Tag: Chaos Theory

Chaos Theory

Little Orphan Cassie

The curtain opens on a world of possibility

By Cassie Bustamante

Live theater has had a piece of my heart for almost as long as I can remember. My love affair, especially with musicals, began the summer I turned 6. My mom had taken me to see Annie at the Ogunquit Playhouse in Maine. There, I discovered theater has the power to bring dreams to life.

Before that moment, I’d seen the movie and played the album on my Fisher Price record player, singing along while putting myself in Annie’s tattered orphan shoes. Our family dog, a golden retriever named Butterscotch — far from a mangy street mutt — often found himself locked in my bedroom so that I could pretend he was following me, just like Sandy followed Annie.

Once, I tried to sit in my bedroom window to look woefully out at the sky while musically musing, “Maybe far away, or maybe real nearby . . . ” As the window screen gave to the pressure of my leaning body, my feet caught on the very sill I’d been perched on, holding me in place as the rest of me dangled dangerously a story above our driveway. My older brother, Dana, heard my cries and pulled me back in. (And yes, my parents had told me over and over to stay away from the windows, but when it came to being Annie, I followed no one’s rules.)

“As far as I was concerned, you could have had a much less healthy obsession,” my mom recalls. “You were happy being Annie and acting and singing, so, why not?” Plus, she adds, “It was entertaining.” A talented seamstress, she had sewn me my very own red-and-white dress, just like Annie’s. And, along with those live show tickets, my parents had given me a golden, heart-shaped, broken locket for my birthday.

I knew the songs. I had the locket, the dress and the black, patent-leather shoes. There was just one major problem: my hair. It was long, straight and dirty-blonde, a far cry from a headful of fiery red ringlets.

But in that Ogunquit theater during the final moments of the curtain call, something I’d never imagined was possible happened. After clapping enthusiastically for the actors who played Daddy Warbucks, Miss Hannigan, Grace, Punjab and the other orphans, the last actor emerged to receive her applause. Alyson Kirk, who played the role of Annie, walked to centerstage and whipped off her curly-haired wig to reveal a mane of straight hair that wasn’t red at all.

“Look!” I gasped, telling my mom what this meant for me. “I can be Annie!” In that moment, I realized that in the world of theater, anything is possible.

Now, as a mother, there’s nothing I want more than for my kids to see that their own worlds can stretch as far as their imaginations can reach.

Last year, my husband, Chris, and I introduced our youngest, Wilder, to live theater at the Tanger Center — first, to Paw Patrol Live for his 4th birthday. Then, in September, it was off to Blue’s Clues & You Live.

A week before the Blue’s Clues tour stop in Greensboro, I had a chance to chat with Josh Blackburn, producer of Round Room Live, the company responsible for bringing many Nickelodeon and licensed kids’ shows to life onstage all over the world. Like many of us, his own love for musical theater began during his childhood, evolving into a passion “to show kids opportunity” through his work.

Blackburn says his “favorite part” is watching kids enjoy his live shows, and I understand why. Chris and I were more enthralled by Wilder’s reaction to Blue and company than by what was actually happening on stage, despite the “huggable” and “larger than life puppets.” And it wasn’t just us. Looking around that theater, the faces of many-a-parent were aglow with wonder as they watched their own little ones sing along, dance and dream.

We walked out of the theater together that day, holding hands as we stepped into a world that was, indeed, our oyster.

At 45, I’ve long since outgrown the red-and-white dress and black patent-leather shoes. I’ve said good-bye to my beloved Butterscotch. The broken heart-shaped locket has been lost, perhaps now another child’s treasure. But, until my final curtain call, I am going to continue to let my imagination run wild in this world — with or without a red, curly-haired wig. OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

Chaos Theory

A Wilder Bond

A friendship rooted in fiction is formed

By Cassie Bustamante

While reading is generally a solitary activity, it invites us to feel less alone in this world. Books connect us to writers and the characters they create, to other places and times, real or imaginary. And in the very best situations, they bring us closer to our family and friends, and, sometimes, even help us make new friends.

It’s August of 2022, and I’ve signed up my youngest, Wilder, for “Bugs, Bees & Butterflies” camp at the Miriam P. Brenner Children’s Museum. My husband, Chris, has been tasked with day-one drop-off, which he reports as being tearful and traumatic — mostly for him. I am used to being the parent who handles first-day-of-anything jitters.

But then he says something that makes my ears perk up: “There’s another Wilder in his group.”

