Adventure Awaits

Adventures Await

Adventures Await

A globe-trotting couple creates a child-centric house of fun

By Cassie Bustamante

Photographs by Betsy Blake

“Last week we got a phone call about a little girl,” says Ashlee Wagner, lounging on her plush living room sectional while her two daughters, 7-year-old Lowina and 4-year-old Lizzie, play nearby. Her husband, John, is busy helping Lowina find the Beyoncé song she’s looking for on her device.

Lizzie twirls in a Disney princess dress, lost in magical reverie, while Lowina’s ears perk up at her mother’s words. “Mom, are we getting a new sister?”

“Yes, baby,” answers Ashlee. Lowina cheers enthusiastically.

“You know how there are little girls who dream of getting married and getting pregnant?” Ashlee asks. “I was never that kid.” Her own father and his siblings were all adopted and she knew that, when it came time to start her own family, she wanted to adopt.

John, who owns his own State Farm Insurance Agency, jumps feet first and wholeheartedly into Ashlee’s plans. “I think I feed into her sometimes, and that’s probably why we’re so wild with everything going on in life,” he says. “But it’s fun.”

When the Wagners bought their traditional, brick house in 2017, they imagined filling the New Irving Park home with kids. “That was always the plan,” says Ashlee, who owns her own travel company, Just Another Wagner Adventure. Just as they kicked off their adoption journey, they got to work renovating — first, the first floor, followed by the pool and backyard, then the basement and, finally, upstairs. “We basically built this house to be our forever dream home,” muses Ashlee.

“I want to keep this house forever,” says Lowina, who officially became a Wagner just before she turned 3. With renovations underway in 2019, John and Ashlee initiated that first adoption, but what is already a lengthy process was stalled even more by the COVID pandemic. Finally, in January 2022, the couple headed to South Africa to bring home Lowina.

Of course, a few months before that trip, one that was to last about six months, life caught them by surprise. “I found out I was pregnant,” says Ashlee. When they finally returned to the States in the summer of 2022, they brought home both Lowina and her infant sister, Lizzie, who was also born in South Africa — a bond Ashlee is thrilled all three of her girls will share. And the place her soon-to-be-three girls will be lucky enough to grow up in together? Well, the Wagners are determined to turn it into an at-home adventure haven that would exceed any child’s wildest fantasies.

They started renovations with the living room and kitchen, which open to one another, adding white, shaker-style built-ins and revamping the fireplace with a simpler look that features a thick, rustic slab mantel. The small “U”-shaped kitchen was reconfigured to fit an island and banquette seating. “I always had that dream of, you know, you’re washing dishes and you look outside.” Over the banquette, a painting by artist Amira Rahim, aka “The Color Poet,” adds a vibrant splash to the otherwise neutral space.

The walls on the main level are coated in various shades of gray and filled with accessories and art from their travels all over the world, a passion that slowly turned into an avocation. (More about that later.) In the dining room, a grid of eight square photos glows with the oranges and yellows of global sunsets from various destinations. One photo that Ashlee took using a tripod shows the silhouette of John and Ashlee caught in a kiss, the sun’s orb illuminated behind her while hot air balloons in the distance fleck the sky.

Nearby in the den, long, wooden shelves line an entire wall. Ashlee points to various tchotchkes and lists the countries they’re from: “This is Egypt or Jordan. That is Tanzania. Lolo, where did we get this?” She asks her oldest. “Was this Mexico or Honduras?” Their souvenirs include a Day-of-the-Dead-inspired cat, a beer stein, artisan-made glass elephant bookends, a strand of beads featuring evil eyes. “We have evil eyes kind of hidden everywhere to keep the bad spirits out.”

When it’s time to go upstairs, the girls race ahead, shouting, “My room’s cooler!”

“My room first!” says Lowina. What color is it? “You’ll see when you get there.”

“Oh, Lowina,” Ashlee says with a laugh. “Silly girl!”

All of the bedrooms, including the primary, are painted in shades of blue or teal, with the girls each having pink accents. Lowina’s features a giant map of the world, a lace teepee, blush scalloped curtains, a muted-rose rug and a pair of twin beds adorned in — you guessed it — pink. Does Lizzie sometimes bunk with big sis? Nope, says Lowina, the other bed is where the family’s two cats sleep.

Though she’s younger, Lizzie’s bed is a queen. Her room, says Ashlee, used to have a tent bed and a “true safari theme.” But, as the family prepares for a longer stint of summer travel as well as another period in South Africa, she’s planning to rent the home short-term and is leaning into practicality. A large stuffed giraffe still stands in the corner and a circular, golden-yellow lion pillow rests on a hanging chair.

Just down the hall from their bedrooms, the girls share a bathroom and — wait for it — an indoor jungle gym. Ashlee and John have created a bunk room, where the twin-on-top and full-on-bottom beds have been built in. And, on another wall in that space, sits a large, wooden playset, complete with rings. “Come look at my trick,” cries Lizzie as she hangs upside down.

Lowina, not to be outdone by her little sister, performs a Little Mermaid-style hair swoosh move while Mom walks into her own bedroom, adjacent to the bunk room, which was originally part of the primary bedroom. Ashlee and John reconfigured the two rooms on that side of the house, creating the bunk room and adding a large walk-in closet with French sliders. On either side of their bed, Ashlee hung funky lanterns they found in Turkey and, on the front-facing wall, they added built-ins and a window seat. A hands-on couple, they did much of the work upstairs themselves and hired J&K Builders to do what they could not.

