Chaos Theory

Chaos Theory

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Herd Mentality

Get to know the people in your neighborhood

By Cassie Bustamante

My mom loves to recount the story of how my older brother, Dana, used to sing along loudly to Sesame Street’s “The People in Your Neighborhood.” That Sesame Street story is second only to the one where the show once featured cows as milk producers and Dana, 2 at the time, turned to Mom, who was nursing me, and said, “Mommy, you’re like that cow!”

Bovine likeness aside, Mom was always involved with our neighborhood herd. She found women to take fitness walks with, arms pumping as they talked a mile-a-minute — leg warmers may or may not have been involved. At Christmas, all of our neighbors received her famous cookie baskets, filled with about 20 varieties of treats. When anyone needed anything, she was there. She drove home the point that the people in your neighborhood are vital to your wellbeing.

I’ve tried to follow suit and connect with people who live in proximity to me wherever I go, but, in 2012, I found out the hard way just how much truth there is in her lesson. You may, in fact, one day find you really need the helping hand of a friendly neighbor.

The school year had just begun and I am home with Emmy, my kindergartener, after sending Sawyer off to his second day of second grade. Chris, my husband, has already left for work and is spending the day traveling with a couple of his bosses all over Maryland, where we live — in rural Myersville.

After Emmy and I gobble down breakfast, we’ve planned a day of doing our favorite things together — thrifting and crafting. But first, I clear our plates and see the trash is overflowing. I slide the bag out of the bin and take it outside, where I feel a sharp poke into my right shin. Ouch, I think, and move the bag across my body. As I do, something cuts the outside of my left calf.

Ouch, I think again. That feels like it might need a bandaid.

But when I look down, I see that a bandaid is no match. A thick, broken drinking glass with two jagged protrusions has made parallel cuts. And I know just who it was that  put it straight into the garbage: Chris. Scots-Irish temper flaring, I’m seeing red in more ways than one.

I run inside the house and immediately flop down onto our kitchen floor, my mind reeling. Panicking, I yell for Emmy to bring me a roll of paper towels and my phone. I might be bleeding out, but I will not ruin a good towel.

You might think I’d be using the phone for immediate emergency assistance, but you’d be wrong. No, I have other fish to fry first.

I dial Chris, who is in a car with his bosses. “You tossed a broken drinking glass in the trash and I’ve cut myself badly on it,” I wail.

“OK,” he says calmly, “I can’t do anything from here.”

“It’s your fault!” I scream.

“I need you to hang up with me and call someone who can help you, Cassie,” he says, his voice level and as even as it always is when I’m losing it. “And then please let me know you are OK. I’m sorry.”

Sitting on the floor with my leg straight in front of me, I think. We haven’t even lived here a year and I don’t know many people, but, thankfully, a family with a child Sawyer’s age lives not too far up the hill behind us. Debbie is a social butterfly who immediately invited us to her Family Fun Fridays — formerly called Happy Hour Fridays until all the kiddos grew into school age and began telling their teachers they were going to happy hour. Travis, her husband, is tall and slim, a gentle soul. Morgan, their daughter, inherited her mother’s blonde hair and beauty, and her father’s soft-spokenness. I dial their landline.

After several rings, I’ve just about given up when Travis picks up. Instead of driving Morgan to school, he jumps in his truck and is soon roaring up our long driveway, his daughter in tow. In his hands he’s carrying gauze and medical tape. He carefully wraps my leg and drives me, Emmy and Morgan to the closest hospital ER.

While I’m being literally stapled back together, Travis spends the entire morning with Emmy, who rides with him to bring Morgan to school, then back to the hospital waiting room, where he reads to her and buys her snack after snack from the hospital vending machine.

When I am finally released to go home, Travis is still there with Emmy, who has had the time of her life doing two of her favorite things — reading and eating. Travis pulls the truck up to the door and lifts Emmy into her seat and gently helps me climb in, bandaged Franken-leg and all.

Would I have ultimately called 9-1-1? Sure, but not without bleeding all over the kitchen floor first. And what about Emmy? Would they have let her ride in the ambulance with me? Luckily for me, Travis was one of those people in my neighborhood and was exactly the grounding presence she and I both needed.

Travis and Debbie were, hands down, some of the best neighbors we’ve ever had. From Family Fun Fridays to the time Travis trapped and released a squirrel that had somehow gotten into my house, they were always there for our family.

When we moved to Greensboro seven and a half years ago, I was sad to say goodbye to them. But I’ve gotten to know neighbors here, a whole cast of characters who make my life better. There’s Carey, whose kids play with my youngest, Wilder, and who has been my sourdough mentor. There’s Laura, who gave my kids rides to school when bus service was halted during the pandemic. And, of course, there’s Jim Dodson, without whom I wouldn’t be here writing about my chaotic life. 

