners of the team, to finalize his contract.

“So, they said, ‘What do you want?’” Turnbull recalls.

“I said, ‘You fill it out and I’ll sign it.’ That’s how green I was. I was going to turn pro. It was like I was going to walk on water.”

Fortunately for Turnbull, coach Ron Spong made sure the contract included generous bonuses each time the team advanced in the playoffs.

Harvard Turnbull

And that was the Generals’ championship season.

“I went out and bought a new convertible,” Turnbull laughs.

“It was amazing,” he says. “We were treated like kings.”

Turnbull tells me as many as 5,000 fans would show up to watch the team play in a charity softball game. He and his teammates could play the Sedgefield golf course anytime they wanted. They were often invited into the homes of civic leaders and successful entrepreneurs.

The late Anne Cone was one of the owners of the Generals team in its glory days. A benefactor of UNCG’s Weatherspoon Art Museum, she was the wife of Cone Mills heir Benjamin Cone, mayor of Greensboro, 1949–1951, who passed away in 1982. The couple lived in a graceful Greensboro Country Club mansion.

“Anne Cone was absolutely wonderful,” Turnbull says. “She would invite us single guys to her house for dinner about once a month.”

Among the bachelor invitees was Bob Boucher from Ottawa.

As the story is told, when Cone was in Chamonix, France, on a ski trip, she learned that Boucher, who was playing European hockey, had been arrested in Italy for fighting and couldn’t make bail. Cone managed to have him released and flown to Greensboro, where he skated for the championship team at right wing, standing 5 feet 9 inches and weighing 170 pounds.

“Bobby was a character,” Turnbull says. “So, we’d be at one of Anne’s dinner parties, and Bobby’s sitting at the head of the table where she had all these buttons, and he’d push a button and a servant would come in. Then he’d push another and a wine steward would come in.”

“He was just pushing buttons to see what would happen,” Turnbull laughs. “But Anne was cool — she didn’t have a problem with it.”

Yes, the high life was “plush,” as Turnbull likes to say, but the sport of ice hockey could be punishing, especially in those days.

He shows me a photo.

“That’s Ron Muir in front of the net and I’m taking a shot on goal,” Turnbull says. “Listen, I could really shoot the puck back then, probably get it close to 100 mph.”

He places a fingertip on the goalie’s head in the photo. The goalie’s not wearing a face mask, let alone a helmet.

“If the puck had hit him in the head,” Turnbull muses, “it probably would’ve killed him.”

He shows me another action photo, snapped right at the moment an opposing player knocked Turnbull completely over the boards and into the stands.

“That was very painful,” he says. “But I came right back out on the ice.”

Turnbull tells me that his nose was cut so badly once when he was playing in Canada that it had to be sewn back on. He’s had teeth knocked out, fingers broken and suffered numerous concussions.

“You know what they called the EHL back in my day?” Turnbull asks.

“They called it ‘the meatgrinder league,’” he says, nodding slowly. “That’s how crazy it was.”

Turnbull believes if his teams had “proper helmets, proper rules,” maybe he wouldn’t have suffered so many injuries, which continue to plague him in his golden years.

“Still,” he concludes, “I’d do it all over again.”

Stu Roberts

I meet up with Stu Roberts at the Chick-fil-A just off Battleground Avenue.

Roberts is a native of St. Catharines, Ontario, and arrived in Greensboro in 1966. Although he was just 19 years old, he had already been playing for the St. Catharines Black Hawks, a Canadian junior ice hockey team, for four seasons. He stood 5 feet 7 inches tall and weighed 175 pounds, and didn’t waste any time making an impression in the EHL.

Roberts won the rookie of the year award in 1966–1967.

“I was fast, and that was my game,” he says. “And I could score goals. One year, I scored 62 goals in 72 games. Wonderful year.”

Roberts tells me that he wasn’t a bruiser like Muir and Carter — he used his speed to avoid the hits.

And he knew how to please the crowd.

“I’m not bragging, but I’m proud of the fact that I won most popular player three years in a row,” Roberts says. “I used to tell Coach Spong I’d rather keep the people happy than win any other award.”

As long as the fans were behind him, he adds, “I knew I could keep my job.”

One of Roberts’ daughters, Ashley Barker, drops by the Chick-fil-A to show me some of her Dad’s memorabilia.