On the basement level of the home, where they continued working with J&K, yet another play gym keeps the girls busy. “Mommy, I’m going to slide!” Lizzie exclaims, landing in the middle of a ball pit as lightweight balls in aqua, red, lavender, pink and orange fly.

Nearby, a projector hangs from the ceiling, aimed at a blank, white wall standing in as a screen. “This is our movie area,” says Ashlee. Another comfy sofa provides the perfect space for a family snuggle sesh while they watch modern and classic Disney hits together. Lizzie opens a large trunk that serves as a coffee table. Inside, it’s filled to the brim with more princess dresses and costumes — time for an outfit change!

A kitchenette, bedroom and bathroom take up the rest of the basement space, plus a little bonus. “Yeah, I got a sauna,” says Ashlee. “I thought, why not?” Sometimes, Mom needs a quiet space to escape.

From the basement sliders, the girls are ready to run outside as dappled afternoon sunlight shadows the lawn. The backyard, just as she’d once dreamed, can be seen while Ashlee stands at her apron sink. There, she can watch the girls play in their treehouse, gaze at the peaceful surface of the pool or watch John and his sticks at work on the putting green.

Yes, a putting green. John’s a big golfer and, while he’s got his own bucket list of course destinations, he wanted to bring a bit of The Masters look to his own backyard. So, the couple dug in, adding an abundance of azaleas, mimicking the look of Augusta National Golf Course in Georgia. In fact, while they worked with Summit Landscaping Innovations alongside Guilford Pools on all hardscaping and the pool, John and Ashlee did all of the planting.

Tucked alongside the back fence, a modern-looking treehouse sits high, nestled among a few trees. Ashlee looked at some ideas on Pinterest and John ran with it, building his kiddos a dreamy, lofted playhouse. While a ladder will get you up, a tunneled slide is definitely the way down. A jungle gym extends to the treehouse’s left and, nearby, a disc swing gets plenty of use. “Mama, go fast!” shouts Lizzie as her mom pushes her.

“They like to go really high,” says Ashlee. After all, the sky is the limit. “I want to raise my kids to where they can go blow the world open if they want to.”  OH

Go Your Own Way

John and Ashlee Wagner met in the fall of 2008 as freshman at UNCG. “In Business 101 class, funny enough,” says Ashlee. John sat right behind her. Soon after meeting, the two began dating. But, midway through the first year, John decided to “retire from school” and returned home to Wilmington.

“John’s been a rebel his whole life,” quips Ashlee. “He likes to defy what the norm is.”

A year and a half later, Ashlee visited friends in Wilmington. “And somehow John pops back up and we’re dating the next week.”

In 2014, after Ashlee earned her bachelor’s degree in business administration, the Wagners tied the knot in Ocean Isle, honeymooned in Cancun and then, months later, took a bigger, second honeymoon in Ireland. That same year, Ashlee accepted a new role at an executive search company. Finally, John says, “Finances felt stable,” and the honeymooners found themselves bitten by the travel bug, booking two big trips a year.

“Each trip was three or four countries,” says John.

“And what’s crazy is,” says Ashlee, “I think we’ve only been to 40 countries.” OK, that’s a lot, she acknowledges with a laugh.

But, notes John, referencing a world map that graces their wall, a pin in each place they’ve visited, “There are still so many places we haven’t even touched.”

In 2022, once she was back at home with her daughters, Ashlee began contemplating what she wanted out of life. Now as a VP, she was working some 80 hours a week. Plus, she notes, being a woman in leadership in the South comes with its own set of challenges. She asked herself, “If my kids were in this environment, what advice would I give them?” The answer was clear: “My advice would be to quit and go do something you love.”

Friends and family had been telling her all along that she should think about pursuing a career in travel, but a voice in her head kept talking her out of it.

But now, with four —soon to be six — little female eyes on her, she says, “I decided I was just as worthy of that advice.”

Today, she runs her own company, works with John a bit and even manages some properties they have acquired over the years as well as some for local, woman-owned Nomad Vacation Rentals. With a flexible schedule, the family jet-sets all over the world and roadtrips all over the U.S. Plus, she’s got the freedom to now be the mom who goes on field trips or helps out in class. “I can do whatever I want,” she says, “and that has been very fulfilling.”

“That’s why I have my own business,” notes John, who says their Greensboro home is his eventual retirement plan — meaning, he’ll sell it in 20 years or so and travel the world, perhaps buy a new property, maybe in another country. Though Ashlee says they created it to be their forever home, her wheels are always turning, too. “My dream would be running a safari.”

“Tomorrow’s not promised,” he says. “You can always earn money tomorrow. Make the experiences right now.” Plus, he says, they were lucky enough as a young couple to purchase “all the toys I ever wanted,” silly things like drones that end up in a closet somewhere. “I’d much rather book the plane ticket.”

Last summer, the family of four, plus their two large dogs — their cats stayed behind — traveled much of the United States in a 20-foot camper. “Wild,” says Ashlee. Once again, this summer, they’re hitting the road for one more long-term adventure as a family of four. And soon, they’ll be headed back South Africa, returning to the States as a family of five.