So, still today, Sesame Street asks its viewers like you, “Who are the people in your neighborhood?” And I hope you have an answer — because you never know when you might need to hitch a ride to the ER or simply borrow some milk.  OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

Home Grown

Home Grown

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Thrillers and True Crime Saga

Fascinating, when they don’t involve you

By Cynthia Adams

The detective’s office wasted nothing on aesthetics. Beige blinds, desks stacked with folders. A diploma from somewhere on the wall. Stiff chairs faced his desk, where we perched awkwardly as the detective sank into a swivel chair.

Forget the trench coat. Who expected “dad” clothes — a short-sleeved shirt and shorts? He was folksy. Affable.

“Sara” sat wide-eyed beside me as the detective presented a stack of papers, part of a background investigation of a much younger woman involved with her ailing brother.

Like everyone with a streaming subscription, I’d watched scammer sagas. The detective thumbing through a fat file seemed scripted. Yet this was personal, lives laid bare. The work often done for lawyers, which is how Sara found hers.

Investigating deadbeat dads, cheating spouses. Insurance fraudsters. Grifters. 

The detective began reading, pausing as Sara gasped.

“Sonya” — the focus of this investigation — maintained multiple identities in various states. Her date and place of birth was apparently fluid; Sonya was 34, 36, 37 or 38 and had six different email accounts.

A phone number was the sole consistency.

Her record included DUIs, open-carry charges, reckless driving, speeding. Drug possession. Fake IDs.

Many serious charges were dropped.

“Despite the fact that she uses fake driver’s licenses?” asked Sara.

The detective nodded. “And an expensive lawyer.”

Two hours later, we had a slippery grasp as to who Sonya actually was. 

Since meeting in a bar, Sonya occasionally lived with Sara’s brother, “Ralph,” who was decades older. He claimed it was platonic.

Sara had spent the last two years helping her brother survive cancer treatments. Cleaning his home. Buying his food. Sonya was seldom seen. By happenstance, Sara learned he had recently changed his will, leaving Sonya everything.

She had come to me for solace and advice. “I believe he loves her,” she choked out.

Sonya was comparatively young; her brother, though frail, was stubbornly obsessed.

Deaths had decimated Sara’s prosperous family. Now there was only her and Ralph, her remaining brother. Sonya, too, had brothers.

The detective produced snapshots of Sonya’s siblings. One, with The Illustrated Man tattoos covering face and body, had a criminal record. The other, sometimes bearded and masculine, was also photographed cleanly shaved and dressed as a woman. Wait, was that actually Sonya? Was he a doppelganger?

Fabrications and aliases underscored their criminality.

“It could be very serious. When I see a background report like this, it often points to drugs. And the things that . . .” the detective paused . . . “go with that.”

Were Sonya or her brothers coercing Ralph?

They could be dangerous to challenge, the detective warned. Our eyes fell upon the thick file.

“And, you know, I tend to think your brother already knows who she is.”

Sara’s face crumpled.

The detective seemed downcast — apologetic for being the bearer of bad news. Everywhere around the world, similar stories unfolded. Sonya’s was an old story, the detective had said tiredly, closing the folder. In Netflix dramas, there’s some closure at the finale. In real life, seldom.

Outside the sun was beating down, but the humidity had dropped, suggesting summer’s grip was loosening. We slid into Ralph’s luxury sedan, which he had urged Sara to use. 

“Keep it,” he had said.

“I’ll give it to Sonya,” Sara said now quietly, turning the ignition. “I think I’m going to stop the investigation. The detective is right.”

We drove through streets dappled with golden light. Sara dropped me off, her hand fluttering goodbye as we turned away in tandem.

A leaf blower, the main instrument in our urban soundtrack, moved towards a crescendo as a neighbor tidied up the detritus at their door.  OH

Cynthia Adams is a contributing editor to O.Henry magazine. Email her at inklyadams@aol.com.

O.Henry Ending

O.Henry Ending

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Badge Rich

Service with a smile and a side act

By Cynthia Adams

“Rich,” who works at a big-box hardware store, excels at customer service.  You will be sure to recognize this right away because his vest is covered in countless award badges, all thanks to the fact that customers relate and respond to his brand of affability. The multiple badges, affixed by carabiners to both sides of his vest, noticeably rattle against one another, calling to mind the old-fashioned take-a-numbers at the butcher counters of old.

He wears a big smile below a bushy mustache, is average height, and, he’s not shy about cheerfully calling attention to a pot belly, one he points out to you himself. 

Then, out tumbles his spiel, full of PG-rated dad jokes and deadpanned as if he were a Wes Andersen character.

“How ya folks doin’ today?” he asks, grinning. As soon as you mumble something about being pooped from weekend yard work, gesturing to the additional flat of pansies you’re buying, he starts up.

“Oh, pooped out?” Rich gestures towards his (pleasingly plump) abdomen. “Me too. But hey, turns out I’m in shape. Round is a shape.”

