O.Henry Ending

O.HENRY ENDING

Food, Actually

If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaky feeling you’ll find that love actually is all around the table

By David Claude Bailey

This is a love story. It began 60 years ago.

Our new Boy Scout executive, Wofford Malphrus, is explaining how we’ll have more guns, more bows and arrows, more everything at summer camp. As he’s leaving, he pulls a photo from his wallet and says, “This is my daughter and some of you will be going to school with her next year.”

I am stunned. She is without doubt the most beautiful woman on the planet. At the same moment, I realize I have zero chances of ever dating her. In fact, at age 15 — shy, one-eyed, gawky, a beatnik wanna-be — I’m yet to have my first date.

Fast-forward two years and my best friend, Spencer, tells me that Anne Malphrus has seen my ’45 Ford army surplus heap of a Jeep and wants to ride in it.

And she does. Double dating with my cousin, Bill, and Anne’s best friend, Mary, we picnic at my uncle’s farm. My mother packs leftover roast duck and blue cheese, while Bill’s mom sends deviled eggs and savory lemon bars. It’s love at first bite as two foodies feast away. In sprinkling rain on the way back to the car, our first kiss comes as we huddle under the picnic blanket.

We remain an item through Anne’s freshman year at UNCG, when we elope and get married under our Greek professor’s whispering pines. A year later, we take a sabbatical from school and hitchhike all over Europe, mostly in Spain and Greece where we can afford to stay in a hotel instead of a youth hostel. We discover heady gazpacho, goat cheese and succulent melon served with paper-thin slices of Iberian ham. Hello, rabo de toro (bull’s tail stew), calamari and bacalao (salt cod with tomato sauce).

Time passes and we’re still together — me, a reporter covering the earliest days of the Space Shuttle; Anne, an artist and food columnist. On our 13th anniversary, Anne tells me no more excuses, no more delays, it’s time to have a child.

We do, first Sarah and then Alice. And so begins the most magical years of our lives, reliving youth through our children’s eyes, building villages out of twigs and rocks for Terabithians, reading them the same fairy tales our mothers read us. Our girls learn to ride bikes, swim, make and keep friends, drive cars. We blink and they’re off to college.

A few years later, Sarah announces she’s moving to Spain. She does and loves it. Over the next 20 years, she manages to acquire a husband, a horse and an apartment in Europe’s equivalent to Myrtle Beach, Mallorca. Gaining Spanish residency, she works in a digital job we barely understand. A cordial divorce follows.

She moves to Málaga and falls for Toni Mayo, a landscape designer, serial entrepreneur and Airbnb owner. After spending Christmas with his family in La Higuera, way up in the mountains, she becomes part of a loving Spanish family, who adopt her without reservation.

Finally, at age 43, Sarah figures out how to have children and presents us with a perfect grandchild, Jeva.

It’s Christmas Eve. As a fire crackles in the hearth, Toni’s mother’s house fills with Jeva’s aunts, uncles, her great grandmother and the world’s dumbest Labrador. Anne and I are on the floor with Jeva, who is now, surprise, a bossy 2-year-old. She is sitting very contentedly in my lap as I read to her, for the 40th time this season, the adventures of Santa Bear. Soon, we sit down to shrimp croquettes, gazpachuelo (a rich fish soup creamy with mayonnaise), antequerano (cod with oranges) and an array of other traditional holiday dishes, washed down with sparkling Spanish cava. Standing up, I propose a toast to love and to family, a family that has adopted me and my loved ones — heart, soul and stomach.

I’ll Show You

I'LL SHOW YOU

I'll Show You

The magical aspect — and real-life pressures — of live entertainment

By Cynthia Adams     Portraits by Liz Nemeth

Ma Raineys Black Bottom, which opened at the Little Theatre of Winston-Salem February of last year, is where set designer Fatima Njie discovered how much fun it was to be involved in a process she calls “world building.” She made a checklist and pinned it to a vision board, filling in the details to complete Ma Rainey’s world. 

Sometimes Njie’s best ideas come at 2 a.m. — which is exactly what happened when, as an undergrad at UNCG, she worked on Dontrell, Who Kissed the Sea. “At 1:46 a.m., while at the computer,” she says. “Suddenly, I thought, ah, this.” 

And sometimes inspiration finds her while she settles in with a coffee, observing, “being around people going about their day.” Often, that’s at Camino Bakery in Winston-Salem, “where I can people-watch in peace.”

Odd moments inspire her, so Njie (pronounced “Jie” with a silent “N”) keeps a notepad handy. 

In fact, such random moments influenced her work last spring on a bare-bones-budget, teen production of Twelfth Night for Creative Greensboro and Shared Radiance.

Under creative director Chappell Upper, she had creative carte blanche, which thrilled her.

The vision for her set designs occurred last spring during a fly-on-the-wall moment. 

Sitting beside two women lost in conversation, “I was eavesdropping,” she admits. “One of them had just gotten engaged. I got to hear all her wedding plans. She was really happy. How she met him — it was all so great.” Njie, meantime, flashed to Twelfth Night, naturally, a play “in which everyone gets married.” 

Inspired, she set to work designing heart-shaped walls (staged at the Hyers Theater). “A house over here, and a house over there,” Njie describes. “One of the houses looked like a broken heart. Another house was a full heart.”

Taking artistic license, she reimagined Shakespeare’s play through the pop-art lens of modern romantic comedy.

“Especially with Olivia, who has lost her brother and her heart is broken,” Njie explains. “I depicted her home/set as incomplete.” All of which, she confesses, grew from eavesdropping on strangers.

If you’re young, ambitious and making theater your life’s work, which Njie is, you must rise to the moment, no matter what — and quickly — using every single resource to create a convincing world.

Sometimes, armed with little more than fabric, a glue gun, some paint, wood, nails and her imagination, Njie needed to manifest the best possible set. Regardless of the budget or project, her vision had to support the plot and the characters. To Njie, it was just another challenge posed by working offstage instead of onstage. Having consciously chosen behind-the-scenes work over acting and modeling, Njie realized that working in tech and design was just as creatively appealing as acting but also practical. “It not only paid more, but it was in more demand.”

No auditions and less uncertainty, too.

Today, Njie is a working designer for sets and lighting at Creative Greensboro (which calls itself Greensboro’s “office for arts and culture”) and assistant technical director for lighting and sound at Temple Theatre in Sanford. She is a calm, collected and resourceful 20-something who dresses like the model she once was. 

Wearing her hair down in loose curls with a black ensemble, including a long duster/coat and high-heeled boots, she easily looks the part of a posh character herself, ready to walk onstage.

In fact, she is a sometimes actor, but she is an aesthete who has proven her skills wielding an array of creative tools. While her work won’t be celebrated at curtain call, Njie invests weeks before opening night working with props and the various tools of stagecraft and artifice that conspire to make a production believable. 

For Twelfth Night, she transformed a sad-looking chaise. “I made a chair to go with it . . . it wasn’t that good,” she insists. But it worked and was used in later productions. 

These are early days for her budding career, but Njie is one to watch, according to Sherri Raeford, head of performing arts company Shared Radiance, who has worked with Njie on at least five productions. 