Chaos Theory

Chaos Theory

The Stuff of  Dreams

Walking, talking and laughing in our sleep

By Cassie Bustamante

Illustration by Miranda Glyder

From a very young age, I’ve been a very heavy sleeper. My mom has gleefully recounted tales of my sleepwalking as a small child through our little raised ranch, making it back to the safety of my bed, thanks to her guidance. In college once, a friend called me just before midnight and we had a long and soulful chat. At least, according to her. The next day when she recalled our conversation, I had no idea what she was talking about. Apparently, I’d just picked up the receiver in my sleep and gabbed coherently enough to pass for awake. (I’m not sure what that says about my real-life conversational skills.)

And so, many years later when my husband, Chris, and I had kids, they were quickly trained to go to Dad with their middle-of-the-night wake-ups. Mom? Out cold, oblivious. But Dad? He’s sure to hear their pleas. Otherwise, our poor kiddos would be battling nightmares on their own.

In my deep state of sleep, I often have wild, vivid dreams, which I sometimes recount in detail to Chris in the morning. “But what do you think this one means?” I’ll ask.

His response? Typically, a shake of the head, an amused smirk, followed by ”I don’t pretend to know what goes on in that head of yours.” And, unlike me, he doesn’t give his dreams — or mine, for that matter — a second thought.

As a light sleeper, he doesn’t tend to have the intense dreams that I do. I’m no sleep scientist, so that could be a theory of my own making, but it works for me. At any rate, one morning, I found out that he, too, is actually capable of memorable dreams.

It’s 4 a.m. and I’m suddenly wide awake, a solid hour before my alarm is due to go off, something that happens often in my middle agedness. I slip off the satin eye mask I wear to prevent wrinkles from worsening and stare into the darkness, considering all of my productive options — writing, brainstorming, meditating — and instead reach for my phone. Mindlessly scrolling, I squint at its tiny screen. So much for anything that satin mask may have done for my skin.

A few moments later, a giggle, followed by a contented sigh, escapes Chris’ lips. I know this laugh well and it’s one he delivers with love — for me. But, it’s the middle of the night and my anxious, exhausted brain races with “what if” scenarios. Is he dreaming about me? And, If not, then WHO? Mind you, Chris is totally trustworthy. There is no rational reason for me to doubt him. But who ever said I was rational, especially at 4 a.m.? As far as I’m concerned, he’s guilty until proven innocent.

After sulking for a while, I lace up and put my anxious energy to use outside on the pavement with my dog. The dark stillness of the morning always helps to quiet my thoughts.

Back inside and a little less on the verge of lashing out at Chris for what his dream self may have done, I pour myself a mug of steaming black coffee while contemplating my next move. I keep my back to him as he works on his laptop at our dining table, blissfully unaware that I’m stewing over something he probably didn’t even do in his waking life.

“You know, I woke up at 4 a.m. and could not fall back asleep,” I say as calmly as I can. “Meanwhile, you were over there giggling like a schoolgirl in your sleep.”

I turn to face him, a challenge in my eyes.

He looks up from his computer and smiles at me. “Ah, yes. I was dreaming we were on a dinner date at Machete.”

My tight-lipped expression breaks into a giddy grin and I let out a laugh as every trace of doubt vanishes into thin air. It’s me! I am the girl of his dreams!

“We were having a good time,” he says.

“And I must have said something hilarious,” I retort.

He rolls his eyes because I’m well known around our house full of young adults — and a second-grader— for entertaining myself and no one else.

After a beat, he lets out that laugh, quietly, almost to himself — a soft echo of the one I heard just hours ago.  OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

Poem June 2026

Poem June 2026

A Swift Thought

A car engine rattling.

A busted radio preaching the end 

of the world. That soft, hazy sun racing 

behind the horizon, peaking only for the 

thought of crashing. The Earth’s breath, 

hot and fast, blowing the trickled sweat 

from my hairline to my forehead. A swished 

whiskey hits the adrenaline, causing 

a swerve left, then right. The radio speaks, 

“Blazing temperatures bring hysteria!” I turn it 

off without a care in the world and without a 

second to spare.

— Joi Floyd

Joi Floyd is the assistant editor of O.Henry magazine. Should you wish to contact her, just look for a woman writing under a tree — or email her at joi@ohenrymag.com.

Alamanc June 2026

Alamanc June 2026​

Alamanc June 2026

June is a blueberry banquet, a living shrine, a procession of sun-loving pilgrims.

Here they come, with their sun hats and baskets. Wonderstruck and reverent; wide-eyed and ravenous.

There’s no wrong way to worship.

Aging fingers work methodically, rolling over ripe berries as if they were prayer beads on an endless mala. Mothers guide tiny hands from fruits of red to deepest blue. Kitchen mystics pluck to the mantra of blueberry ice cream, blueberry cobbler, blueberries all summer through.

Life buzzes in all directions.

Cat stalks field crickets. Puppy chases swallowtails. Children sneak plump berries from brimming buckets by the handful.

The seekers come and go, each with their simple offerings: bliss, open palms, purple-stained prayers.

At blueberry church, Mmmmmmm is a sacred hymn. A pop of sweetness spells amen.