You laugh despite yourself.

“I’ve started an exercise regime,” he continues. “Doin’ fork lifts.” Naturally, he gestures, pretending to lift a fork to his mouth. “And diddly squats.”

You laugh again. Rich is just warming up.

“It’s not that running runs in my family,” he says, then pauses. “Nobody runs in my family.” 

His eyes are wide. He’s watching your face, gauging his timing; an underappreciated stand-up comedian who literally must be on his feet on a concrete floor wearing steel-toed safety shoes for hours on end. One who has filled the yawning, monotonous hours with possibilities while manning a register. Someone who realizes he’s been invisible. An anonymous figure who scans products and accepts payments hour after hour, who must keep an eye out for shoplifters and miscreants the livelong day. 

Now, he’s a guy who’s quipping away, perfecting his schtick and inserting himself firmly into your field of vision.

Rich, dammit, is determined to make you see him and make you laugh.

Meanwhile, the register is doing its machine tasks, calculating, whirring and spitting out receipts. Waiting, you politely smile at Rich, because, well, not to would be like slapping a baby.

Handing the receipts over he resumes his riff adding, “We don’t run like the wind . . . When I run, I’m winded.”

As you turn to leave, he takes care of business, asking you to complete the survey at the bottom of the receipt. 

“That’s how I got all these badges,” he says proudly. And you guesstimate he might be wearing 50 of the things.

Is it heavy, you wonder, wearing all those badges?

Walking to the car, it’s tempting to look back, to see if Rich is already doing his routine with the next customer. How long can he sustain this, you also wonder?

Then it hits you, the most obvious thing. On reflection, you realize Rich, in fact, has a knack for getting others in shape as a crescent-shaped smile plants itself on your face, a gift from the man of many badges.  OH

Birdwatch

Birdwatch

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Quoth the Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary . . .

By Susan Campbell

The raven is one of the most widely recognized and intriguing birds in the Northern Hemisphere, being a species that has associated with mankind for thousands of years. It is certainly not one that is common in the Piedmont of North Carolina — however, it is a bird seen more frequently each year, even in more urbanized areas such as the Triad and even in the Triangle area. The common raven is a rarity in the Sandhills, but that is likely to change before long.

In our state, common ravens breed at elevation in the Appalachians and can be found roaming the mountains year-round. For several decades now the species has been frequently found farther east, across the foothills, no doubt a range expansion facilitated by human activity. Ravens, as well as their crow cousins, are opportunistic feeders. Roadkill is a major and easy source of food — as are landfills, parks and campgrounds. Even pet food bowls and bird feeders have been known to attract their attention. Some birds have even learned that gunshots during hunting season may mean a meal in the not-too-distant future. Ravens are also capable of taking eggs, chicks and even newborn small animals such as lambs.

Common ravens are massive, jet-black birds, half again as large as a crow. They have heavy, serrated bills and long wedge-shaped tails. Their wings are designed for soaring, since they typically have large territories across forested, as well as open, expanses. Individuals or pairs can be seen soaring effortlessly high in the sky. Their vocalizations often give them away, especially in remote areas. The common raven’s call is a harsh or gurgling croak that, not surprisingly, carries a long way. They may learn to mimic a variety of sounds, including human vocalizations if they are kept in captivity.

These birds are exceptionally intelligent and are likely the smartest of all birds found in North America. Not only do they readily figure out where to find their next meal, they will work in pairs to acquire certain types of food. One individual will divert the attention of a nesting adult bird while its mate steals an egg or nestling. Common ravens can be destructive in their search for food, tearing into campers’ tents and other manmade structures and, in numbers, can foul sensitive equipment. They can certainly become a nuisance if they linger too often or too long around human habitation. This can be very problematic given how long-lived the birds are and that they are also non-migratory.

It is a real shock each time I spot one of these impressive birds. There seem to be individuals that regularly patrol Interstates I-40 and I-540 west of Raleigh year-round. I have also noticed them above U.S. 1 just north of Sanford. I would not be surprised if a pair is breeding in the area along the Deep River. Riverside bluffs at lower elevations mimic the cliff habitat where common ravens usually nest. They also make the ledges on tall buildings their home as well.

Ravens are clearly adaptable and perfectly happy to live alongside us — more and more, all of the time.  OH

Susan Campbell would love to receive your wildlife sightings and photos. She can be contacted by email at susan@ncaves.com.

Wandering Billy

Wandering Billy

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Andy Griffith’s Greensboro Roots , Real and Tangential

1970 was expected to be a banner year for North Carolina’s biggest star. What went wrong?

By Billy Ingram

“I went up and got me two hot dogs and a big orange drink.”    — “Deacon” Andy Griffith

Headphones clamped to both ears in the spring of 1953, 19-year-old College Hill resident Milton Alderfer switched the selector dial to record mode on his portable magnetic reel-to-reel deck, clueless to the enormous impact the next six minutes he taped would have on American pop culture.