Among the items is a newspaper article written by a St. Catharines reporter the summer after Roberts’ second season as a General.

The writer called Roberts “Mr. Excitement.”

“He’s a gambler, often diving, literally, across the ice to get the puck,” the reporter wrote.

The crux of the article?

That Roberts was a huge fan of another speedster — No. 43, stock car driver Richard Petty. So much so that he visited Petty in Randleman, who obliged Roberts by letting him try out the driver’s seat in No. 43. Not on the track, of course.

I ask Roberts about the teams the Generals faced in his eight-year career here.

“I’m telling you, we had some great teams,” Roberts says.

“Our nemesis was the Charlotte Checkers,” he continues. “We used to go to Charlotte on a Friday night and fill the place, and come back to Greensboro on Saturday night and fill the place. It was really good rivalry.”

And there were the Roanoke Valley Rebels, originally the Salem Rebels, in Virginia.

“We used to skate in the old Salem Civic Center, but then they built the Roanoke Civic Center, which was a beautiful rink,” Roberts says.

There were the Nashville Dixie Flyers and the Knoxville Knights in Tennessee.

And, yes, even back then, two teams from the Sunshine state — the Jacksonville Rockets and St. Petersburg Suncoast Suns.

“We carried 18 players on the team and did most of our travel by bus,” Roberts says. The bus had about 20 seats and the remaining space was set up with double-deck bunks.

“We had some good times,” he continues. “I remember a lot of bus rides in a lot of snow, getting from Greensboro to Nashville, or Nashville to Knoxville, or Knoxville to back home.”

Roberts pauses for a moment.

“I think maybe people have forgotten about the Greensboro Generals,” he muses.

I tell him about how many fans I’ve seen — some even high school age — who’ve been wearing old Generals jerseys at the Gargoyles media events I’ve attended. His face brightens.

“You know, I want to thank Greensboro,” Roberts says. “I skated on some great teams. I met my wife, Amanda, here. We raised our kids here. It’s been a wonderful ride.”

And who knows? Maybe our Greensboro Gargoyles in their inaugural season will create some glory days of their own.

The Flying Gargoyles

THE FLYING GARGOYLES

The Flying Gargoyles

Photographs by Tibor Nemeth

We sent photographer Tibor Nemeth to capture Gereensboro’s newest hockey team, the Gargoyles, warming up on the ice before their season kicked off in October. You can find the rest of their opening season schedule at gargoyleshockey.com.

Tea Leaf Astrologer

TEA LEAF ASTROLOGER

Scorpio

(October 23 – November 21)

There’s a fine — and in your case, blurred — line between passionate and possessive. When Venus struts into Scorpio on Nov. 6 (where she’ll glamp out until month’s end), that line is primed to become a short leash if left unchecked — and nobody wants to be on the other end of that. A word of advice: Don’t smother the fire. Tempted as you may be to cling fast and tight, a little space will keep the coals glowing red hot.

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Stick to the recipe.

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

Pack a lint roller.

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

Thaw before cooking.

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Don’t overwork the potatoes.

Aries (March 21 – April 19) 

The shortcut won’t be worth it.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

Go easy on the garlic.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

Cling wrap, baby.

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

The dishes are piling up again.

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

Shake the rug, darling.

Virgo (August 23 – September 22)

Dare you to bust out the fine china.

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

Serve yourself an extra slice of grace.

NC Surround Sound

NC SURROUND SOUND

Sounds of a City

Music with a connection to place

By Tom Maxwell

Alex Maiolo is a creature of pure energy. It’s not that he talks fast or acts nervous — he’s simply an ongoing conversation about electronic music, geography and whatever else happens to capture his interest. He’s also a singular kind of globetrotter, one who doesn’t sound pretentious about it. He loves Estonia’s capital, Tallinn, so much he made music with the place, a 2021 conceptual performance he called Themes for Great Cities.

Conceived as one of his two main pandemic projects — the other was getting better at making pizza — the musical idea took on a life of its own even as the flatbread faded. He invited Danish musician Jonas Bjerre, Estonian guitarist and composer Erki Pärnoja and multi-instrumentalist Jonas Kaarnamets to collaborate. What resulted was something that felt improvised, unpredictable and exhilarating.

“Even though I was living in Chapel Hill, I was trying to think about, well, what do you miss when you miss a city?” he says.