As balmy morning melts into sun-drenched afternoon, the hum of bees could bring one to their dirt-smudged knees.

Thank you, a berry pilgrim sings, praising the miracle of all creation.

Between the spike of mosquitos and the early fireflies, the birds blurt Glory! Glory!, same as they did at sunrise.

And so it goes, summer day after summer day. Baskets runneth over. Bellies fill with sweetness. All who seek shall find magic at the blueberry jubilee.

And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days.   — James Russell Lowell 

All Warmed Up

It’s not too late to sow some garden magic. Cucumbers, squash, pumpkins and melons. Beets, carrots, chard and scallions. Beans, basil, marigolds and sunflowers. The soil is warm and ready. Plant the seeds. Woo the pollinators. Behold miracles.  OH

Midsummer Nights

Watercolor Strawberry MoonWhat could be dreamier than a day in June? A midsummer night.

The field crickets crackle like warm vinyl. Moonflower and night-blooming jasmine perfume the balmy air. Drink it in. And don’t forget to look up.

According to NASA, the Venus and Jupiter conjunction on June 8 and 9 is one of the most notable astronomical events of the year. Look low in the western sky a half-hour after sunset to see these two luminous planets seemingly close enough to touch, no telescope required.

The strawberry moon — first full moon of summer — will rise on June 29, one week after the solstice (June 21). The Old Farmer’s Almanac notes that Native American Algonquian tribes, and the Ojibwe, Dakota and Lakota peoples, marked this month’s moon by the “ripening of June-bearing strawberries” across the fertile land. Other names for this month’s moon include the berries ripen moon (Haida), the hatching moon (Cree), the honey moon and the mead moon. One could also call it dreamy.

O.Henry Ending

O.Henry Ending

Uncle Dan’s Quarter

A man who changed the way I saw the world

By Cynthia Adams

Illustration by Harry Blair

My dad bought a 75-acre farm near Reed Gold Mine in Cabarrus County, site of the first documented commercial gold found in 1799, way before the California 49ers struck gold out West. The story goes that Conrad Reed, son of a farmer, discovered a glittery, 17-pound rock in Little Meadow Creek that proved a useful doorstop. Three years later a jeweler in Fayetteville recognized the Reed doorstop was actually a hunk of solid gold. 

Conrad’s father, John, eventually developed a bona fide mining operation, encouraged by the discovery of a 28-pound nugget a few years after the doorstop find. Other mines in neighboring counties opened and flourished, including one with a thriving town dubbed Gold Hill.

Gold Hill eventually produced sufficient gold to result in the establishment of the Charlotte Mint. Charlotte city fathers fretted, wishing the Queen City would thrive like Gold Hill seemed to be doing. It is more than a little ironic that Charlotte’s present-day fortunes were built upon cold, hard cash.

Mining in the state continued until the Civil War claimed able-bodied men, and underground mining ceased altogether at Reed Mine in 1912. Most North Carolina mines were shuttered, even after Cornish miners immigrated there seeking their fortunes once tin mining was exhausted in Cornwall.

Another doorstop never surfaced. But the hope never died. There were rumors, always, of small nuggets found in the Rocky River, which threaded through Cabarrus County past our family farm. 

Frequently, my dad would muse that our horses and livestock were probably making their deposits on top of veins of gold.

As kids, we would climb down the weedy banks into the swift river current, risking snapping turtles and water moccasins to pretend we were panning for gold.

We even knew a prospector, Uncle Dan, who lived in a dirt-floored shack on a dirt road, which lacked electricity or running water well into the 1960s. He was a hermit, a raggedy-looking man, and a source of fascination to all the children in our small community.

Uncle Dan spent most of his days panning in the river, hoping to find a nugget. Unbeknownst to our parents, we would knock at his rickety door and visit. I was too young to attend school, and, in that time, we were allowed to play and roam freely with the understanding we were to be home for meals and bath time. If he was home, we would delightedly crowd into his dark shack, with the only light shining through the boards and the open door as the primary illumination.

Uncle Dan, painfully shy and pitifully poor, was gentle and always kind to us. He was our friend. Sometimes he would show us minute bits of gold and we would gawk.

We children wished him luck and hoped he would have a windfall.

Once, as I played outside busily outlining a playhouse in the dirt with sticks, Uncle Dan passed by the chain link fence separating our farm from the neighbors. “Morning,” I called to him. He stopped. 

“Morning, Miss Cindy,” he answered.

This exchange felt very grown-up, having an adult friend. I grinned a toothy grin — the Tooth Fairy had recently visited — showing the gap in my teeth.

His sun-battered face, wrinkled and dry, spread into a smile. Uncle Dan reached into his pocket and offered something. I stepped closer. He pushed a quarter to me through the fence.

I thanked him and pocketed the prize. Now I had two quarters — one from the Tooth Fairy and one from Uncle Dan!

Were there any coins left for him to feed himself? Even we kids noticed the cans in his shack of pork-and-beans and Vienna sausages.

Quarters still remind me of this moment. A man who had nothing to give freely offered something that was most likely needed and precious to him. 