Spools turning, he glanced upstage at the noticeably nervous novice he was hired to record. Alderfer recalled several nerve-racking attempts recording this routine at other venues. However, as the skinny comic, who styled himself as country parson “Deacon Andy Griffith,” stood before the congregation at a Jefferson Standard Life Insurance Company convention, somehow, “What It Was, Was Football” finally clicked.

Alderfer’s recording was pressed and distributed by Chapel Hill indie label Colonial Records in November of ’53. “What It Was, Was Football” quickly sold 50,000 copies regionally, spurring Capitol Records to acquire the master for rerelease nationwide, sending that single soaring into the Billboard Top 10 in 1954. On that record, Griffith repeatedly expresses his love for “big orange” drinks, so naturally Andy’s first product endorsement was for Sun Crest Orange Soda out of Atlanta.

Griffith’s comedy records led to tremendous success, portraying country bumpkins on Broadway and in motion pictures such as 1958’s No Time For Sargents. When the Carolina Theatre screened that film, with Griffith in attendance, the City Council officially declared him an honorary citizen of Greensboro, presumably exempt from municipal taxes.

Two years later, The Andy Griffith Show debuted on CBS, a ratings smash from the very beginning. For the first season wrap party, the star had $500 worth of barbecue from Casey’s Sunset Hills location shipped to Los Angeles so cast and crew could taste genuine Piedmont-style pulled pork.

After eight seasons of TAGS solidly nestled in the Nielsen top five, Griffith walked away from the weekly grind to focus once again on a film career. Meanwhile, his sitcom continued on, rebranded as Mayberry R.F.D., with no significant drop in ratings. Unfortunately, his highly anticipated 1969 big-screen family-fluff nugget, Angel in My Pocket, was a comedy lacking in laughs. Moviegoers avoided it as if it were a fresh batch of Aunt Bee’s pickles.

In 1970, Griffith, smarting from that cinematic shellacking, returned to CBS primetime with a weekly half-hour comedy-drama entitled Headmaster, wherein Griffith portrayed Andy Thompson, stern yet fair administrator of a California co-ed prep school. On the opening episode of Headmaster, Butch Patrick (best known for portraying Eddie Munster in The Munsters) is forced to choose between getting high or being ostracized by the cool druggies on the football team. Playing against type, Ron Howard, aka Opie on TAGS, turns up on one show as a rebellious reprobate.

That same year, Griffith and his business partner, former N.C. governor Terry Sanford, opened a chain of Andy Griffith’s “gooood eatin’” restaurants in Burlington, Wilson, Fayetteville and Greenville, plus two Raleigh locations, one of which was situated where Crabtree Valley Mall is today. Wooden exteriors resembled a country farmhouse, and the down-home menu featured barbecue sandwiches, country ham biscuits, baked beans, fish filets and hot dogs. Griffith was in Burlington for the ribbon cutting at the Huffine Mill Road store, where, that day, patrons were given a free bottle of “big orange” when purchasing a barbecue sandwich or fried chicken.

In tandem, the partners launched a line of Andy Griffith brand canned beans and black-eyed peas (“with a little more pork and just a pinch of sugar”), whole-hog sausage, bacon and country ham steaks, each with colorful, gingham labels promising, you guessed it, “Gooood eatin’.” 

With all this activity, Andy was flying high by the fall of 1970. It all came crashing down in short order.

Tune-in for Headmaster’s first outing in September was substantial, making it the third most popular new series after The Mary Tyler Moore Show. But, when audiences realized what a low-key bore it was, Headmaster ultimately finished as the 12th least popular show that season. In November 1970, the network announced the start of production for the program they probably should have put forward in the first place, The New Andy Griffith Show.

On the New show, Griffith portrays Andy Sawyer, who boomerangs back to his mid-sized North Carolina hometown of Greenwood (code for Greensboro?) with his wife, two kids and live-in aunt. While settling into a home similar to those found along Tate Street, an act of inexplicable political maneuvering by the City Council results in Sawyer being installed as Mayor Pro Tem.

On the debut episode in January 1971, Emmett and Goober travel from Mayberry to Greenwood to ask their old pal — who oddly has a new last name and life — to use his influence to rezone a plot of land they each want to buy. Also desiring the same plot of real estate is an unnamed character played by Don Knotts, wearing the same salt-and-pepper suit Barney Fife favored on The Andy Griffith Show; heck, he even wore that getup to Taylor’s and Helen Crump’s wedding on Mayberry R.F.D. While Andy greets him like a long-lost friend, Goober and Emmett have no idea who he is.