“She’s one of the most versatile theater artists you could meet,” praises Raeford. “I’ve worked with her as an actor, a hair designer, a stylist — in so many capacities — and she always does quality work.”

While a teen in Durham, Njie first tried on the nickname “Jewels,” a name she ditched by the time she entered college, adopting Fatima, a version of her given name Fatou (a popular West African name derived from Fatimah).

For good measure, Njie exchanged her middle name, “Secka,” for “Venus.”

Njie is unashamedly ambitious for her future, having earned a degree in media studies and theater from UNCG in 2022. 

Raeford mentions Njie’s 2024 nomination for a Broadway-World Charlotte Award for set design. As for which production, Njie had to think, given she easily creates six or seven in a single year. 

“It was for Then There Were None, the Agatha Christie work.” 

But now, Njie still thinks her best work so far was seen in Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom, a 2025 production of the Little Theatre of Winston-Salem directed by Tomeka Allen.

“I think that was my best work since Dontrell, Who Kissed the Sea.” 

Each set differs vastly. Her work on Romeo and Juliet at the Stephen D. Hyers Theatre in the Greensboro Cultural Center required sets to be minimal, heavily relying upon Njie’s lighting skills.

“With Ma Rainey, there was a much bigger space.” Her designs reflected that.

A fondness for painting and skills in photography and video editing add to her versatility. After all, she’d always possessed the creativity required for that work. “I liked painting, and had been painting since I was 2 years old.”

Before she was born, Njie’s family immigrated from The Gambia, a place where her mother’s own ambitions were tamped down and she became a stay-at-home mom. Born near Atlanta in Fulton County, Ga., her family moved to North Carolina, living first in Farmville and then Wilson. By sixth grade, Njie was completely taken with the world of drama.

Her mother wanted her “to be successful, because . . . she did have dreams and goals, but never went after them.” But Njie had defined goals which her mother nurtured, moving so that her daughter could attend better schools, ultimately to Durham. “Durham has a big theater, an arts community. A lot bigger than Wilson would have had.” 

“Man, I really liked being on stage and making people laugh and smile — and, you know, making an impact. Live entertainment has some sort of magical aspect to me.” 

By high school she began modeling, already imagining an acting career.

She found work at the Durham Performance Arts Center and a second job at a diner nearby but was laid off from both during the pandemic. “I loved that job [at the diner], too,” she recalls wistfully.

“I didn’t love modeling,” she says flatly. She was appalled by the “ridiculous standards to keep up with and how dangerous it can be.”

Nowadays she might miss a meal or two during a theatrical deadline — but not to meet an agent’s demands to be skinnier, Njie stresses.

Njie moved from the Triangle to study theater at UNCG. 

“Nobody knew what was going to happen to live entertainment,” she says. She chose to concentrate her energies upon the technical aspects of drama and media studies.

It was a practical decision that allowed her to use her various talents.

At UNCG, freelance designer Tab May became Njie’s mentor after seeing her work in September 2022 for Dontrell, Who Kissed the Sea. “He saw the set and said, ‘Wow, this is gorgeous!’” Njie beams. She felt pride in what she had done, posting on Facebook, “The curtain closes on Dontrell, Who Kissed the Sea. I can say with confidence this was the best set design I’ve ever done, because it’s the first.”

“I didn’t eat for 26 hours trying to finish everything on time. I worked hard,” she says, putting every skill she had into bringing the story to life.

Later, May supported Njie’s interest in filling his old job at Creative Greensboro when he left to work in technical design in Winston-Salem, introducing her to Todd Fisher, performing arts coordinator at Creative Greensboro.

“I never had an interview,” recalls Njie. “I sent Tab my cover letter. A week later, I learned I was welcomed to the team.” May’s endorsement, it turns out, was enough.

The role at Creative Greensboro became Njie’s first “official” job in set designing. 

Young enough to understand the difficulty in getting a professional footing, Njie keeps close to other young theater hopefuls. She volunteers as a lead practitioner on workshops for teens interested in the arts, a joint project of Shared Radiance, which adapts and stages Shakespearian dramas for youth productions, and Creative Greensboro

“Pop art is fun,” Njie says. 

For many theater goers, the set itself becomes a leading character. She lights up at the idea. “That is a compliment!” 

At Temple, where she enjoys working with technical director Austin Hendrick, she’s gearing up for a spring show. “My next design will be Bright Star . . . kind of close to my heart. It made me cry and I’m not a crier,” she says. 

As always, Njie “will live and breathe that show until it is over. Theater is just like that.”

Each show teaches her something new, a trick, hack, or something they don’t tell you in school. Valuable information from “being in the real world, as they say.” 

As for her dreams, funnily, “they change a lot.” When “young-young,” Njie wanted to join a touring company. Or Saturday Night Live, but she decided she wasn’t funny enough.

“But now, I think I’m in the place where I have my support system. There’s something for me here,” she says happily. “Companies and people I like working with.”   

And she has added a new dream, “a grand dream of restoring Creative Greensboro to its former glory . . . pre-COVID.” Not single-handedly, she adds, but she wants to play a supportive part in a huge comeback. 

Meanwhile, Bright Star, written by Steve Martin and Edie Brickell, will open at the Temple in April.   

“The story is about family — and that is a subject that is close to my heart — set in two time periods. A woman having a child out of wedlock is looked down upon,” Njie continues. As with her other productions, Njie’s honing her craft. Her goal with this one — and with every subsequent show? “I want to not just be good, but be the best.” 

I’ll show you, which is kind of how I approach it,” Njie says, rising up from her chair with a former model’s poise. 

Who would doubt her

Simple Life

SIMPLE LIFE

The Man in the Mirror

And the power of a slow and careful shave

By Jim Dodson

A couple months ago, somewhat out of the blue, I had a small awakening.

I decided to shave the way my father did on every morning of his life — a slow and careful ritual performed at the bathroom sink, facing himself in the mirror.

Sounds a bit silly, I know. But rather than shave quickly in the shower with a disposable razor as I’d done since college, purely in the interest of saving time and getting on to work, life and whatever else the day held, it occurred to me that my dad might have been on to something important.

As a little kid in the late 1950s, you see, I sometimes sat on the closed toilet seat chatting with him as he performed his morning shaving routine. I have no memory of things we talked about, but do remember how he sometimes hummed (badly, I must note — the result of a natural tin ear) and once recited a ditty I recall to this day.

“Between the cradle and the grave, Jimmy, lies but a haircut and a shave.”

For years, I thought this bit of mortal whimsy was original with him, an adman with a poet’s heart, only to learn that it was really something he picked up from an old Burgess Meredith film.

No matter. His shaving routine utterly enthralled me. He began by filling the sink with steaming hot water and washing his face, holding a hot cloth against his skin. Next, he would pat his face dry with a towel and apply shaving cream in a slow, circular motion with a soft-bristled brush from a mug of soap he’d worked into a lather. I can still hear the faint swipe of his razor as it did its job.

As he aged, he abandoned the brush and mug in favor of an aerosol can of shaving cream, simply for convenience. But he never gave up his old-style “safety” razor that he used till the end of his days.

Watching him shave almost felt like observing a holy act. And maybe to him, it was.

During our final trip to England and Scotland in 1995, we had nine wonderful days of golf and intimate conversations. My dad’s cancer had returned, and he didn’t have long to live, but to look at him go at that moment you never would have guessed it.