And that act opened something in me that has never closed. OH

Sazerac May 2026

SAZERAC

JOI DE VIVRE

What would Mama do?: The other day, I stood next to my mom and realized we’re the same height. Five feet and four inches. Mama, who once towered over little Joi, now struggles to meet me eye to eye while scolding me about getting my car tags renewed. We’re a lot alike these days — but not when it comes to boring obligations such as car maintenance. If you asked her about me, she’d say, “she’s my mini me,” even though we’re the same height, weight, width and shoe size — there’s not much “mini” left in me. Growing up, I would follow her everywhere, like a duckling to a duck. To the bathroom so she could braid my hair, the kitchen for some seasoned pretzels and even to the front porch to water her half-dead flowers — my grandma’s green thumb skipped a generation. Nowadays, since we don’t live under the same roof, instead of following her around the house, I try to follow her thought process. “What would Mama do?” enters my head any time I’m stuck in a sticky situation. No, Mama wouldn’t scream in a fit of rage because Nelly, my greedy cat, scarfed down my hamburger when I wasn’t looking — yet again. She would simply make another one — I may have inherited my mother’s looks but I did not gain her patience. One day when I’m older, I hope to be half as wise as her so that I don’t have to search my brain and wonder “what would Mama do?” I can simply just do it.

Window on the Past

An extravagant pageant, lively games and a crown fit for a queen. In 1912, being May Day queen at State Normal and Industrial College (now UNCG) was the highest honor and typically bestowed upon a senior elected by her peers. Only the noblest, bravest warriors were tasked with protecting her court train from the dangers of the freshly cut grass blades.

Unsolicited Advice

When it comes to wordplay, we love figures of speech as much as the next person. “Shoot for the stars” and “go the extra mile” are a couple we keep in our arsenal anytime we need to spice up a conversation. They can be motivational and used to cheer one up when down in the dumps. While some bring good intentions, others can be misunderstood because of their fragmentation. No one likes a half-baked quote shoved down their throat — but we will gladly scarf down a gooey, half-baked cookie. Whether it’s to inspire or just for some good, playful writing, we’d bet our bottom dollar you don’t know the whole shebang. So, if you know someone in a blue funk and they’re in need of some encouraging words, here are some apt idioms you can roll out to bring their spirits up.

Some say “the early bird catches the worm,” which implies that the sooner you chase the opportunity, the better advantage you will have over others. While agreeable, it could be argued that waiting could also be a better bet. The full phrase “the early bird catches the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese,” implies that an opportunity could be disguised as bait. Granted, worms and cheese may not be your snack of choice, it’s still a good reminder that the first opportunities could come with higher risks and sometimes second place can put you ahead of the game. So before you chase, stop and assess whether you’re about to be rewarded or about to bite the bait.

If starting a new hobby consists of finding something you’re interested in, getting really engaged in it and then letting it go then don’t worry about being called a quitter. It takes a lot of courage to start something new, but it takes a lot more courage to quit when something isn’t working out for you. Our bag of idioms tells us that a Jack of all trades is a master of none, though oftentimes better than a master of one. Being a master of none isn’t always bad. It means you possess knowledge across multiple fields. For example, a hotdog expert couldn’t tell you squat about how to make a good burger but, with the extra knowledge you have, you’ll be able to whip up — or better yet, flip up — something juicy and savory.

As a child you were probably taught to suppress your curiosity and to keep your questions at bay. But, in a world of “follow the leader,” we could use more curious thinkers. Innovators and their inventions all started with a thirst for knowledge. Sure, people say “Curiosity killed the cat,” but the full, often overlooked version of the idiom is “Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.” Follow your nose, ask questions and impress your inner child with your inquisitiveness — but use caution, you don’t have eight more lives to spare.   

Our 2026 Essay Contest

Sun’s out, pen’s out. It’s time for our annual writing contest and this time we want you to think back on all those “How I spent my summer vacation” assignments of your elementary school youth. Whether it’s about a vacay or a staycay, we want an essay. Tell us about a true tale as remembered by you about a trip to the beach or about the time you took a week off to meditate for hours a day wearing nothing but your socks and a bedsheet. As always, there are ground rules:

Submit no more than 600 words in conventional form — a PDF, Google document, or a word or pages file works well. Please no secret code that requires a decoder ring. We’ve misplaced said ring. Email entries to cassie@ohenrymag.com.

One entry per writer.

Deadline to enter is September 30, 2026.

Top three winners will be contacted via email, awarded a monetary prize and their essay printed in a forthcoming issue of O.Henry.

Art to Heart

For some, disorder and mayhem may stifle their artistic abilities, but, for art historian and artist Will South, chaos serves as a muse for his paintings. “So, it all started with the pandemic,” says South. “Then, next thing you know, the pieces became directly inspired by a lot of the troubles in the world.” After his 2020 retirement from serving as chief curator for the Dayton Art Institute in Ohio, he moved to Greensboro. South saw the pandemonium that resulted from the COVID-19 pandemic and, like many creatives at the time, decided to dust his palette off and paint, which led him to fill canvas after canvas, until he created the collection for his present exhibit, Catastrophic Times: Paintings by Will South. South uses his art to speak for the people who can’t speak for themselves and says that making images is his way of engaging with the world. “Now, we have these other conflicts going around, so I started painting things that were directly related to them.” What started out as a reaction to a tumultuous time evolved into a response to the larger issues that arose after — like, he says, the murder of innocent African Americans through police brutality. Though South most recently uses his art to reflect on current events, he has also been known to dig into the past. He is the author of many books, including Henry Ossawa Tanner: Artist in the Lion’s Den, which explains and seeks to correct the myths surrounding 19th-century artist Henry Ossawa Tanner, who was the first African American artist to reach international acclaim. He hopes that by sharing his own art with the world, it will gently move the needle toward global equality and encourage kindness toward those going through troubled times. “When you see something in life, you cannot unsee it,” South says.