“What?” I ask, astonished. I’ve given each of my children, Sawyer, Emerson and Wilder, a literary name because I wanted to put my hard-earned English degree to use somehow. But even more so, I chose uncommon names. I have to know who this woman is that named her son Wilder.

That afternoon at pickup, I wait to see who signs out “the other Wilder” and make a mental note to strike up conversation with her the next day.

As I wait in line for the camp door to open the following afternoon, I see her approach. Never one who has suffered from shyness, I say, “Hi! So, are you the mom who also has a Wilder?”

She’s wearing a mask, but I can see her smile reflected in her blue eyes, which sparkle against a thick mane of auburn hair. “Yes,” she answers cheerfully. “That’s me!”

I introduce myself and discover her name, Mallory, and learn that their family recently moved to Greensboro from California. And more importantly, I find out that my son is three weeks older, so I named my child Wilder first. And yes, I’m embarrassed to admit I feel a little victorious knowing that. Our friendly chatter breaks up as we head our separate ways, but I’ve already decided that this person is someone I might really like to get to know. But there’s just one question I want answered first.

“How did you come up with the name Wilder?” I ask her the next afternoon while we wait for our kiddos to be released.

Mallory looks at me a little sheepishly and replies with another question. “Have you ever read White Noise?”

“White Noise by Don DeLillo!?!” I exclaim. “It was only my favorite book of my college career!”

I don’t recall too much of the actual book — just that I loved it — because it’s been over 20 years and the Netflix movie hadn’t premiered yet. I certainly don’t remember that there was a character named Wilder. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve seen a peek into Mallory’s soul by knowing what books she reads.

In return, she asks how I settled on “Wilder.” I explain that Laura Ingalls Wilder was a favorite author of mine as a child. Though from very different sources, both of us selected book-fluenced names.

One year later, our friendship is going strong. Our sons lovingly refer to one another as “the other Wilder.” We meet often for wilderness walks and park play so that the boys can explore and do what kids do, while Mallory and I carry on deep — though often interrupted — conversations. We half-jokingly dream of writing our own series of children’s books based on our outings called “The Adventures of the Wildest Wilders.” And maybe, if we’re lucky, one day those books will become the root of someone else’s beautiful friendship. OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

2023 Chaos Theory Department

Chaos Theory

Dog Days

Early morning walks with man’s best hound

By Cassie Bustamante

Except for a blip of time between entering high school and graduating from college, I’ve been a dog owner for most of my life. Even during those teen years, when my parents repeatedly said no to a puppy, I bought myself a fish and named it Dog. You could say I am a dog lover, but there’s one hound who completely stole my heart.

Before we began having kids, Chris and I were happily a one-dog family. We’d gotten Charlie, a beagle who preferred his own company over anyone else’s, early in our relationship. But just a few months after our nuptials, a friend informed me about a litter of “bagles” — basset beagle pups — in need of homes.

“I think Charlie needs a friend,” I tell Chris on the phone, nervously bobbing my knee. What I really mean is that I need a friend.

“He’s perfectly fine as a loner,” he replies. But he knows me better than that. So he asks, “What’s going on, Cassie?”

“Weeeeell, Cyndee told me about these basset beagle puppies that are absolutely adorable and need homes and I just thought — ”

He interrupts, “Are you at the shelter right now? You are, aren’t you?”

“Oh God, no. If I was, I’d be calling to tell you we already have a puppy,” I answer.

He pauses while my foot tap-tap-taps, and then answers. “OK, but this is your dog.”

Two days later, we bring Jake, our white-and-tan bagle, home. He darts through the door, long, velvety-soft ears flapping behind him, and greets Charlie, who sniffs a bit and then promptly ignores him.

But I’m smitten. I feel a connection on a soul level with this pooch as I gaze into his dark brown eyes, which appear to be lined in charcoal. And, as it turns out, we’re kindred spirits when it comes to chow. As I gain a whopping 40 pounds the next year while growing the first Bustamante baby, so does Jake. (In our defense, we thought bassets were just “big-boned” canines.)

At his next check-up, the vet, shocked by his 75-pound weight, puts him on a diet. Knowing how much he loves to eat, I decide to implement a more rigorous exercise routine and cut back his food a little less than recommended.

And so begins our love affair with long, early-morning walks together. Through the marshlands of Louisiana, by the rivers near Annapolis, Maryland, and up-and-down countryside hills of western Maryland, we walk. For 13 years, we walk, adding two more dogs — Catcher and Snowball — to our little crew.