Like Greensboro in the ’70s, Greenwood was a town fueled by gossip and jealousy. Sawyer’s Aunt Nora fits right in, a Bizarro World Aunt Bee. As portrayed by Ann Morgan Guilbert (The Dick Van Dyke Show, The Nanny), Nora is a nagging, meddling, superstitious, hypochondriac. And Sawyer’s son is no Opie either, wandering around with a paper sack over his head, trying to conquer his fear of darkness. Again, ratings for the initial outing were big before steadily eroding to nearly last place.

Not only was his TV series cancelled, over the next year all seven Andy Griffith Restaurants were closed, while his eponymous line of grocery store items quietly disappeared from shelves.

Throughout the 1970s, Griffith was relegated to starring in lurid TV movies such as Savages, Winter Kill and The Girl in the Empty Grave and portraying hicks on vapid variety shows, his income reliant on commercial endorsements for Ritz crackers, Kraft cheeses, Jell-O and A.1. Steak Sauce. It wasn’t until “North Carolina’s Favorite Son” let go of the idea of being everyone’s “Andy,” returning to the air as NBC’s Matlock in 1986, that Griffith was once again welcomed weekly into American homes.

As for teenager Alderfer who recorded Griffith’s breakthrough football routine? At that time, he had been serving as program director of a local radio station and operating Fidelicraft Recording Studios out of a Queen Anne style home on West Market Street that also housed Moore Music. Moore Music still rents instruments at that address today in a building that replaced the old structure, destroyed by fire in 1974. Alderfer relocated to Florida in 1955 to teach, no evidence he ever coached football. If he had, what it was, was an O. Henry gooood endin’. OH

The creator of TVparty.com, now in its 32nd year online, Billy Ingram is one of the nation’s leading television historians.

Alamanc October 2026

Alamanc October 2026

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Alamanc October 2026

By Ashley Walshe

In October, life and death walk hand in hand, giggling.

Can you hear them through the crisp breeze? The eddies of fallen leaves? Press your ear to pine bark and hear the sap slow.

Acorns drop to the earth like runes tossed upon a casting cloth. Gray squirrels scramble to secure an unknown future. The crows blurt their dismal premonitions.

Frost! Silence! Death! Rot!

Yes, it’s all coming. And yet, the squirrels build their caches; the crickets are still singing; earthworms and fungi hum of alchemy and fertile soil.

All of life weaves itself into the endless fabric of existence — even through death.

Become food. Become earth. Become eternal.

And on this day, when the sky is blue and sunlight transforms colors to exalted states, become acutely aware of this fleeting moment.

Cascades of crimson maple leaves. Kaleidoscopes of monarchs. Murmurations of starlings. Here and gone — at least from sight — in a brisk autumnal flash.

At once, a crow cracks a nut with its sleek, sharp beak. Woodpecker tucks them into dead, damp trees. A squirrel buries a soon-to-be-forgotten reserve where, weeks from now, an acorn will sprout a taproot.

The orb weavers spin their final webs, wrapping their eggs in tear-shaped sacs of silk.

Can you hear the laughter now?

Life! Death! the crows chant. Rebirth!

The light is fading; the air smells of musk and mischief; the tapestry continues to surprise and delight.

The maple tree in front of the doorstep burned like a gigantic red torch. The oaks along the roadway glowed yellow and bronze. The fields stretched like a carpet of jewels, emerald and topaz and garnet. Everywhere she walked the color shouted and sang around her.

— Elizabeth George Speare, The Witch of Blackbird Pond

Oak + Squirrel Forever

Nothing like the gentle thuds of acorns raining down upon the quietly turning earth.

Did you know that a single gray squirrel will scatter-hoard up to 10,000 of them over the course of one season? And fail to unearth roughly three-quarters?

Oak knows.

That’s a lot of potential — entire forests — safely cradled by the wet, dark soil.

The squirrels eat their fill. The oak trees continue their wild giving. The seeds of life sleep underground, patiently awaiting the return of spring.  OH

  The Autumn Cauldron

    (with apologies to Shakespeare)

Hoot of owl and hush of frog, caw of crow and whiff of dog . . .

The autumn cauldron bubbles.

Can you smell it? The richness of wet earth and fallen leaves; the punch of stink bug and walnut husk; the heavy musk of slow decay?

Add to that the woody depth of warming spices: cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamom and clove.

Now, throw in some texture.

The howl of coyote and wind. The crackle of fire. Dried corn stalks, wine-colored berries, pine sap, turtle shell and bone.

Sweeten with pumpkin and apple. Brighten with blue skies and luminous foliage. Deepen with red wigglers, spoiled fruit and mushroom spores.

Double, double, watch it bubble.

Tea Leaf Astrologer

Tea Leaf Astrologer

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Libra

(September 23 – October 22)

Someone’s feeling extra flirty this month. Mirror face aside, get ready for a cosmic reset on Oct. 10 sure to set your gaze in a bold new direction. Of course, this does mean you’ll need to make a choice. And with your ruling planet Venus in retrograde now through mid-November, one choice you ought to make is self-restraint, particularly when it comes to extraneous spending. Hint: Shop your own closet, sweetheart. You’re already extra.