You can find Catastrophic Times: Paintings by Will South in Gallery 1250 at Revolution Mill, on display through June 26, and hear directly from South a 2 p.m., Saturday, May 16. Info: revolutionmillgreensboro.com.

Tiny Tale

TINY TALE

Memorial Day

A flag for the forgotten

By James Celano

Teddy got tired of throwing stones at a tree and called out: “Ya wanna go get some flags?” Without answering, I started through the woods towards the cemetery. It was the Saturday after Memorial Day. Janet said it was going to rain cats and dogs on Sunday. Sisters always say things like that. Teddy and I would have just said it was going to rain a lot. However you said it, the flags were going to get all wet and would probably get thrown out. So why not let us kids have some? After all, people take down Halloween and Christmas decorations, so what’s the difference? That’s the way we saw it, but the caretaker didn’t. The year before, he had ambushed us in his pickup. “What are you boys doing with those flags?”

“We thought it’d be OK to take them now,” I said.

“Yeah, well, it’s not. Put them in the truck.”

Teddy held up a blue flag with a cool insignia, a real prize. “Can I keep this one?”

“Put it in the truck!”

Our Lady of Mercy was a big woman, a little over 60 acres. Freight trains ran just beyond her left side. Grandmom said the trains carried the souls of the dead away. Sometimes in bed at night, I could hear the trains rumbling over the tracks and wondered where all those souls were going. Maybe one way was to heaven and the other way was to hell.

The gate at the south end was locked, but a section of chain-link fence torn away from a post was just wide enough for our skinny bodies to squeeze through. Red, white and blue waved all over the land of free flags. Teddy and I began running all over the place, snatching up stars-and-stripes and being careful not to step on any graves. No kid needs that kind of bad luck. Neither of us found one of those blue flags with the cool insignia, and, boy, did we ever look. Teddy still simmered a little over the one he lost.

The south end was also where the little kids were buried. Tall trees, growing just outside the fence, shaded small plots on either side of the gate. It was the creepiest part of the cemetery, so we never left without giving it a good going-over. Since the only legitimate way into the cemetery was the north gate, the kids lay at the far end of anyone else’s sympathy. But in our own way, in the way we marveled at their brief life and sudden death, we, at least, mourned them.

One shiny granite slab jumped out.

Gabriela “Gabby” Minelski

Born: February 2, 1960

Died: April 25, 1962 

“Hey Teddy, check this out. This little girl just died.”

Except for the new kid’s, the stones looked neglected and sad. It didn’t look like anyone ever visited. No flowers, no flags. But a kid wouldn’t want flowers. Better to leave a toy. But there weren’t any toys either. Someone would probably swipe them. Probably one of us.

Out of nowhere, a picture of Gabby down there in the dark popped into my head, her hair mussed and knotted, and her eyes full of ants. I have a good imagination . . . too good, and sometimes the pictures in my head give me the jeebies.

“Our Angel” was all one stone said, and this:

Born: November 9, 1952

Died: November 12, 1952

“Jeez,” I said, “this kid only lived three days.”

A layer of fuzzy moss that Teddy said looked like green hair covered the top of “Our Angel’s” gravestone, and smack-dab in the middle was a black acorn. That one threw us for a loop. It couldn’t have fallen from a tree without bouncing off and onto the ground. Maybe a squirrel stashed it there for later and forgot about it. He might have spent half the winter wondering, “Now, where did I leave that acorn?”

I told you I have a good imagination. “Someday that imagination of yours is gonna get you in trouble,” my mother told me, but so far, so good.

Another grave had two names, a boy and a girl, born one day, dead two weeks later. Teddy wondered if they were in the same coffin, or if one was on top of the other. “It would be better if they were in the same coffin,” I said. “Their mom and dad could save some money that way.”

“It’d be better if they were in the same coffin, anyway,” Teddy said. “Then they could play together in heaven.”

It was OK for Teddy to say that, being only 7 years old and all. Of course, if they weren’t baptized, the dead kids couldn’t get into heaven. Limbo was the best they could do. I didn’t like to think about that. It didn’t seem fair. It wasn’t their fault, after all. But, even though limbo wasn’t as good as heaven, it was a heck of a sight better than purgatory or hell.

One small grave lay at the far end, separate from the rest. Henry Liddle — 4 years old. Maybe Henry was one of those quiet kids who preferred his own company. A crouching angel with sad eyes and a chipped nose prayed over Henry. The stone was a little cockeyed, as if the angel’s grief had become too big a burden and knocked the whole thing out of kilter. The granite on Henry’s marker was stained with green moss, too.

“Well, I got my flags,” I said, turning my back on little Henry. “I’m getting outta here.” It was when I reached the hole in the fence that I saw Teddy crouching behind the angel with the chipped nose. “C’mon,” I yelled back, “I don’t want that guy to catch us again.”

On the way home, I asked Teddy how many flags he had.