During one of our last evenings in St Andrews, I remarked how curious it was that he still used his old-fashioned “safety” razor.

He smiled and explained, “With this kind of razor you must take your time. I always found shaving a good moment to look at the old fellow in the mirror and ask myself, so who are you? And what small thing can you do today for someone in this big and troubled world?”

I wasn’t the least bit surprised to hear him say this. My nickname for my dad — as I’ve mentioned before — was “Opti the Mystic,” owing to his knack for doing small acts of kindness for strangers. With several mates from the Sunday School class he moderated for a couple decades, for example, he helped establish a feeding ministry that is going strong to this day. 

Another time, as I recounted in my book Final Rounds, he picked me up from guitar practice with a depressed and drunken Santa in his car. He’d found the poor man wandering around his office’s empty parking lot, threatening to shoot himself during the holidays. We took him to a local diner and fed him a good meal so he could sober up a bit. Then, we drove him home to his tiny house on the east side of town. As he got out of our car, Opti discreetly slipped him a $50 bill and suggested that he buy his wife something nice for Christmas. The man thanked my dad, looked at me and growled, “You’re [effing] lucky, kid, to have an old man like this, a real Southern gentleman. Merry Christmas.” 

I was indeed. But frankly, it wasn’t always easy having a dad who cheerfully spoke to everyone he met and never seemed to lose his cool in any situation. Another time, I came home from college to find that my mom had impulsively given 10 grand out of their savings to a “needy young woman” at the Colonial grocery store. I was incredulous and wondered why she did this, pointing out that the woman was probably just a con artist.

“Because your father would have done the same thing,” she calmly answered.

“True,” Opti chipped with a wry smile. “Just not that much.”

As we sipped an expensive brandy Winston Churchill had reportedly preferred during the war on that distant night in Scotland, I reminded him of the famous Colonial store giveaway and the good laugh we shared over it for years. 

The story brought home to me how much I was going to miss this very good man. He then told me something that raised a big lump to my throat.

“When your granddad was dying, he asked me to give him a proper shave so he would look presentable when he met his maker.”

My late grandfather — whose name, Walter, I share — was a simple working man of the outdoors who probably only darkened the doorway of a church a few times in his life. Yet he wanted to meet his maker clean-shaven. 

“So, I gave him a nice, slow shave. He even asked for a bit of spice aftershave. It made him happy. He died peacefully a day or so later.”

We sipped our brandy in silence. “Maybe someday,” Opti remarked, almost as a second thought, “you can do the same for me.”

By this point, I could barely speak. I simply nodded.

Five months later, on a sleety March night, I did just that.

Which may explain why, as I approach the age Opti was when we made our journey together, the idea of carefully shaving in front of the bathroom mirror suddenly seemed like a good thing to do in these days of such social turmoil and chaos.

And so, for my birthday this month, I gave myself a new chrome Harry’s razor and took up the slow shaving ritual I’ve known about since I was knee-high to a bathroom sink.

Most mornings, I now find myself facing the man in the mirror, asking what small thing can I do today to makes someone’s life a little better?

It’s only a start. I’m nowhere near Opti’s level of grace yet. But I find myself frequently smiling in the grocery store and offering kind words to complete strangers. I’m even driving with greater courtesy in traffic.

Someday, hopefully many years from now, I may need to ask my son or daughter to give me a slow, final shave before I meet my maker.

Or maybe I’ll ask my brand-new granddaughter to handle the job when she’s grown up a bit. 

Whoever it is, the man in the mirror will be deeply, and forever, grateful. 

Life’s Funny

LIFE'S FUNNY

Phone Home?

No problem — if I can find it

By Maria Johnson

Because my husband, Jeff, and I are happily in a phase of life when we’re done with climbing ladders — both the corporate and the gutter-cleaning kinds — people will sometimes ask us, “How do spend your time?”

That’s easy: We look for our cell phones.

A lot.

So much so that we’re considering getting a landline again just so we can call our misplaced mobile phones.

Either that, or I’m gonna tape an oversized silk flower to my phone, like they do with pens at a bank.

Side note: If you still enjoy walking into a bank, pouring a jar of pennies into a coin-counting machine and feeling rich when you walk out with $12 in paper money, we could be friends.

More on this later. Back to the phone story.

Thank goodness, Jeff and I usually lose our cell phones one at a time, often while the other person is home.

Take the other day.

There we were, sitting in his upstairs office, sipping coffee and talking about our plans for the day, which, at that idyllic point, did not include spending a good chunk of the morning looking for my phone.

Mainly because I was holding my phone, glancing at my texts.

Then I decided to be more “present.”

Sigh.

See, we sometimes get on each other’s nerves by looking at our phones while the other one is talking. I know. It sucks. Especially when you’re the one who’s doing the talking.

Not so much when you’re “listening.”

Anyway, I realized that I was paying more attention to my friend’s text recommending a podcast called Dogs of Chernobyl than to what Jeff was saying, so I set my phone aside to focus on his words.

“Mmmm-hmmm,” I affirmed.

“I seeeee,” I validated.

“Gotcha,” I mirrored.

The next thing I know, I’m getting ready for the day, and I can’t find my phone.

Here, I would like to say that I don’t spend anywhere near the amount of time that the average American woman my age spends on her phone, which is . . . standby while I look this up on my (spoiler alert) phone … five hours and 17 minutes a week.

My weekly screen time is . . . hold on while I look this up, too.

Hmm.

Never mind. Not important.

What’s important is that I had a busy day ahead of me, but I couldn’t tell exactly how I was going to be busy without consulting the calendar on my phone.

Plus, how was I going to listen to Dogs of Chernobyl in the gym?

So, I did the most common-sense thing: I remembered the last time I had my phone — in Jeff’s office — and I returned to the scene.

Jeff was sitting at his desk, calmly working away, as if no crisis were unfolding.

I looked at the couch. No phone.

I felt between the cushions.

No phone.

I crawled around on the floor, looking under the couch.

No phone.

“Have you seen my phone?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

I retraced my steps. Office to bedroom to bathroom.

Bathroom to bedroom to office.

I closed the loop.

No phone.

“I’ll call it,” Jeff offered.

I appreciated his help, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. My ringer was turned off, mainly because during the daytime I’m swamped with audio alerts from my Mom’s indoor security cameras.

In case you don’t know, these wireless contraptions are truly miraculous, and very helpful in keeping aging parents safe. But they tend to overshare. The cameras, that is.

Hence the silent phone.

But no worries. We had a backup plan for my phone.

“Could you use your Find My app to look it up?” I asked Jeff.

He did.

Twice before, this feature — which allows you to track another device — had helped us locate my phone, which I had dropped while hiking in the woods.

Fact: It’s fairly easy to spot a large lavender phone lying on top of leaves beside a trail.

But this time, on Find My, the gray dot representing my phone covered half the outline of our house.

Which meant a lot more potential hiding places.

For the sake of space, I will condense the next hour of our lives into a cartoon. You know the Family Circle comic where the mom asks Billy to go next door to tell Dolly it’s time for dinner, and the next frame shows Billy’s footprints all over the neighborhood, through swing sets and see-saws and hopscotch grids, before landing at the neighbor’s house?