We walk until arthritis takes over Jake’s spine and he can no longer join me and the other two pups, until the vet tells me that I need to let him go. “He loves you so much that he will stay with you, in pain, as long as you allow it,” she tells me.

On his last day by my side, I walk him to the bus stop to retrieve the kids. We take it as slowly and as cautiously as we need to, taking breaks every now and then. But we need one last walk together, no matter how short.

Back at home, we all stroke his ears, nuzzle his pitch-black nose and tell him how loved he is. And we say good-bye. Almost two years later, I say good-bye again as we prepare to leave the house where Jake and Charlie are both buried in the backyard, for the greener pastures of North Carolina.

These days, I still walk with my dogs in the quiet stillness of the morning and, while I miss Jake, his spirit is never far. In fact, many mornings, Catcher will incessantly turn around as if he senses someone behind us. When I look, no one’s there. But if I listen carefully on windy mornings, I can hear the breeze flapping Jake’s ears. OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

2023 Chaos Theory Department

Chaos Theory

Go Confidently

From bringing a baby into the world to sending him out into it

By Cassie Bustamante

Eighteen years ago, as I approached the birth of my first baby, a boy, I thought I knew how it would all unfold. Years of watching TV dramas had taught me plenty. My water would break, my husband, Chris, would rush to the hospital from work to be by my side and, after a few hours, I’d naturally push — without any drugs — giving way to a healthy, wriggling, scrunchy-faced newborn. Go ahead and laugh. If there’s anything parenthood has taught me, it’s that nothing ever goes according to plan.

Sawyer was due on August 8, 2005 — one day before my 27th birthday — and, as a first-time mom, I was determined to let it all happen on its own. Living in Slidell, Louisiana, at the time, my friends thought this born-and-raised yankee gal was nuts and called me a hippie. Even my gynecologist, Dr. Lobello, nicknamed me “granola girl.” In all fairness, I showed up to most appointments in flip-flops, a tank top, a bohemian skirt — elastic waist, need I say more? — and hair tucked into a red bandana. But if you’ve ever survived the sweltering humidity of a New Orleans summer, my outfit choice made perfect sense. After all, you can’t just walk around naked, even in Louisiana.

In late July, two weeks before the due date, I waddled into my weekly appointment, dripping with sweat and looking more like Large Marge from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure than the adorable pregnant woman I had pictured myself to be. Dr. Lobello took one look at me and asked, “Have you thought about being induced?”

“What?!” I asked, flabbergasted. “No. Nope. No way. This baby is coming when he comes.”

“Okaaaaaay,” she said knowingly.

The next week, I shuffled back in, legs as heavy as mature tree trunks. Again, Dr. Lobello brought up induction. She pressed on my ankle to show me just how swollen I was, skin stretched as tight as a water balloon before it bursts.

“Fine, I guess,” I said, a little deflated. “Let’s induce.”

A week later, on my birthday, with the help of Pitocin and anesthesia, Sawyer entered the world, no magical water-breaking, “Honey, this is it” moment. But once he was in my arms, it didn’t matter how he’d gotten here. He was here. And Chris and I fell head over heels in love with him.

Now, almost 18 years later, that baby boy graduates from Grimsley High School this month. I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t been a struggle to get to this point. And there were days that I wondered if we’d make it this far.

But our kids — and I mean yours and mine, too — have weathered storms none of us ever had to go through during our high school years. Being a teenager is traumatic enough — hello, acne, braces and regrettable first kisses — but then you add a pandemic and remote learning to the mix? Chris and I were prepared to handle all of the usual awkward moments and hard conversations with our teens, but we had no idea how to navigate through the challenges our kids have faced.

And now, as Sawyer prepares to don his cap and gown, I want him to know how proud we are, as much as this column might embarrass him. We know how hard he’s had to work and we don’t know if our own teenage selves would have made it through the last three years unscathed. And while he probably doesn’t remember the moment he came into this world (for the best, frankly), I hope he’s learned from us that it doesn’t matter how you get to where it is you’re going or if you need a little help along the way. As American naturalist Henry David Thoreau wrote in Walden, one of my favorite books, “Go confidently in the direction of your dreams.” You will land exactly where you’re meant to be. OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

2023 Chaos Theory Department

Chaos Theory

Falling for Forests

Attempts at passing a love of hiking from generation to generation

By Cassie Bustamante

“And you ask, ‘What if I fall?’ Oh but my darling, what if you fly?” — Erin Hanson

From as early an age as I can remember, I’ve felt most at home with myself while wandering through woods, a trait I inherited from my father. When I was a child, Dad would often venture out to hike nearby trails on the weekends, toting along a backpack that held his Canon plus its various lenses. After developing his photos — because that’s how it worked back then, kids — we’d pore over pictures of fungi, wildflowers, birds, animals and sometimes even dung, all of which we’d try to identify in the National Audubon Society’s field books.