“Five.”

“I thought you got six, like me?”

“Nah,” he said, “I only took five.”

Poem May 2026

POEM

FLOATING

A hawk drifted over as I backstroked

through the neighborhood pool.

It glided more effortlessly

than I’d imagined possible,

circling and diving on the breeze

without thrash or beat of wing,

so I puffed up my chest

and floated awhile, wondering

if he’d spy me and swoop down

to make a meal of my laziness.

Maple seeds helicoptered

into the depressions

between ripples, bobbing expectantly.

Drowned, fat caterpillars

littered the blue between lanes.

There are graveyards

where the bones rest

less tranquil than that afternoon,

but I ripped it into lines,

and still I am ripping it into lines,

looking for sad, explosive meaning,

proof that I skimmed

that particular magnificence

and didn’t go under.

— Ross White

O.Henry Ending

O.HENRY ENDING

Spice Relief

Handling jalapeño pain

By Walt Pilcher

I may not be a cultural cuisine aficionado, but I have a nose for Mexican food.

Smoky scents from carne asada or grilled chicken in citrus and spices. The earthy heat of roasted jalapeños or chipotles. Mildly nutty corn or wheat tortillas. The savory sizzle of refried beans. Rice sautéed with onions and garlic. Zesty cilantro and lime. Stale cerveza (beer). Uniquely familiar aromas. I’ll know I’ve stepped into a taqueria even if there’s no telltale mariachi music. And with good reason.

Return with me now to the summer of 1965, where I am about to experience both a startling cultural trauma and a culinary revelation of world-class magnitude. My new wife, Carol, and I are driving cross-country to California for grad school and work. Late one evening, we stop for dinner in lonesome Wagon Mound, New Mexico, population 695. Not much is there except the iconic butte the town is named for and what appears to be the only restaurant, a Mexican establishment, the name of which, as far as we can tell, is the single word on a neon sign: “EAT.” We are starving.  

We place our orders. Carol wisely chooses a cheeseburger, but I must show off my machismo and try something adventurous, a spicy Mexican dish with a baffling name now lost to memory. The food comes and it smells good. As Carol savors the first bite of her burger and I am just about to dig into my mystery meal, I notice the kitchen staff surreptitiously peering out as if to see how the gringo (me) will react to what they have prepared. Undaunted, I fork a mouthful.  

¡Madre mía! First my lips burn. Then my tongue does a Mexican “hot” dance. My nose runs. Soon my throat is a tunnel of fire. Gulping my icy Coke does nothing to relieve the pain. I dare not look at the kitchen staff lest they reap satisfaction from their little joke. Quickly, in an almost involuntary reaction as when one claps a protective hand on a fresh wound, I grab the tortilla that accompanies my meal and slap it on the flames. Amazingly, the pain stops! ¡Qué sorpresa! The gringo has prevailed!

I do not leave a generous tip.

But maybe I should have. It turns out tortillas and other wheat-based foods contain starch and sometimes a bit of fat, both of which can help absorb capsaicin, the compound that causes the burning sensation. A possible contributing factor is that wheat contains traces of humulene and myrcene, terpene compounds that fool the brain into not feeling the topical discomfort. Flour tortillas, bread, dinner rolls, pita and all sorts of grainy foods seem to extinguish the fire. Foods made from hops, like beer and sauces, are richer in the terpenes and potentially have even more of this soothing effect. Science aside, I only know when I touched the tortilla to my lips, the pain went away. Knowing wheat-based foods are an antidote for spice pain has proven quite useful to me and to friends with whom I’ve shared this knowledge during travels worldwide and in the wide range of ethnic eateries here at home.  

Whenever I inhale the distinctive aromas of Mexican cuisine, my thoughts return to Wagon Mound and the prank-turned-epiphany that changed my life. How pleasurable eating spicy food has become since that transformative experience. And now I know why beer washes down Mexican so well.

I have not gone back to Wagon Mound other than in my mind. I wonder if the EAT restaurant is still there. Has it become a chain? I have seen other EAT signs in my travels, so maybe.

If it has, I hope the staff is still pranking the gringos. 

Life’s Funny

LIFE'S FUNNY

My Two Cents

The changing nature of cool

By Maria Johnson

I really wanted those penny loafers.

They were displayed near the oxfords in the children’s shoe store where my mom took us for “good shoes” when I was growing up.

The place smelled like new leather and Sunday school. Stiff and uncomfortable, in both cases.

Which brings us back to the loafers.

I had flat feet, and someone — maybe my mom, maybe a doctor — decided that I needed to wear “orthopedic shoes,” which meant lace-up oxfords with built-in arch support.

They might as well have said, “Shoes that are ugly as all get-out, not to mention uncool,” because they were both.

I was around kindergarten age, old enough to have a budding idea of what was considered desirable outside of my family. Orthopedic shoes from Howard Curry Shoes in Lexington, Kentucky, were not on the list.

The only good thing about that store, in my mind, was The Talking Tree.

You don’t know about The Talking Tree?

Well, on the right wall as you walked in, there was a sculpted tree with a human face, like the trees in The Wizard of Oz, only this one was smiling.

Near The Talking Tree, there was a small wooden bridge that you walked over. It was all very storybook-y. The most enchanting thing was that when you walked out with your new shoes, The Talking Tree would call you by name, saying something like, “Enjoy your pretty new shoes, Maria.”