Well, that was us.

Like tourists in a big city, following GPS “walking directions” by turning this way and that, waiting for the satellite to catch up and move their arrow in the right direction, we wandered through the house, delicately holding Jeff’s phone in front of us, following it like a magical beacon.

“I feel like a water witch with a divining rod,” Jeff said.

“Shhh!” I whispered, as if my iPhone might hear us and scurry away. “Look! We’re moving.”

My phone’s gray dot hovered near a wall that separated two rooms.

We searched both rooms.

Even though I was fairly certain I had not gone downstairs, we searched there, too, because the gray dot did not indicate which floor it was on.

Times like this, you realize how far you will go, trying to make a story make sense.

I found myself looking in my sock drawer.

In my nightstand.

In the laundry basket.

Inside the flippin’ dog food bin, for gawd sakes.

“Well, I don’t remember stirring the salmon and rice kibble with my iPhone, but you never know. I mean, the dot says you’re right here.”

Finally, I gave up and announced that I was going to the gym without my phone.

“If you find it . . . don’t call me,” I said, forlorn. “I’ll be in the gym, watching Stephen A. Smith with no sound.”

Side note: Watching ESPN’s First Take commentator Stephen A. Smith with no sound is almost as much fun as watching him with sound. Almost.

While I was out, I announced, I would run a few errands, including picking up some brackets to mount a wall hanging. I walked into a bedroom at the other end of the house to double-check the size of the wall hanging.

Yep.

There it was.

On the bed.

Next to the wall hanging.

My iPhone.

Obviously I had gone in there, at some point, after talking to Jeff that morning. I probably needed to lie down because I was so exhausted from being “present.”

Anyway, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

“AHA!” I shouted from our older son’s childhood room. “Found it!”

“Where?” Jeff called from his office.

“In John’s room,” I hollered.

A few seconds passed. I knew Jeff was calculating.

“That app is not accurate inside of 30 or 40 feet,” he said.

“Mmm-hmmm,” I said absentmindedly, following my friend’s link to Dogs of Chernobyl.

A few more seconds ticked by.

Any second, I thought, he would walk into the room with his iPhone to test his theory.

Instead, I heard a plea.

“Do me a favor?” he said.

“Sure,” I replied.

“Call my iPhone?”

Life’s Funny

LIFE'S FUNNY

Not-So-Mad Scientist

Get ready for a dose of Doktor Kaboom!

By Maria Johnson

The energy level in the room rises as an effusive man sporting a spiky, bleached-blond hairdo, bug-eyed welder’s goggles and a bright-orange lab coat tromps around stage, whipping up the crowd.

“YAH???” he hollers to the assembly.

“YAH!!!” the audience roars back.

It’s the kind of joyful call-and-response you might expect to hear at a tent revival, but the leader is not a pastor; he’s Doktor Kaboom, the kooky-looking scientist character created by Charlotte native and UNCG alum David Epley.

This month, Epley — who haunted the area around Tate Street as a student in the ’80s — will bring Kaboom to Greensboro’s Carolina Theatre.

Alexandra Arpajian, who is relatively new as the theater’s executive director, booked Epley’s act because she thought it would fit Greensboro’s family-friendly vibe. The show also matches her plan for the historic venue.

“Part of the mission of being a nonprofit is to develop the next generation, not just as theater goers, but as empathetic children who are ready to go into society,” says Arpajian, who also happens to be the mom of a 4-year-old daughter.

Her goal jibes with Epley’s knack for wrapping important life lessons in a veneer of playfulness. He instructs audiences to yell “Kaboom!” back at him whenever he bellows the word. The result is a chain reaction of silliness.

“KABOOM!”

“KABOOM!”

“It’s a verbal explosion of the character’s passion,” says Epley, a thoughtful and articulate guy who explains his alter ego in a telephone interview as he drives between gigs in Colorado.

“It’s really fun because, half the time, someone in the audience yells, ‘Kaboom!’ before I do.”

At 59, Epley is glad to return to the state where he was born, never mind that his Wikipedia page says he was born in Germany. That error is a testament to the believability of his character, who speaks with a German accent and assures the audience that he hails from the Rhineland.

In fact, Epley, whose heritage is mostly English and Scottish, was born into a middle-class family in Charlotte. His mom was the personnel manager of a large printing company. His dad was a photographer.

Meanwhile, Epley was in the basement, fiddling with chemistry sets, taking apart mechanical devices and putting them back together. In high school, he was one of the “smart kids.” Teachers flagged him as a prospect for the then-new North Carolina School of Science and Mathematics in Durham.

Epley spent his junior and senior years at the school for advanced students. There, he took rigorous classes from Ph.D.-level teachers.

“It was a wonderful, magical gift from the state of North Carolina to the students who went there,” Epley says, noting that many of the school’s alumni have gone on to prestigious careers in the arts and sciences.

Bored by one class, he and some classmates made up funny personas and attended class as their characters. Afterward, they roamed campus, still in character. Some teachers did not appreciate the comic relief. Others loved it.

“A lot of people just wanted to support whatever artistic expression these weird little kids were coming up with,” he says. “That’s where I found out that I really loved performing.”

After graduating and logging a stint in the Army Reserve, he headed to UNCG to study chemistry with the idea of transferring to Duke University or N.C. State for biomedical engineering.

A funny thing happened on the way to the lab.

Epley took some acting classes in UNCG’s renowned drama department.

“I knew nothing about acting I just knew that I was enjoying it,” says Epley, whose after-class memories include eating at New York Pizza, hanging out at a bar called The Last Act and working at Crocodile’s Cafe, all along Tate Street.

He switched majors and graduated with a bachelor’s degree in fine arts. Then and now, he scoffs at the idea that people who are good scientists can’t be good artists and vice versa.

That belief, he says, has made programs devoted to STEM — science, technology, engineering and math — fall short of their potential over the last 20 years because the best scientists are also creative thinkers.

“STEM is a lovely thing to focus on, but we’ll end up with a nation of lab technicians,” he says. “If we support creativity, then we become a nation of innovators.”

It took Epley a while to figure out how to blend art and science into a career.

For nearly 20 years, he and a troupe of comic actors known as Theater in the Ground traveled the country performing at Renaissance festivals.

“Imagine the Marx Brothers doing Beowulf,” he says.

He grew more serious about comedy when he became a father in his late 30s. He needed more income, a show he could manage by himself and a shtick that would fill performance halls.

That’s when he invented Kaboom, the embodiment of his first love, science, combined with his second love, stagecraft.

To prepare, Epley listened to hours of native German speakers on compact discs. He honed his character on the streets of Oswego, N.Y., during the Sterling Renaissance Festival.

After one performance, an older lady stayed to talk with Epley, who remained in character.

“After about 40 minutes, she goes, ‘I’m talking to you because my father was German, and he passed away when I was in my 30s, and I hadn’t heard his voice again until today.’”

The thought of that encounter still gives Epley goosebumps today. But the interaction that really hit home happened a few years into Kaboom’s road show.

He brought a kid on stage and began his usual patter.

“You’re a smart kid, yah?!” He asked.

The kid replied no, that he wasn’t smart.

Epley dropped to his knees and looked directly at the boy.

“I said, ‘You are smart. That’s why I picked you. I can see it in your eyes.’” he recalls.