The obvious things — favorite restaurants, familiar streets — were only part of it. Beneath that, Maiolo sensed a deeper, subconscious connection to place that might be expressed musically. He seized upon the idea of treating the city itself as a collaborator. “I wanted to write a love letter to this incredible city by gathering elements of it and assembling them in a new way,” he says. Sounds and light readings became voltages; voltages became notes. “Every synthesizer is just based on the assemblage of voltages,” Maiolo says. “So, if you have voltages — particularly between negative five and plus five volts — you can make music.”

The group collected source material across Tallinn: gulls shrieking overhead, rainwater rushing down a gutter, chatter in a market, the squeak of trams, cafeteria trays clattering at ERR (Estonia’s equivalent of the BBC). A custom-built light meter called the Mõistatus Vooluringid — “mystery circuit” — captured flickering light and converted it into voltages. These inputs were then quantized, filtered and transformed into sound. Tallinn became what Maiolo called “our fifth band member. And just like with any band member, you can say, ‘Hey, that was a terrible idea’ or ‘way to go, city — that was a good one.’”

From the outset, the goal was to create something that felt alive. “We wanted happy accidents,” Maiolo says. “Quite frankly, I wanted to be in a situation where something could go wrong.” Unlike a pre-programmed, pre-recorded synthesizer session, Themes for Great Cities was designed to court risk through completely live and mostly improvised performance — to create the same adrenaline rush that test pilots might feel, only with much lower stakes. “No one was going to crash,” Maiolo says.

That philosophy made the project’s debut even more dramatic. Originally slated for a 250-seat guild hall built in the 1500s, the show was suddenly moved to Kultuurikatel, a former power plant that holds a thousand. Then came another surprise: The performance would be broadcast live on Estonian national television, with the nation’s president in attendance. “It was far beyond anything I had imagined,” Maiolo admits. “I thought we were going to play to 30 people in a room.”

Visuals by Alyona Malcam Magdy, unseen by the musicians until the night of the show, added a surreal dimension. Estonian engineers captured the performance in pristine quality. “It all came together,” Maiolo says. “The guys I was doing this with are total pros.” The recording was later mixed and pressed to recycled vinyl at Citizen Vinyl in Asheville. Unable to afford astronomical mailing expenses, Maiolo split 150 LPs between Estonia and the United States, carrying them in his luggage.

Though imagined as a one-off, Themes for Great Cities continued to evolve. The group returned to Estonia in 2022 for a new performance in Narva, reworking parts of the score and staging it in a former Soviet theater. “We didn’t record that one because it was similar to the first. But when we do Reykjavik, we’ll record that one and hopefully release it,” he says. Yes, Iceland looks like the next destination. The plan is to work partly in the city and partly in the countryside, where light, landscape and weather can all feed into the music.

The ensemble has grown tighter, but Maiolo emphasizes the lineup will be flexible, with an eye toward incorporating local musicians. Vocals may be added in future versions, perhaps improvised or even converted into voltages to manipulate the electronics. “Anything is possible,” he says.

Though he now lives in San Francisco, Maiolo continues to think of North Carolina as part of his creative geography. He still has his house in Chapel Hill, stays connected to Asheville’s Citizen Vinyl, and carries his records home through RDU.

Maiolo and his partner of seven years, Charlotte, are to be married in Saint-Germain-des-Prés in Paris. Her father, a German who came of age during World War II, once spent a year in San Francisco immersing himself in jazz. Even now, as he struggles with dementia, he plays clarinet and listens to Fats Waller and Oscar Peterson. The sense of music as a lifelong companion, capable of anchoring memory and identity, is yet another thread running through Maiolo’s work.

Ultimately, what began as an experiment has become an ongoing series of collaborations. Each city brings its own textures, rhythms and surprises. Each performance is both a portrait and a partnership. “At the end of the day, it just kind of sounds like music,” Maiolo says nonchalantly, as if jamming with an entire city is an everyday thing.

O.Henry Ending

O.HENRY ENDING

Trot Till You Drop

A mother and son’s Thanksgiving tradition

By Cassie Bustamante

Thanksgiving traditions? Everyone has ’em. Some families habitually sign up for the local turkey-trot races, dressed in matching tees with some cutesy saying like “First we run, then we eat” paired with fall-colored tulle skirts at their waists and coordinating, striped, knee-high socks. We are not that family.