In my tweens, I began venturing out with Dad. Surely, I ruined his peaceful treks with my endless, mile-a-minute chatter, but he was happy that his daughter was showing interest in his hobbies. My out-loud inner monologue gave away the fact that my mind and eyes wandered, so Dad was careful to point out tripping hazards. Dexterity has never been my strong point.

Now, with three kids of my own, I hope to pass on that appreciation of the great outdoors. I want them to experience what I do while developing a sense of wonder over nature’s miracles and realizing how small we — and our worries — are in this big world. So far, only my 5-year-old full-of-curiosity son and my 17-year-old athletic son are into hiking. My 16-year-old daughter rolls her eyes at the mere suggestion.

However, on Mother’s Day, no one is allowed to demur. You do what Mom wants, no questions asked. And so six years ago on the second Sunday in May, our family found ourselves navigating a winding trail in Maryland’s Gambrill State Park, just a stone’s throw from our former home.

The rocky path too narrow for side-by-side hiking, we trudge onward in a line. Chris, my husband, leads the pack while I play caboose and our two kids (the littlest not yet born) walk in-between. Reverting to my childlike state as I tend to do in the woods, I point out every heart-shaped leaf, every colorful mushroom sprouting up and every dragonfly that skitters by. Captivated by the scenery around me, of course I’m not looking at the path directly in front of me. And Dad isn’t there this time to stop me from snagging my foot on a knotty tree root. Before I know it, I’m airborne, my feet above and behind me. Ribs first, I land on hard ground.

I lie among the pebbles and dirt for a moment, absorbing what has just happened. When I finally look up, I see my kids’ faces agape at Mom splayed out in the dirt. Popping up as quickly as I can, I shake the dirt off and wipe my bloody knees and elbows.

“I’m good,” I say. “Let’s keep going!”

If this had been a movie, this would be the part where the narrator’s voice intrudes, saying, “She was not, in fact, good.”

My ribs are bruised and sore for a solid month afterwards, but I’m not about to let a little — OK, big — stumble stop me from showing my kids how wondrous the woods can be, dammit.

Since then, I’ve tripped many more times, on craggy slopes at Hanging Rock, down leaf-slick trails in the Grandfather Mountain area and, yes, over tree roots everywhere.

So, what if you fall? Take it from someone who knows. Maybe you won’t fly through the air like I did, but you’ll get back up. You’ll dust yourself off and trudge onward, reveling in the magic of the Earth around you. And, if you’re lucky, you’ll get to share it with those you love, even if you have to drag them out there in the first place. OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

2023 Chaos Theory Department

Chaos Theory

The Definition of Home

Finding meaning after the storm of the century

By Cassie Bustamante

What do you take with you when you’re evacuating for a hurricane? Baby, check. Baby accoutrements, check. Both dogs, check. Toiletries, check. Enough clothes for just a few days — because surely, we won’t be gone that long — check. (Though overpacking was a nonissue since my two-week-postpartum body wasn’t squeezing into much besides drawstring sweatpants when Katrina made a beeline for New Orleans.)

After living it up for a year in an old, baby-blue, converted Victorian in New Orleans’ Garden District, Chris and I moved across Lake Pontchartrain to Slidell to begin our more “respectable,” suburban newlywed life in 2003. The Lake Village rancher was our very first home and I took much pride in making it ours.

A year-and-a-half later, I coated the walls of the soon-to-be nursery in buttery yellow and filled the space with blue-and-green furnishings from my own childhood. And, much to my current self’s embarrassment, I decorated with a frog prince theme. Royal amphibians in place, we were as ready as we’d ever be. In August of 2005, we welcomed our first baby, a boy, into our home.

As if being frazzled new parents isn’t enough of a sleepless whirlwind, an actual cyclone had just announced its impending arrival. Lucky for us, my dad was visiting. His timing couldn’t have been better because it turned out that we needed him. Since I wasn’t yet allowed to lift anything heavy, Dad and Chris boarded up the windows of our rancher.

Together, we hurriedly packed up all the essentials and loaded everything into our two cars. Chris drove his Jeep Liberty, our two pups panting anxiously in his ear, and Dad took the driver’s seat of my Ford Escape, with 2-week-old Sawyer and me riding in the back. One by one, we joined the slow-moving interstate parade of evacuees. Because I was still nursing every couple of hours, highway truckers — who had a straight line of sight into our car — got quite a show. Helpless, I simply waved and smiled as we passed them.