Then Epley turned to the crowd: “Listen, if anyone ever asks you if you’re smart or creative or clever, don’t say no. Look them right in the eye and say, “YAH!” I worked with that boy until he was saying that and meant it . . . That’s when I learned I could do more than science and humor. I could teach empowerment. If I hadn’t found that, I probably wouldn’t still be doing this. That’s the aspect that brings me the most joy.”

Of course, there’s a strong dose of education in Epley’s show.

Kaboom talks about the importance of the scientific method, of testing hypotheses, of getting repeatable results. He uses everyday chemicals and oversized props to make things fizz, whiz, foam and pop. He uses a slingshot and a banana to great effect. A demonstration with dry ice yields a “controlled explosion.”

Inspired by the challenges that students faced during COVID, Epley’s latest show, which is titled Under Pressure, demonstrates how pressure can be channeled — both physically and emotionally — to make positive things happen in science and life.

Commissioned by the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, where Epley took the stage as Kaboom last year, the production is being pitched to streaming apps as a family-centered comedy special.

His shows are aimed at students in grades three through eight, but his comedy has drawn kudos as entertainment for all ages.

Comedian Dave Chappelle, who was once a neighbor of Epley’s young family in Yellow Springs, Ohio, took his children to Kaboom shows, and he supplied a glowing blurb before Epley’s first appearance at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in Scotland.

“We watched our neighbor transform into this incredible character,” writes Chappelle. “He was funny! And fun for the whole family.”

Epley believes his current show represents his best work, which comes at the right moment in U.S. history.

“I think science is being disregarded,” he says. “Television and talking heads have created doubt in people’s minds about expertise, which I think is absolutely damaging the country . . . So I really think what I do is timely and important. We’re all in this boat together, so let’s paddle in the same direction.”

Yah?

Yah. 

Poem January 2026

POEM

The Other Side of the Mirror

“Let’s pretend the glass has got all soft like gauze . . .
And certainly the glass was beginning to melt away,
just like a bright silvery mist.”

    — Lewis Caroll, Through the Looking Glass

 

There’s always a reason I’d rather stay home,

as I brush my hair, gaze into my reflection, sit

before the dresser where I combed my curls

as a girl, forever getting ready for the life

that hadn’t arrived yet. Mirrors remained

unfazed, as I exchanged one image for another,

changed my hairstyles and hats, traced fingers

along a scar, abandoned myself for imperfections.

I have come close to escaping into another world,

always about to leave or about to live, my eyes

child-like, clear as glass, considering what time

it must be . . . to keep from disappearing

into my own unbreakable stare.

— Linda Annas Ferguson

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

Cold Customers

Return of the dark-eyed juncos

By Susan Campbell

“The snowbirds are back!” No, not the thin-blooded retirees: They won’t be back until spring. These are the little black-and-white sparrowlike birds that appear under feeders when the mercury dips here in central North Carolina. They can be found in flocks, several dozen strong in some places. And, in spite of what you might think, they are far from dependent on bird seed in winter.

Dark-eyed juncos are a diverse and widely distributed species. Six populations are recognized across the U.S., Canada and Mexico. Slight but noticeable variations in appearance constitute the difference in these populations. Some have white wing bars while others sport a reddish back and the birds in the high elevations of the Rockies are recognized by extensive pinkish feathering on their flanks. Our eastern birds are known as “slate-colored juncos” for their dark brown to gray feathering. They are accustomed to cold temperatures whether in summer or winter. As with most migrant songbirds, their migratory behavior is based on food availability, not weather. Flocks will fly southward, stopping where they find abundant grasses and forbs. They will continue on once the food plants have been stripped of seed.

Dark-eyed juncos can be found throughout North America at different times of the year. During the breeding season, juncos are seen at high elevation across the boreal forests nesting in thick evergreens. Our familiar slate-colored variety breeds as close as the high elevations of the Appalachians. You can find them easily around Blowing Rock and Boone year-round. These nonmigrants actually have shorter wingspans as a result of their sedentary existence. Watch for male juncos advertising their territories up high in fir or spruce trees. They will utter sharp chirps and may string together a series of rapid call notes that sound like the noise emitted by a “phaser” of Star Trek fame.

In winter, flocks congregate in open and brushy habitats. Juncos are distinguished from other sparrows by their clean markings: dark heads with small, pale, conical bills, pale bellies and white outer tail feathers. Females have a browner wash and less of a demarcation between belly and breast than males. They hop around and feed on small seeds close to ground level. Some individuals can be quite tame once they become familiar with a specific place and particular people. Juncos do communicate frequently, using sharp trills to keep the flock together. They will not hesitate to dive for deep cover when alarmed.

So, the next time you come upon a flock along the roadside or notice juncos under your feeder, take a close look. These little birds will be with us only a few months, until day length begins to increase and they head back to the boreal forests from whence they came.

Wandering Billy

WANDERING BILLY

This Girl Is On Fire

Kennedy Caughell brings heat to Hell’s

By Billy Ingram

“The road is there. It will always be there. You just have to decide when to take it.” ― Chris Humphrey

It’s becoming increasingly commonplace for leading actors in the Tanger Center’s Broadway Series productions to have significant local community connections. In November 2024, UNCG graduate D. Jerome infused heart and soul into The Wiz’s Tin Man and, earlier last year, Elon University alum Fergie Philippe proved roaringly romantic in Beauty and the Beast’s mane role.

One of Broadway’s brightest luminaries, Kennedy Caughell, 35, former Oklahoma farm gal who’s become another incendiary lit locally, alights into town next month in New York’s hottest property, Hell’s Kitchen. In its very first season, Hip-hop hitmaker Alicia Keys’ semi-biographical coming-of-age musical garnered an astonishing 13 Tony Award nominations and was a boffo box-office smash from day one.

Caughell’s portrayal of Jersey, emotionally embattled matriarch of the Keys-inspired character Ali’s family, is reaping rave reviews. In Chicago: “A powerful portrayal by Kennedy Caughell;” in Cleveland: “Caughell impresses again and again in big, emotionally impactful moments and with powerhouse vocal efforts;” in Pittsburgh: “The woman can belt! She crushes every musical number, especially ‘Pawn It All.’” You get the idea.

Her cruise across The Great White Way began, oddly enough, on Broadway. “My mom brought both me and my sister to New York,” Caughell recalls about her elementary school epiphany. “Annie was playing on Broadway at the time. Mom says I turned to her at intermission and said, ‘I could do that!’” Coincidence that her first professional acting job at 8-and-a-half years old was hamming it up in Annie? Starting in a supporting role, she soon took the lead. (This would kick off a recurring pattern.)

When consideration for college came, Caughell selected Elon University. “It was on the list of top 10 musical theater programs in the country,” she explains. “My mom and I visited to audition and I just fell in love with the place. It was so beautiful.” Situated between Greensboro and Burlington, Elon is known for exemplary acting, dancing and vocal training. “I feel like I really got a good ‘triple-threat’ training there. They encourage originality because that’s really what gets you hired as leads in the business, what makes you unique.”