And yet, in 2023, I ambush my oldest, 18-year-old Sawyer, begging him to turkey trot with his momma in the Greensboro Gobbler 5K. My motives are not entirely self-centered: A cross-country and track athlete when he graduated from Grimsley earlier that year, since then his sneakers have been collecting dust — not the kind kicked up on a trail.

An avid, albeit slow, runner myself, I know the benefits exercise has on my mental health. Trust me when I tell you that my family has many times breathed a sigh of relief when I hit the pavement. Of course, tell a teenager you think anything would be good for them and watch their eyes roll. Even if you can’t see the movement in their eye sockets — trust me — you can feel it.

Nevertheless, Sawyer oh-so-reluctanty agrees to join me in the race. I get to work training, suggesting that he do the same. And yet the weeks tick by without him so much as glancing at his Asics. But he’s a cross-country runner, after all, and confident that he can just wing it and be absolutely fine. Oh, to have that kind of confidence!

Race day arrives and we make our way to the starting line. Music blares on nearby speakers, families decked out in the aforementioned outfits huddle together and Davie Street thrums with energy. The gun goes off, and off we go. Within seconds, Sawyer’s feet swiftly take him way ahead of me. After less than a block, Sawyer’s gone from my line of vision and I know I won’t see him again until the end, but that’s OK. I am not trying to prove anything — to my son or to myself. Surprisingly, I cross the finish line a full minute and a half earlier than I’d expected and I feel great.

Smiling and panting, I scan the crowd for my son. Finally, I spot him. He’s fair-skinned as it is, but his face is as white as a ghost. I hate to call my own child pasty, but there’s no other word to describe him just then.

“Let’s take a selfie and commemorate this moment!” I say, excitedly whipping out my phone. He winces as I snap the photo and does a quick about face. “I don’t feel so good,” he ekes out. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

So, in the middle of downtown Greensboro’s Center City Park, Sawyer leans his head over a garbage can while I look around to make sure we aren’t in the background of anyone else’s photos.

As quickly as we can, we hop in the car and head home. Sawyer, gripping a half-drunk bottle of water, once again has color in his cheeks.

When we pull up in our driveway five minutes later, the lucky teenager has bounced right back as if nothing out of the ordinary happened. He turns to me before opening his car door and says, “Well, Mom, I think we’ve just started a new tradition.”

“I’d love that! And maybe next year we can get fun outfits,” I say, already picturing them in my head and wondering if I can run with a heavy stuffed-turkey hat on my head.

“Not happening,” he says, quickly squashing that dream. “But next year I might train a little bit.” 

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

The Powerful Fox Sparrow

Large, handsome and hard to spot

Sparrows are a common sight throughout central North Carolina in winter. Historically, eight different species could be found in a day across the Sandhills and Piedmont. The gregarious, prolific and very adaptable house sparrow was added to the mix in the 1800s by early settlers who yearned for a familiar bird from the Western Hemisphere — as well as a means to control insect pests associated with human habitation.

At this time of year, the largest and most handsome of the sparrows is inarguably the fox sparrow. It’s also one of the hardest species to find. Perhaps because of its size and brighter coloration, it is frequently hidden in the vegetation. The fox sparrow is typically over 8 inches in length and very stocky, with bold rufous streaking on its underparts. From the head down the back to the tip of the tail it is a “foxier” reddish in color. Several races of the fox sparrow exist in the U.S. and Canada, with those found farther west being browner all over.

The fox sparrows that we see in winter breed from northern Ontario east to Newfoundland and south into parts of Nova Scotia. They move south in fall and start to appear in North Carolina in October. They seem to flock loosely with other sparrows and finches during the colder months. They prefer habitat that is immediately adjacent to water. Although they eat mainly insects during the summer, in winter seeds and berries tend to make up much of their diet.

More often than not, fox sparrows can be found in expanses of bottomland forest, kicking vegetation and debris for food, though there are lucky backyard birdwatchers who regularly observe them taking advantage of millet and other small seeds under their feeders. During very cold and wet weather, they may move farther into drier areas in search of a meal. I don’t usually see them where I live unless it snows — our predominantly grassy yard is too open to appeal to them. However, we have wet woods with dense tangles of evergreen vegetation not too far away.