Even in my 5-year-old mind, as I carried out my dorky shoes, I’d be thinking, “Yeah, right.”

Which means I believed in The Talking Tree somewhat, even though I thought it was full of sap.

It took me a few years to figure out that The Talking Tree never called my name on the way in, only on the way out, after my mom had dropped a wad on my supposedly pretty shoes.

I remember the first time The Talking Tree bade me farewell, and I turned and waved at the sales lady who was talking into a microphone at the counter behind me.

Busted.

Never again did I think seriously about owning a pair of real-deal penny loafers until recently, when I read a glowing review of some “affordable Italian penny loafers,” which is a little like saying an “affordable Italian sports car”.

Something in me was rekindled.

I had to have penny loafers. Not the pricey Italian model, mind you. Rather, a supple (sorry, Bass Weejuns) and reasonably priced version. With actual pennies stuck in the slots because, to go all Honest Abe on you, I’m mourning the penny.

Unless you’ve been living under a Coinstar machine, you probably know that the U.S. penny went out of production last November. I get why. It cost 4 cents to make a 1-cent piece of currency.

But like many people, I have pockets full of memories associated with pennies, which were made with 95 percent copper when I was a kid.

That’s why they weathered to a green patina.

That’s why some people used them to “fix” a glitchy lightbulb or replace a blown fuse. Don’t ask these people for snapshots to document the practices; their photographs likely burned in house fires.

In my own childhood home, one electrical outlet was fried by a child — there were only two of us, and neither will cop to this — who wondered what would happen if you stuck a penny, vertically, into an outlet, as if you were playing the slots in Vegas.

Answer: ZZZZZTTT!!!

I can only surmise that whoever tried this dangerous (in retrospect) stunt was gripping the penny with a pair of rubber-handled pliers, or only one of us would be left with any credible deniability.

A more common practice of the time was putting pennies on railroad tracks, waiting for a train to go by, then marveling that a locomotive weighing more than 100 tons, could flatten a penny into a faceless disc.

This, too, was treacherous, not only because it brought kids into close proximity with diesel locomotives, but because apparently — and I learned this only recently — a train’s fast-moving wheels can spit out a penny as a deadly projectile.

On a lighter, less lethal note, pennies had wholesome uses, too.

We could toss a penny into a public fountain and make a wish.

We could pick up a found penny — something I still do without thinking — for good luck, especially if it were heads-up.

We could slip a couple of new pennies into our loafers. Looking at you, Talking Tree.

We could feed a penny into a bubble-headed candy machine, twist the crank and get a handful of awful chewing gum or those godforsaken Boston Baked Beans.

Sensible people collected pennies. My maternal grandmother was a well-known penny pincher who turned loose only for a good cause. She tied a couple of pennies into the corners of handkerchiefs for my mom and my aunt to take to Sunday school as their offering during the Great Depression.

Later, when I was a kid, my grandmother coached us to be on the lookout for what she called “wheat pennies,” which had two wheat stalks, pictured like parentheses, on the backside.

The proper name was Lincoln wheat pennies. They were made from 1901 to 1958, and my grandmother seemed to think they were valuable post-production.

She was somewhat correct.

Today, a 1933-D (“D” for the Denver mint) wheat penny is worth more than $2.

A 1931-S (“S” for the San Francisco mint) is worth more than $40.

Put that in your loafers and stroll it.

Pennies also became an emblem: a symbol for the least among us that nevertheless held worth, especially when amassed.

This principle was foundational to the most basic form of childhood fundraising: Dump a coffee can full of coins on the floor and get to sorting.

It took forever to assemble a decent chunk of change in paper wrappers. But it added up. That was the beauty of the penny. It was little, but it mattered. A lot of them mattered a lot.

On May 7, Sanctuary House, a Greensboro nonprofit serving people who experience mental health issues, will hold a weekday lunchtime event called Mile of Pennies.

Why pennies? Because Abe Lincoln, who is pictured on every cent, suffered from depression. He certainly wasn’t the last president to struggle with mental health problems, but he was open about it, referring to his melancholy as his “black dog.”

Plastic cup by plastic cup, event organizers will hand out a mile’s worth of pennies — 84,480 to be exact — and invite people to use the coins to create designs and messages on the steps, pavers, sidewalks and stone walls around the group’s “clubhouse” at 518 N. Elm St.

The goal — other than providing a place for people to be artistic, eat a food-truck lunch, and enjoy live music — is to get folks talking about mental health; about 1 in 5 people will experience a diagnosable mental health challenge in any given year, according to Terri Jackson, Sanctuary House’s chief philanthropy officer.

She stresses that every person, every conversation and every donation matters.

There’s that idea again: The power of one.

It’s a reassuring message, a different kind of cool, some 60 years after my first crush on penny loafers. Incidentally, my feet aren’t as flat as they used to be, thanks partly to decades of exercise in supportive, lace-up tennis shoes. That’s why I’m willing to spend some shoe leather tracking down the right pair of loafers, size 8 or 8.5, if you happen to trip over a pair.

I can hear the tinny voice of The Talking Tree now.

“Enjoy your pretty shoes, Maria.”

I will.

I think I’ve finally grown into them.