Our hours-long drive finally landed us in Knoxville, Tennessee, home to my in-laws who welcomed the four of us, plus our canines, to crash their house for what we’d wrongly assumed would be just a few days. My mother-in-law, Pam, raved about how I was holding it all together, especially as a new mom in crisis. Honestly, I didn’t know to do any differently. What else could we do but accept things as they were and keep putting one foot in front of the other?

But, eventually, my breakdown came. We watched the news relentlessly to find out the latest at home. All of our friends had evacuated as well, so no one was there to fill us in except for reporters who tend to exaggerate. The tears finally fell when an anchorwoman said, “Eighty-five percent of homes in Slidell have been destroyed.” At that moment, it finally occurred to me that we may not have a house to return to.

Noticing my wet eyes, Chris put his arm around me reassuringly. I looked around and took in my surroundings. Baby asleep in hand-me-down Moses basket, check. Partner by my side, check. Dogs sitting at my feet, check. In short, we were lucky to all be alive.

In the coming week, though, we’d learn just how lucky we were. Aside from needing a new roof, our house, which sat less than a mile from where flooding reached, survived. But that experience redefined what home means to me. It’s not a building filled with precious things you’ve put on walls and collected over the years. It’s a feeling of safety and security, a knowing that everything you need is within reach and that your family will be by your side throughout any storm. That is home. OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

2023 Chaos Theory Department

Chaos Theory

Chaos Theory 101

An introduction

By Cassie Bustamante

Ever since I was a child, I’ve been enthralled by magazines. My parents gifted me my very first subscriptions — to Highlights and National Geographic, which I would anxiously await each month, religiously checking our mailbox daily anticipating their arrival. And when I was old enough to walk to the drugstore in our small New England town center, I’d use my own babysitting money to purchase high quality publications — Bop and Seventeen (plus wet n’ wild Pink Frost lipstick— it was the early ’90s). Holding those glossy pages filled with bright images and stories felt magical in my hands.

Years later, as a senior at Wake Forest University, I knew I wanted to move to New York City after graduation and work my way up to editor at a magazine, to be a part of something that always brought me so much joy. However, that same year, I met my husband, Chris, and, much to my college advisor’s chagrin — sorry, Dr. Zulick! — I put my own dream on the back burner.

I’ve spent the last 20 years all over the career map as a retail manager, personal trainer, group exercise instructor, vintage store owner and DIY blogger/influencer. I’ve raised two kids who are almost ready to fly the coop and added a preschooler to the mix. We’ve moved from North Carolina to Tennessee to Texas to Louisiana to Maryland, and back to North Carolina in 2019. Through it all, one thing has remained constant: my love for magazines. OK, two things: my love for magazines and my love for my husband.

I’d long since buried that dream of working in the magazine world, but a chance meeting with a neighbor reminded me that it still lived within me, simmering quietly all along. On an early, pre-dawn morning walk in the midsummer of 2020, I met Jim Dodson, the founding editor of O.Henry. It was one of those moments when your soul responds to another with, “Oh, it’s you. I know you.”

A couple months later, knowing that I had social media experience, he called me about “a job you’d be a perfect fit for,” and asked me to attend a driveway meeting, as one did in 2020. At the time, I wasn’t looking for a job, but, after thinking it over, I decided to give it a shot and applied.

For the past two-and-a-half years I’ve worked as O.Henry’s digital content manager, adding the role of managing editor in 2022. Now, 23 years after putting that dream of being an editor on the back burner, it’s bubbling over with excitement. The fact that I get to play an integral part in delivering into your hands a magazine filled with beautiful, hopeful and humorous writing paired with stunning photography and artwork is the fourth greatest joy of my life, ranking just under my kids.

German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer once said, “When you look back on your life, it looks as though it were a plot, but when you are into it, it’s a mess: just one surprise after another. Then, later, you see it was perfect.”

Full disclosure: We’re still a hot mess at our house. There are currently dirty dishes piled in the sink, dog slobber streaks on the windows and dried Play-Doh crumbs under my feet as I write. Life with three kids, two rescue dogs and two full-time careers can be, at times, utter chaos, but it’s given me pages upon pages of content — sometimes funny, sometimes bittersweet, always honest. And finally, I can see the storyline developing in the midst of the mess. OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

2023 Chaos Theory Department