Class of ’12 grad Caughell says, “I had a job before I even left college.” Discovered by Jillian Samini, she was cast as the jilted pregnant girlfriend Heather, one of the three female leads in the international Broadway tour of Billie Joe Armstrong’s and Michael Mayer’s American Idiot, which expands on the storyline delineated in the Green Day album of the same name. “I remember graduating, then, the next day, I was on a plane [to the United Kingdom] headed to the first day of rehearsal.” Her solo was a zippy, angst-free arrangement of “Dearly Beloved.” American Idiot’s Ireland/UK tour culminated after four months at London’s HMV Hammersmith Apollo, leading into the show’s second stateside run, which ended in the summer of 2013.

No rest for the wicked, you say? The next year, Caughell was swept into the twisted world of Wicked, broomsticking across the nation for two years as a member of the ensemble while understudying that wickedest of witches, Elphaba. “I would love to return to Wicked and play a full stint as Elphaba one day,” Caughell says.

In 2016, she made her Broadway debut in Natasha, Pierre & The Great Comet of 1812 alongside two other Broadway neophytes, Denée Benton and Josh Groban, understudying two supporting characters that she eventually stepped into. Following the folding of that show, she pirouetted into Broadway’s Beautiful: The Carole King Musical in February 2018 as King’s childhood friend, Betty, while at the same time understudying three roles, including the titular star.

During rehearsals, Caughell became acquainted with King. “An example of yes, you can meet your heroes and they exceed your expectations,” she says of the Grammy Hall-of-Famer who wrote or co-wrote 118 hit songs. “She walks in and lights up a room and everyone just feels peaceful and joyful around her.” In 2019, she hit the road with Beautiful, occasionally called on to channel Carole King under the spotlight. Her fave number? “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman,” natch.

All About Eve aside, it’s exceedingly rare for understudies to emerge from the wings and assume the leading role for the run of a major show. “When they asked me to take over on the road, how could I say no?” Crooning Carole King’s compositions is an absolute joy for her. “Her style is very set and driven like a glockenspiel. It all sits in a really warm part of my voice.” Don’t you just love the way performers speak?

Broadway’s bright lights beckoned again in 2022 for Paradise Square, a star-crossed production that, despite an impressive 10 Tony nominations, resulted in a truncated time on the boards beset by backstage back-stabbery and a recorded but unreleased original cast soundtrack.

Which brings us to the present, where, in the role of Hell’s Kitchen’s Jersey, Caughell portrays an overly-protective single mother raising a street-level prodigy navigating life in a turbulent mid-1990s New York City. “She loves her daughter fiercely — she works two jobs so that she can give her a better life.” Caughell says of her character, who is overwhelmed by conflicts and consequences related to “what happens when love goes out of alignment and leans toward controlling. And what it means to be a mother and learn to let Ali grow up.” 

From tech rehearsals through opening nights and beyond, writer/producer Alicia Keys was very much present in mounting both the Broadway and touring companies. “She had a big hand in casting each and every one of us,” Caughell points out. “It’s very evident how much heart and connection she feels to this show and it’s so wonderful to have somebody like her at the helm, just leading with grace and peace.” Keys is known to surreptitiously slip into seats along the tour route, even offering notes afterward, “but that’s a good thing, right? She’s really good at steering us in the right direction.”

Again succumbing to that siren call of the open road, Caughell says, “I’m missing a lot of family events with my niece and nephew right now. There’s a lot we sacrifice that people don’t realize.” Remaining centered and in peak form is a priority. “You’re kind of in an isolated bubble where everyone has to find their own pathway.” Of former Elon classmate and rising Broadway star Fergie Philippe, wheels up under similar circumstances, she says, “We text on a regular basis — he’s a wonderful human being.”

While Caughell loves exploring new cities, there’s the delight that comes from reengaging with familiar faces in faraway places. Edging closer to the Triad, she says, “I’m looking forward to seeing all of my professors and visiting the campus at Elon. It’s been years since I’ve had time to come back and visit, so I’m excited.”

Granted, it’s a hard knock life nightly for her tempest-tossed character in Hell’s Kitchen, but, for Kennedy Caughell herself, the sun’ll come out tomorrow… in Cincinnati, St. Louis, Greenville, Durham and, on February 24, in Greensboro prior to opening night at Tanger, where no doubt she’ll shine like the top of the Chrysler Building.

Simple Life

SIMPLE LIFE

My Own Soulful Green Books

Food for the journey ahead

By Jim Dodson

I’m often asked by readers where I find my ideas to write about each month.

“It’s simple,” I reply. “Life.” Hence the title of this column.

It helps, however, that I also have what I call my “Green Books.” Not the historic Green Book that served as a guide to safe places for accommodations and food for traveling African Americans in the mid-1900s South.

Mine are something very personal: four leather journals, several with cracked bindings from age, that I began half a century ago. In their pages, I’ve recorded memorable quotes, funny observations and the wisdom of others who graciously provided food for the journey ahead.

Today, four such books anchor my writing desk and library shelves, crammed full of helpful words — some famous, others anonymous, comical, spiritual or plain common sense — a resource I turn to when life seems out of whack, or I simply need a shot of humor or optimism to face the moment. 

A new year strikes me as the perfect time to share some of my all-time favorites.

“I fear the day that technology will surpass our human interaction. The world, as a result, will have a generation of idiots.” – Albert Einstein

OK. Had to put this one out first because I’m a confirmed Luddite who writes his books with an ink pen and can only function on a computer with proper adult supervision, meaning my wife, Wendy, a techno-whiz. Recently heard a “Super” AI “expert” warn that “living authors” will eventually be a thing of the past. That’s a world I don’t wish to live in.   

“I knew when I met you an adventure was going to happen.” – from Winnie-the-Pooh by A.A. Milne

This gem hung with an illustration of Pooh, Piglet and Eeyore on my childhood bedroom wall. Stop and think for a moment about the amazing people you didn’t know until they unexpectedly, perhaps miraculously, stepped into your life — and a new adventure began.

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your wild and precious life?” – From “The Summer Day” by Mary Oliver

This timeless poetic question hung on a banner over my daughter Maggie’s beautiful autumn wedding three years ago at her childhood summer camp in Maine. It’s one we all must invariably answer, even late in life. Especially late in life.

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.” – from Walden: or Life in the Woods by Henry David Thoreau, poet, naturalist, Transcendental rock star.

I discovered — and memorized — this stanza in Miss Emily Dickenson’s English Lit class in 1970 (by the way, her real name). So moved by it, I vowed to someday retreat to the northern woods. Looking back, I think it partially explains why I built my house on a forested hilltop in Maine. That gold-and-green woodland enchanted my children and their papa, a would-be transcendentalist who has learned more from the solitude of the forest than in any city on Earth.

“There will be a time when you think everything is finished. That will be the beginning.” – Louis L’Amour, Western novelist

Useful advice for those of us anxious about the fate of American democracy.

“Solvitur ambulando.” Translation: It is solved by walking.
St. Augustine

Amazing what a good walk around the block or hike through the woods can do to calm the mind, work out a solution or simply remind one how life’s ever-changing landscape can clear away the cobwebs.

“Stop looking at yourself and begin looking into yourself. Life is an inside job.”

Someone once said this to me, but I can’t remember who. I sometimes remind myself of this when I’m shaving in the morning and see myself in the mirror, often followed by a second observation: I thought getting older would take more time.