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

Let yourself be surprised.

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Listen for the crows.

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

Host a soup swap.

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

Check the air filters.

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Change the batteries.

Aries (March 21 – April 19)

There’s a first for everything.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

Add more nutmeg.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

Do the words bobtail cat mean anything to you?

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

Explore moon meditations.

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

It’s time for a color refresh.

Virgo (August 23 – September 22) 

Embrace the wild rumpus.  OH

Zora Stellanova lives in the N.C. mountains with her wolfdogs, Venus and Lilith. Although she prefers divining with loose-leaf pu-erh, she recommends a mugwort and passionflower blend for those seeking wisdom and clarity from the dream realm. 

Sazerac October 2026

Sazerac

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Sazerac October 2026

History 101

From October 25 to November 1, Greensboro streets will turn blue and gold as North Carolina Agricultural and Technical State University celebrates its 100th homecoming, popularly known as GHOE, the Greatest Homecoming on Earth.

Founded in 1891 and recently ranked by Forbes as the No. 1 public HBCU (Historically Black College and University) in the United States, A&T is one of the country’s top producers of STEM graduates and is marching steadily toward the prestigious Research-1 status, the highest and most coveted classification for doctoral universities in the U.S. So it’s no surprise that the nation’s largest HBCU is planning a centennial celebration like no other.

“This year is truly historic,” says Crystal Boyce, vice chancellor for alumni relations (class of ’07 and ’15), “and reaching this milestone is a testament to the generations of Aggies who built and sustained this tradition over a century.”

Boyce maintains that homecoming is “more than just a celebration,” noting her first homecoming felt like “a family reunion multiplied because it celebrates legacy. It celebrates history. It celebrates excellence, innovation and leadership.”

And A&T’s preparing for a legendary bash. In August, A&T hosted Aggies in the Ballpark at the Grasshoppers’ stadium. A month later, A&T headed south for an Aggies in Atlanta brunch, teaming up with one of its 41 alumni chapters to spread the word. Alumni have heard — and 200,000 Aggies are expected to answer — the call to come home. That’s almost two-thirds of the city’s population!

So, as the city welcomes record-breaking crowds, Boyce advises, “Pack your Aggie Pride and patience. Plan ahead and plan to arrive early. Wear comfortable shoes. Most importantly, come ready to celebrate.”

The week-long commemoration kicks off with a coronation. Attendees can dance to the beat of the Blue and Gold Marching Machine at the homecoming parade or wax nostalgic with traditions like the football game (this year versus Elon University), tailgating, the homecoming concert, and donor receptions. There’s something for every Aggie.

Folks who didn’t snag a ticket to the sold-out game can watch it at Aggies on Elm, catch the parade, host their own homecoming parties or pull up at GHOE events around “da ’Boro.” Want to join the festivities? Just look for the streets of blue and gold.

Follow the Centennial Homecoming website for info: www.ncat.edu/homecoming/100/index.php.

  — Gale Greenlee

1927 CIAA Football Championship Team Photo. Football Photos Collections. University Archives and Special Collections, F.D. Bluford Library, NC A&T State University

Photographs courtesy of North Carolina A&T State University

JOI DE VIVRE

Ratphobia: Amidst the Halloween preparations and spooky costumes that will soon be roaming the streets, I can’t help but think about the one fear I have yet to overcome: my fear of mascots. Specifically, rat mascots. It all started on my sixth birthday, when my mama decided to throw my party at Chuck E. Cheese. If you’ve been under a rodent-free rock for the last five decades — was your childhood even fun? — let me set the scene. Imagine a rat-themed play place for kids complete with pizza, games, a jungle gym and, of course, a person in a giant rat costume who comes out every hour to dance with the birthday kid. This giant rat, who was at least three times my size and wore a devious smile that never moved, shook its rat-tailed booty my way — did I mention this was supposed to be a kids’ play place? For 6-year-old Joi, there was nothing scarier. So, for the next few years, whenever I was faced with Chuck, whether at a pal’s party or when he made a surprise elementary school appearance, I would immediately find the nearest table and curl up into a ball. Now, at 23 years old, I still haven’t outgrown my fear of rat costumes. In fact, I’ve somehow managed to develop a second fear: real rats. Let’s just say it’s probably best to keep me far away from all play places, sewers and anywhere else that might contain a surprise visit from a long-tailed rodent.

— Joi Floyd

Window on the Past

Image courtesy of the Blandwood Museum Collection

The Blandwood Mansion is a true staple of Greensboro’s architectural scene, known for its striking Italianate Tuscan Villa design and, of course, its historic windows. Tucked away in the east parlor, this window is one of many that need restoration to make the place really shine. You can help Preservation Greensboro do a little window shopping by sponsoring the museum’s window restoration, giving others a chance to look through history instead of looking past it. Info: preservationgreensboro.org/general-6.