Because of their size, fox sparrows are quite strong and capable of uncovering food that is buried deep in the forest floor. They will actually use both feet together to scratch and dig beyond the reach of other small birds. If you are out in wet habitat — or if you check under your feeders after a mid-winter snowfall — you may be treated to a glimpse of one of these handsome and powerful birds.

O.Henry Ending

O.HENRY ENDING

Bad, Bad Baby

He’s the one to blame

By Cynthia Adams

Some years ago, I bought a blue-eyed, Gerber-perfect baby boy. With molded blonde curls, an upturned nose, and wide eyes, his expression features bow-like lips, opened slightly, frozen in permanent surprise.  

My baby is a cherubic-looking bust. Picture a 1950s-era doll head. He presides over my work life.

It soon struck me that those rosebud lips were parted just enough for a cigarette.

Which, I discovered, they handily accommodated. 

The ciggie, a fake one I’ve used in a cigarette holder when I dressed as a flapper for a Halloween party, appears lighted. This took Gerber baby to another dimension. Unexpected. Unsettling.

There and then he became Bad Baby, official muse. Bad Baby, office mascot.  

Bad Baby has presided over many false starts and rewrites. He sits right above my computer, where Bad Baby never fails to make me smile when I need it. An artist friend, Dana, was particularly delighted when she popped into my office and spotted Bad Baby, who is parked beside a primitive painted folk-art bus with “Guanajuato” scrawled on it. 

The most compelling thing about the bus is the various clay figures of passengers. It’s difficult to say exactly what the crudely formed figures are doing, their arms raised in a gesture of helplessness, but it is appears they are trying to bail out. One figure stands on top of the hood and two on the roof, with others at the rear, appearing ready to leap into the unknown. I like the irony.  

Who hasn’t felt like bailing? Who hasn’t had feet of clay? I identified with the hapless figures wanting to exit.

Dana has no shortage of creative projects. So, when I confessed to having a creative dry spell, she laughed.

“Blame it on Bad Baby,” she drawled. Problem solved!

Bad Baby as scapegoat.  

Bad Baby is responsible for many things in my daily life. Typos. Missing the postal carrier when something needs to go out. Buying a greeting card and bungling the address.

Hangnails. Hangovers.   

When my iPhone texts were hacked (something that Apple aficionados suggest cannot happen), it didn’t occur to me to blame Bad Baby for the psycho-gibberish, disturbing rant, given he has no texting fingers.  

The recipient, a good friend, believed I had actually sent them. He asked his colleague to find out what had so provoked me. 

No, I assured her, I had sent no such messages. Yet there they were, on my phone.  

Also embarrassing? Misspellings, poor grammatical construction, and lack of sense. Worse, too, that a friend would think that a writer sent something so garbled. 

With red hot cheeks, I erased the texts (wouldn’t that make sense?), urged my friend to do the same, and dialed Apple support, immediately learning they needed the texts to trace the source.   

Calls are spoofed. Seems texts are as well.

So, a few months later, I flinched when Dana reacted to a jokey text, responding that I was a filthy animal.  

Was this real? Or had she also been hacked? Or had I been hacked again?

Shaken, I phoned her. She snorted, saying her text was merely a joke, a riff borrowed from the flick, Home Alone. Explaining how unnerved I’d been since the texting spoof, she snorted again.

“Blame it on Bad Baby,” my friend suggested again and laughed.

Just in case you’re wondering, Bad Baby is my invention. The OG. Turns out there is a 20-year-old rapper, Danielle Peskowitz Bregoli, who assumed the name Bhad Bhabie. I firmly believe my Bad Baby predates her Bhad Bhabie.  

And I like old-school spellings far better. No phat bhabie nor brat bhabie for me. Just plain old, conventional, ciggie-puffing Bad Baby.

“You can be too old for a lot of things, but you’re never too old to be afraid,” seems apropos, another line borrowed from Home Alone. Some are frightened by dolls — an actual phobia called pediophobia. 

An inexplicable text that appears to be from me but isn’t? That scares me.

And so, now I sit, scowling with narrowed eyes at Bad Baby, afraid to wonder just what havoc he might wreak next. But — if you should get a text rant from Bad Baby, please ignore it.

Almanac October 2025

ALMANAC

Almanac October

By Ashley Walshe

October is an ancient oak, quiet and delighted.

“Come, sit with me,” he whispers gleefully. “We’re nearly to the best part.”