“If something is lost, quit searching for it. It will find its way back to you.”

Sage advice passed along from a longtime golf pal’s mama. I’ve found it works splendidly with misplaced car keys, eyeglasses, wallets, (most) golf balls and missing Christmas candy. Not so much with politics or old romances.

“The meal is the essential act of life. It is the habitual ceremony, the long record of marriage, the school for behavior, the prelude to love. Among all peoples and in all times, every significant event in life — be it wedding, triumph, or birth — is marked by a meal or the sharing of food and drink. The meal is the emblem of civilization.” – James and Kay Salter, from Life Is Meals: A Food Lover’s Book of Days

A well-loved book in our household, one every food lover should own, a gloriously entertaining volume chock full of quirky, fun and extraordinary gems about the origins and traditions of food, drink and fellowship at the table.

“In an age of speed, I began to think, nothing could be more invigorating than going slow. In an age of distraction, nothing could feel more luxurious than paying attention. And, in an age of constant motion, nothing is more urgent than sitting still.” – from The Art of Stillness: Adventures in Going Nowhere by Pico Iyer

This note from this wise little book pretty much summarizes my personal ambition for 2026 — to go slower, to pay closer attention, to sit still as often as possible.

“Modern American society is marked by a high degree of mobility, a decline in voluntary civic activities, and an emphasis on rights (i.e. what others owe me). The result is rootlessness and detachment from family and friends. Higher crime rates, chiefly among youth, show a strong statistical correlation with lack of self-control. And moral disputes are often marked by dogmatism, the inability or unwillingness to see the moral force behind another point of view. In response, the possibilities for improvement include (1) reinvigorating our civic associations, (2) developing and inculcating self-control, and (3) demanding higher levels of mutual respect and tolerance in the way we speak to and treat one another.” – from Civility & Community by Brian Schrag

May you all have a safe and much more civil New Year. I leave you with one of my favorite wisdoms from my books:

“Do not be afraid, for I am with you. From wherever you come, I will lead you home.” – Isaiah 43:5

Dream Home

DREAM HOME

Dream Home

A Loewenstein lives on in Irving Park

By Billy Ingram • Photographs by Amy Freeman

When newlyweds Daniel and Kathy Craft set out in search of their dream home, one both idealized yet narrowly defined, it may have seemed like that impossible dream enshrined in song. What they had in mind was a place that offered a warm hearth and an enriching environment where they could raise a family, but the type of home they desired wasn’t being built anymore, and the remaining ones were being eradicated at an alarming rate. They were longing for a Loewenstein.

In those rare instances when Triad realtors happen across a listing for a “Loewenstein,” the name is spoken in revered tones. There were other mid-century architects crafting magnificent homes locally and across the Southeast, celebrated artists held in just as high regard — Charles C. Hartmann and Harry Barton being obvious options — but for sweeping super-structures limited solely by one’s imagination and, only occasionally, the laws of gravity, Edward Loewenstein was, and remains, in a class unto himself.

The unfolding of the 1950s ushered in an era of unprecedented prosperity buoyed by an abundance of unrealized real estate, an atmosphere where there could be no greater testimony to a family’s success than the home they had designed and constructed for themselves. And no address came packaged with more prestige for platforming those affluent architectural assertions than a cautiously expanding Irving Park neighborhood street encircling the Greensboro Country Club, established in 1909.

A disciple of the Modernist movement typified by Frank Lloyd Wright, Richard Neutra and other avant-garde West Coast architects, Edward Loewenstein graduated from Chicago’s Deerfield Shields High School and MIT with a B.A. in architecture in 1935. He established his Greensboro architectural firm in 1946 after having served during WWII and marrying Francis Stern, stepdaughter to denim impresario Julius Cone. He was determined to break away from the Arts and Crafts, Mission Colonial and Tudor Revivals going up north of downtown.

After completing a dozen or so conventional dwellings, as luck would have it, he was approached in 1950 by a young couple, Wilbur and Martha Carter, who had three children and a hankering for a homestead that would instill an air of distinction on their heavily wooded, 1.28-acre lot facing Country Club Drive and extending back to Cornwallis.

Given a choice between two wildly divergent designs, one a Georgian Revival fitting snugly into the neighborhood’s stately but somewhat staid motif, the Carters chose the more radical schematic Loewenstein presented them with. “I think there were other houses in Greensboro that had Modernist tendencies, but it seemed he was the only one at the time that was [dedicated to] it,” says Patrick Lee Lucas, author of the definitive book on Greensboro’s Modernist maestro: Modernism at Home: Edward Loewenstein’s Mid-Century Architectural Innovation in the Civil Rights Era.

Following the precepts of international modern style, the Carters’ house was defined by a flat roof, an open floor plan, curtain windows and minimal ornamentation. Architects of the time were guided by the “rule” that “form follows function,” which prompted designers to consider what a building should achieve for the user before what it should look like. Blueprints called for a horizontal, L-shaped structure fronted with a low-pitched roof atop a screened (eventually glass) solarium, which featured bluestone flooring that stretched into the central living room. Obscuring an already sunken, single-leaf front door, an 8-foot-high brick wall extended from the front yard into the home for a short way to distinguish the bedroom corridor from communal space.

Toward the rear, hidden storage and built-in bookshelves abounded, and at the base of the windows inside the den a brick planter was enclosed. Back-to-back fireplaces were embedded in a load bearing wall facing both the living room and den. The spacious kitchen was floored in 9-by-9-inch, brown-and-marble-patterned, vinyl-asbestos tiles made by Armstrong. Employing industrial-use tiles and natural stone floors indoors were uncommon home accoutrement. The children’s rooms were connected via a Jack-and-Jill bathroom.

Rather than clearcutting, as was the custom, all of the imposing oaks on the property remained in place. “Loewenstein seemed particularly adept at using underutilized lots in Irving Park,” Lucas points out. “These were the tree lots that no one wanted or they were sold off from a bigger parcel as the neighborhood further subdivided.” Gravitating toward rugged grounds with unusual features, says Lucas, “Part of his goal, both from a Modernist sense but also from a sensitivity to the environment, was to build around the trees.”

“Of all the houses that he designed, it’s the most unusual in that it has two living rooms next to one another,” Lucas notes. “One was essentially an outdoor room, so it meant that there were times of the year it couldn’t be used because it was just so cold and hard to heat in the ’50s.” The resulting perception was an innate spaciousness that gave the sense of being outside while inside the home, its wide-open interiors defined not so much by walls as where people chose to congregate.

The Carter abode was such a radical departure from the norm it was practically an affront. “Some of the neighbors were like, what? And others were like, this is cool,” Lucas states. “So there was a little tug of war in that sense.” In correspondence concerning what he referred to as his “Dream Home,” Loewenstein lamented that he “received violent comments in both directions from neighbors and friends.” The Carters themselves were pleased as “they wanted it to be not something traditional,” Lucas reiterates.

Vindication arrived after the house won an American Institute of Architects North Carolina Design Award in 1951, was featured in Architectural Record in 1952, and then bestowed a 1955 Merit Award from Southern Architect magazine. Resistance to Loewenstein’s futuristic fancies melted as a subsequent Modernist home was taking shape on Princess Anne Street in nearby Kirkwood, where homeowners petitioned the Greensboro Zoning Commission to allow for a departure from the contemporary Cape Cod conformity sanctioned by its neighborhood planners.