Capturing the Spirit

The Emerald Isle has no shortage of spooky stories and Greensboro artist Paul Nixon is bringing some of them home. Born in Ireland and now a Greensboro resident, Nixon is showcasing Within the Realm of Shadows: Whispers from the White Mountain, a high-contrast, monochrome photographic investigation of the rugged landscapes of County Sligo, Ireland.

The exhibit is a journey through the folklore Nixon grew up hearing from his grandmother, Margaret, whose stories helped shape his fascination with Éire’s mysterious landscapes. “There’s a little bit of magic to Ireland and these photographs take them closer to that magic,” he says. That magic is deeply connected to his homeland’s history and folklore. Halloween itself, notes Nixon, traces back to Samhain, an ancient Celtic festival marking the transition into fall. “It goes back to the early Celts. Each and every time that I would travel back to Ireland, I would seek out places that had that essence to it,” says Nixon, who’s been building this collection for over 20 years. “I found my purpose in life through the arts and how I can inspire people.”

And through this exhibit, he hopes to inspire visitors to see Ireland as well as its ghosts, fairies and stories in a new light. Visit his exhibit all month long at The Marshall Muse Gallery. Info: themarshallmusegallery.com

Unsolicited Advice

All Hallow’s Eve is creepin’ around the corner and we have a feeling you’ve yet to pick a costume. Though it may be too late to find a good ’fit at your local Halloween store, we’ve got some ideas up our batwings that you can make in your own home. After all, there’s nothing scarier than being costume-less on Oct. 31. So don’t fret, just pull out your trusty scissors and duct tape and craft away.

Sometimes, you just can’t beat a classic. A ghost is the ultimate last-minute costume and the perfect way to satisfy your boo bug. All you need is an old, white sheet and a pair of scissors to cut out two eye holes. Throw it over your head and, voilà — you’ll feel like the most beautiful ghoul in the world. Bonus, there’s lots of room under that sheet for stashin’ treats.

You may not know your way around the kitchen but with an apron and a chef’s hat, who’s going to know what’s not cooking? A chef costume is quick, easy and convincing enough to make everyone believe you can actually whip up a five-course meal. Add a wooden spoon or spatula for the finishing touch. Just try not to get caught when someone asks you to make dinner. Yes, chef!

If you’re looking for something with a little more fright, then spin yourself into a mummy with materials you probably already have at home. Grab some old white sheets, toilet paper or gauze and start wrapping. Leave a little room to see and walk — and maybe go to the bathroom — because stumbling blindly around the party may be scary but explaining the hospital bill afterward is even more frightening. For an extra creepy touch, add some smudged makeup or fake dirt to give your costume that freshly escaped-from-the-tomb look.

Omnivorous Reader

Omnivorous Reader

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Madcap Mayhem

In a zany debut novel

By Anne Blythe

Remember Best in Show, that quirky Christopher Guest mockumentary that pokes fun at eccentric dog owners and the competitive world of breeding and showing purebreds? Fast forward 25 years.

Mimi Montgomery, a Washington-based Axios reporter who hails from Gaston County, has taken that same chaotic culture, given it a modern twist, dropped in a body count, and delivered a wacky spoof of millennial dog culture in her debut mystery, Murder Bites.

In this suburban satire, Montgomery takes us to the fictitious Glenville, South Carolina, where protagonist Margot Cartwright stands out like a sore thumb. Margot is thrust into a sea of cliquey moms when her husband inherits his childhood home and moves her and their two children into an unfamiliar culture, a world away from the life they knew and liked in the nation’s capital.

She detests her new life. And when we first encounter the willing outcast, she is preoccupied with the whole town’s seeming obsession with a TV reality show called Pawsh and the lengths to which her neighbors will go to get their bougie pups a chance at prime time.

Margot’s mutt, Sid Vicious, did not measure up to the show’s standards, but even if he had, she would not have subjected her lovable companion to such drama.

This was a town where Quinn Chandler and her Lhasa Apso wore matching pelts. Tippi Hayburn carried her pug in a pink BabyBjörn on her chest. And Sally-Claire Foster, Hattie O’Connor and Weezie Whiteagle wrangled their dogs into matching floral rompers, “making them dead ringers for the von Trapp children’s curtain wear.” With a Pawsh camera crew in town from Los Angeles, dogs romp across the center green in their “jaunty, tartan, smoking jackets” and “custom-fitted shearling booties.”

Margot is a woman who considers “public disruption an art form,” and she counts herself among the masters of her craft, just as Leonardo da Vinci was in his artistic world. That might mean strapping a homemade sandwich board onto Sid Vicious calling for an end to designer puppy mills and keeping Pawsh out of Glenville. She had no qualms about sneaking around in the cloak of darkness to yank “Everything is Pawsh-ible” signs — planted by members of the “Mommy Mafia” —  out of her Stepford-esque neighborhood.