The air is ripe with mischief and mystery. Can you smell the soil shifting? Feel the seasons turning in your bones?

Come, now. Rest at the roots of the mighty oak. Press your back against the furrowed bark and listen.

Goldenrod glows in the distance. Blackgum and sourwood blush crimson. A roost of crows howls of imminent darkness.

“Of course,” breathes the oak, hushed and peaceful. “But the darkness only sweetens the light.”

As a swallowtail sails across the crisp blue sky, birch leaves tremble on slender limbs; a crow shrieks of wet earth and swan songs.

You close your eyes, feel the vibration of sapsucker rapping upon sturdy trunk.

“Do you feel that?” you ask the oak.

“I feel everything,” he murmurs.

When you open your eyes, the colors are different. The green has been stripped from poplar and maple, reds and yellows made luminous by the autumn sun. 

At once, the great oak shakes loose a smattering of acorns.

“Watch this,” he softly chuckles, sending the gray squirrels scurrying.

A sudden rush of wind sends a shiver down your spine. Leaves descend in all directions, wave after fluttering wave, in kaleidoscopic glory.

The goldenrod is fading. The sunlight, too. The swallowtail,
gone with the wind.

“Things are getting good now,” smiles the oak, his mottled leaves gently rustling.

You sense your own soil shifting. Feel the sweet ache of new beginnings. Let yourself drop into ever deepening stillness.

Soup’s On

It’s winter squash season. As the autumn days shift from crisp to chilling, what could be sweeter — or more savory — than roasted delicata, cinnamon-laced and fork tender? Acorn squash tart with maple, ricotta and walnuts? Cream of squash soup (butternut or kabocha) served with a crispy hunk of sourdough?

And let’s not forget pumpkin (and pumpkin spice) mania. It’s all here. Enjoy!

Center of the Cosmos

Until the first frost arrives — weeks or days or blinks from now — delicate blossoms sway on tall, slender stems, brightening the garden with color and whimsy.

Hello, cosmos.

One of October’s birth flowers (marigold, the other), cosmos are said to symbolize harmony and balance, their orderly petals having inspired their genus name. Native to Mexico, this daisy-like annual thrives in hot, dry climes. It’s the traditional flower for a second wedding anniversary gift and, according to The Old Farmer’s Almanac, was once thought to attract fairies to the garden.

Could be true. Just look how the butterflies take to them.

Wandering Billy

WANDERING BILLY

Picture This

Mac Barnett’s illustrated children’s books draw on connections between generations

By Billy Ingram

“There are perhaps no days of our childhood we lived so fully as those we spent with a favorite book.” 
— Marcel Proust

Is there a beloved storybook you fondly recall being read to you as a child? For me, it was Pat the Bunny by Dorothy Kunhardt. Credited with being the very first interactive book, it offered tots a “touch and feel” experience in lieu of a narrative. Bound with white plastic ribbing, each turn of its pages reminded toddlers of everyday experiences, like feeling Daddy’s stubble (a schmear of sandpaper), inhaling the scent of wild flowers, playing peek-a-boo with a patch of cloth and patting an upright, bunny-shaped fluff of faux fur.

For lovers of children’s pictorial storybooks, there’s something really special happening this month. Out of 380 proposals submitted by cities around the nation, Greensboro was one of only five boroughs selected to host the Library of Congress’ National Ambassador for Young People’s Literature, Mac Barnett. The ninth to hold this title, he will be presenting Behold, The Picture Book! Let’s Celebrate Stories We Can Feel, Hear, and See, his tribute to the colorful legacy of children’s literature.

Barnett has authored 62 books for youngsters (he estimates) and has received two Caldecott Honors, three New York Times/New York Public Library Best Illustrated Awards, three E.B. White Read Aloud Awards — the accolades go on and on. Now in its second season on Apple TV+, he’s the co-creator, with illustrator Jon Klassen, of Shape Island, an animated series based on their New York Times-bestselling graphic novels for toddlers, The Shapes Trilogy, cloud-seeding infantile imaginations while simultaneously encouraging critical-thinking skills.