From the beginning, Loewenstein was the first in North Carolina to hire Black architects. “Some had employed African American draftsmen before World War II, but he was the first to do it in a major way,” Lucas points out. Many, like Clinton Gravely and W. Edward Jenkins, went on to great acclaim in Greensboro with their own firms. “It was a form of protest or nonconformity in terms of the way that he operated, employing these guys who wouldn’t have an architecture firm to work for because there wasn’t one that would hire them.”

Lucas posits that marrying into the influential Cone family allowed Loewenstein to buck the system “and probably not suffer the consequences of other societal forces relative to how the rest of us had to operate.” Hailing from Chicago, where race relations were far less volatile, Lucas muses, “Maybe he was doing what he was doing and just let the chips fall where they may.” Or, perhaps, being the only prominent Jewish architect in North Carolina, it was a logical extension of his own status as an underdog.

With Loewenstein’s reputation and workload steadily growing across the Southeast he took on a partner, Robert A. Atkinson Jr. In 1950s in Irving Park alone, the firm of Loewenstein-Atkinson was responsible for ground-breaking Modernist designs such as the sumptuous Ceasar and Martha Cone house on Cornwallis (demolished for a cul-de-sac in 1994), the Sidney and Kay Stern residence at 1804 Nottingham, UNCG’s 1959 Commencement Home at 612 Rockford, the John and Evelyn Hyman home at 608 Kimberly Drive and the game-changing Robert and Bettie Chandgie hybrid two blocks away at 401 Kimberly.

Embracing Modernism allowed for a lessened emphasis on interior decoration. “What we’re going to do is just celebrate nature without having to actually reproduce it inside,” Lucas maintains about the minimalist philosophy, creating frameworks adaptable to any aesthetic. One can’t help but wonder what it was like back in the 1950s, before suburban street lamps dulled Irving Park’s nighttime skies, the warmth inside these homes contrasting with nature’s soaring flora bathed in moonlight refracted through panoramic glass apertures.

In 2004, with three kids in tow, the Crafts became only the second owners of Loewenstein’s self-described “Dream House” he had crafted for the Carters, but not without considerable effort. “We’d been looking for years,” Kathy recalls. The journey home began when they were newlyweds, but didn’t end until seven years later. “We were 28 years old and we just couldn’t turn around and buy a Loewenstein at that time.” Still, they researched, attended open houses and watched frustratingly as, one after another, Modernist monoliths fell out of favor and were leveled in favor of developing the land they occupied.

Fate stepped in after the Crafts met Lee Carter at what had been his childhood home. Kathy knew after just a few feet into the front door that this was the one. None the less, Carter wasn’t exactly a motivated seller. Witnessing what had happened to other comparable properties, he only, months later, made the decision to allow the family home to change hands, but with one stipulation — that it not be desecrated or demolished. “It was sort of destiny, it was the right timing and it was the right house,” Kathy says.

In the suitably spacious backyard, the Crafts discovered the Carters had installed a small horse stable and utility building. Structural alterations undertaken by the Carters decades earlier, overseen by Loewenstein, included decreasing the width of the wall alongside the front door while increasing the length of the roof covering the solarium. In the 1980s, brickwork inside and out was painted white. A pantry door off of the kitchen still retains the Carter family’s important names and contact information scrawled across it, reminders of a time when only five numbers were required to dial neighbors.

Foundational tweaks the Crafts have instituted are minimal. All of the window panes have been replaced and the vinyl-asbestos kitchen flooring was removed in favor of a terrazzo-like porcelain tile. After seven decades, a smattering of those old growth trees have been uprooted by necessity, flooding the home with natural light. “I never turn on a lamp until the sun goes down,” Kathy says.

In the early 2000s, Kathy owned the Eastern Standard Gallery located in downtown’s Southend community, where she showcased, among many other exemplary artists, her brother-in-law Michael Coté’s furniture. In fact, he constructed their intricately inlaid wood dinner table. “He was not trained, never schooled. He just picked up woodworking and made that table,” says Kathy. Redeploying the matching high back chairs for accents, the Crafts instead assembled table-side a half dozen transparent, Baroque-influenced Philippe Starck Ghost Chairs with curved armrests. As actress Katherine Hepburn famously attested, “Men are unhappy sitting at a dining room table if their chairs don’t have arms.”

Behind that table, imbuing an Asian influence, is an a four-panel vintage Baker Furniture screen that Douglas Freeman painted for Daniel’s birthday in 2010. A happy match with what the Carters had acquired in 1964 and left behind that adorns the den, a Japanese byōbu from MoMA depicting Heian-period courtiers leading a formal procession. “That is actually paper adhered to the wall, then framed,” Kathy explains.

The solarium is punctuated by a painting awash in muted tones, “an abstract of the marsh by Walter Greer,” says Kathy, “a well-known artist from Hilton Head Island. Dad loved his work.” Nearby are two Ludwig Mies van der Rohe Barcelona chairs and an ottoman, reflexively reflecting an overall retro sensibility to the decor, embellishments emblematic of a sense of playful permanence and space-age proportionality this home embodies.

The Crafts’ three children have graduated college and scattered to careers in various locales, but this in no way feels like an empty nest. If anything, a welcoming environment for a potential influx of grandkids.

The mid-century Modernist movement was, for many, an optimistic harbinger for the wondrous World of Tomorrow promised us by the 1939 World’s Fair, Disneyland and Reddy Kilowatt (“Live better electrically!”). Finished in 1954, Loewenstein’s own home on Granville Road features a driveway long and wide enough to land a flying car comfortably, should it come to that. 

In his waning days, Frank Lloyd Wright was quoted as saying, “The longer I live, the more beautiful life becomes. If you foolishly ignore beauty, you will soon find yourself without it. Your life will be impoverished. But if you invest in beauty, it will remain with you all the days of your life.” Loewenstein was more laconic: “Dedicated architects die unhappy. They never get to unleash creative juices because of pressure to please clients.” He gets right to the heart of what gives the Carter House its cultural significance, so cutting-edge for the period — nobody knew enough about the direction the upstart architect was headed to get in his way.

In the end, Loewenstein’s instinct for “bringing the outside inside” backfired in terms of longevity. Eventually, some would argue inevitably, the spacious landscaping these houses were integrated into far exceeded the commercial value of the structures.

“It used to be,” Lucas says, “if you were one of these Modernist houses designed by this weird guy, Loewenstein, no big deal. We’ll just tear it down and build something bigger there.” Now the name conveys a level of esteem in the way Rolex, Ferrari and Tiffany have become synonymous with style and stature. “Most of the calls I still get are from realtors trying to prop up their property with a Loewenstein connection. So it’s kind of moved on in that regard.”

As realtor Katie Redhead related to me a few years ago about the current marketplace mindset regarding Loewensteins, “We started seeing homes that were in Westerwood, a house on East Lake Drive — let me tell you, those houses went off the charts, people went nuts. Right now we’ve got such a high demand, if one did come on the market, I think it would be well received.  And I probably wouldn’t have said that 10 years ago.”

As for the Crafts, they won’t be selling any time soon.