Barnett’s The First Cat in Space series, in collaboration with illustrator Shawn Harris, is rendered in a sparkling, modern style with a subtle hat tip to comic artist Jack Kirby’s square-fingered, forced perspective. “Shawn and I have been friends since we were 6 years old,” the author reveals. “And now Shawn is one of the finest children’s illustrators working today. When I was a kid, I loved comic strips like Calvin and Hobbes and Garfield.” Admittedly intimidated by the superhero genre, he says, “Shawn read all that stuff and he would explain to me a run of Spider-Man or what was happening to Superman and I would get it all filtered through him.” No dust on these jackets, infectiously fusing a Calvin-ism whimsy with 1980s Marvel super-heroic showmanship, the resulting outta-sight escapades of this far-out feline are what The New York Times proclaims “hilarious.”

For early readers eager for enigmatic entertainment, Barnett’s Brixton Brothers whodunnits serve as a mod nod to circa 1960s Hardy Boys mysteries. School Library Journal declares Brixton Brothers’ premiere volume, The Case of the Case of Mistaken Identity, “one of the funniest and most promising series openers in years.” The author’s attraction to those juvenile novels written long ago is rooted in the macabre. “As a kid, I was terrified of being kidnapped,” he quips, “and the Hardy Boys get kidnapped like three times per book.”

Barnett was especially fascinated by the sleuthing siblings’ escape strategy after being tied up. “They would flex their muscles, the bad guys would leave the room; then, they would relax their muscles and the ropes would just fall to the ground,” he recalls. “And I was like, this is what I am going to do when I get kidnapped.” To test this technique, in second grade he convinced Harris to secure him with a jump rope using knots Harris had learned in the Boy Scouts. “I relaxed and, of course, the ropes just stayed there. And I realized the Hardy Boys worked out a lot harder than I did at age 7.” This eventually formed the genesis for his Brixton Brothers’ exploits “about a kid who tries and fails to be a Hardy Boy.”

There is unambiguous, statistical information that reading to children has a lifelong educational impact. “The picture book is one of the great American art forms,” Barnett insists. “And reading out loud to kids is an intergenerational, artistic experience — an adult and a kid coming together over artwork, experiencing it, having feelings about it, and then, hopefully, talking to each other about whether they like it, what they think it means.”

According to Barnett, the first illustrated storybook for kids was Wanda Gag’s Millions of Cats in 1928. “There were books for children before that, primarily though, they were illustrated nursery rhymes, Bible stories, folk tales.” Gag pioneered the use of text and pictures in tandem to tell a story.

“The first book that I really remember living inside of was In the Night Kitchen.” Barnett discovered the absurdist dreamworld of Maurice Sendak as a youngster in the early 1980s. “It just made perfect sense to me. This is what it’s like inside my brain, that recognition of a kindred consciousness. And you read it as an adult and you’re like, this is such a wild experimental text.”

If offered the opportunity, I think just about anyone would write a children’s book. What advice can Barnett offer? “You’ve got to learn how picture books work,” he contends. “This is a way of telling stories in a very specific way. It’s easy to write a picture book, it’s very difficult to write a great picture book. And the first step is to learn the history of the art form to really understand how stories are told this way.”

Here’s an opportunity to do just that. The free event, Behold, The Picture Book! Let’s Celebrate Stories We Can Feel, Hear, and See, will be held at 10 a.m, Saturday, October 25, in N.C. A&T State University’s Harrison Auditorium. While he’s in the ’Boro for two days, Barnett will also host programs at area schools, where every student will receive one of his endlessly engaging picture books donated by Candlewick Press (as will the young ones attending the Harris Auditorium celebration, courtesy of Greensboro Bound).

“Greenboro just had an incredible proposal,” Barnett says about the selection process coordinated between The Library of Congress and Every Child a Reader, a literacy charity. “They were looking for communities with strong libraries and bookstores to make sure that these events were of value to the community. A big part of this is talking to adults about why kids’ books matter, why they are real literature and how to make sure that kids have good books to read.” He believes that, for Greensboro, “it’s just a great opportunity to talk to educators, families and even kids about the value of children’s literature in a young person’s life.”

Award-winning American (and sometimes) children’s author Emilie Buchwald (Gildaen: The Heroic Adventures of a Most Unusual Rabbit) once observed, “Children are made readers on the laps of their parents.” True, it’s never too soon to fold back colorful covers and expose spongy youngsters to worlds of wonder and limitless curiosity. Or just to pet the fluffy cartoon bunny.

For information about the free public event, visit greensborobound.com. Registration is strongly encouraged.

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