“The Mafiosas,” Montgomery writes, “had swiftly shunned Margot upon her arrival to town, and so she studied them with the fringe fascination of Jane Goodall perched under a jungle leaf in Tanzania, watching as they carpooled their children around in $80,000 luxury SUVs, ginormous wedding rings sparkling, or as they carried out the kind of hobby-jobs well-off women dabble in when bored — professional organizing, assembling charcuterie boards, mid-level marketing schemes.”

What Margot found “perhaps most integral to the Mommy Mafiosos,” Montgomery continued, “were the companions perpetually nestled in the cradle of their sculpted biceps, the kind of squirrel-dog hybrids that weighed about the same as a head of lettuce while also costing about the same as a year of in-state tuition.”

When signs go missing, protests become disruptive or one of the more insufferable dog moms receives weekly orders of unsolicited Lord Farquaad bob wigs to match her hairstyle, Margot usually is behind the antics.

So when Boomer, the local dog walker, is found dead in a front yard Halloween display with Home Depot skeletons, Margot, persona non grata in the neighborhood, quickly becomes suspect number one. Only this time, she didn’t do it.

Margot sets out to clear her name, but she can’t do it alone. Two unlikely neighbors band together to help her with the sleuthing — Anne, the stylish, 70-something widow who relishes reigning over the neighborhood HOA with an iron fist, and Sally-Claire, who sours on the Mommy Mafia and their judgey ways.

Madcap investigations ensue. Twists and turns occur, keeping readers guessing.

Montgomery’s debut novel is zany, laugh-out loud funny in places, and a complete joyride, packed with entertaining characters and cultural caricatures deftly planted throughout the pages.  OH

Anne Blythe has been a reporter in North Carolina for more than three decades covering city halls, higher education, the courts, crime, hurricanes, ice storms, droughts, floods, college sports, health care and the many wonderful characters who make this state such an interesting place.

Animal Tale

Animal Tale

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What Happens When the Bucks Stop Here?

Gardening to support wildlife is complicated

By Ross Howell Jr.

It was an epiphany.

On an autumn morning, I stood at the kitchen sink at our house in Blowing Rock, rinsing dishes, gazing absently out the kitchen window. Then, in single file just feet from the window — one, two, three, four, five, six whitetail bucks ambled past!

Their summer red coats were sleek, their thick racks wide and covered in velvet. At the corner of the house, each buck turned downhill to follow the N.C. native plant garden I’d been working on for years. And yes, I guess it was now officially a wildlife corridor.

I’d never seen a party of bachelor bucks so numerous, yet here they were, not more than the length of a football field from Main Street. What validation for a project! 

Season upon season, I’d hacked away at non-native invasive plants such as stiltgrass, Japanese knotweed, creeping Charlie, English ivy and other menaces. My intent was to make space along a shaded woods’ edge, thanks to a magnificent white oak, for natives such as marginal wood ferns, Christmas ferns, Jack-in-the-pulpits, wood asters and snakeroot.

I’d also planted Fraser firs, redbuds, hybrid chestnut trees, winterberries, oakleaf hydrangeas, rhododendrons and fire azaleas. Plus, I had nourished goldenrods and planted cone flowers. My beds of mountain mint were flourishing.

There’d been setbacks, of course. The deer had gobbled every black-eyed Susan I’d planted down to the ground. Likewise for Solomon’s seal. They’d treated the purple asters and Stoke’s asters like a salad bar. They’d virtually extinguished the big patch of jewelweed that had been the foundation of the native garden. And they browsed the lower branches of the chestnuts and winterberries at every opportunity.

Still, I felt successful. Over time, birds and pollinators began to grow more plentiful and varied. Red squirrels, bluejays and crows feasted on white oak acorns. A black bear decided to dig up and dine on a yellow jackets’ nest in my bed of cranesbill. From our back deck overlooking the corridor, I’d watched a mother raccoon lumber by — two kits in tow.

Previously, I’d never seen more than a pair of bachelor bucks hanging together in our neighborhood. Now I was hosting a party of six.

Even wildlife biologists are a little hazy in explaining why buck deer gather in groups prior to the mating season.

But what happens is clear. While the bucks’ antlers are sheathed in velvet and before their hormones start to rage, they work out a hierarchy among themselves through minor scuffles and intimidation, establishing who’s alpha buck — and who’s not.

That’s a real survival advantage. Because when those hormones churn and the bucks’ aggressions rise, they scrub off the antler velvet to expose hardened, sharp points that can inflict serious, even fatal injuries in a fight.

If you’re an experienced gardener or if you’ve seen any one of the après bachelor party films in The Hangover movie trilogy, you know what happens next.

For a bachelor buck deer, there is no better antler scrubber or faux jousting partner than a lithe, healthy sapling. And my six bachelors threw quite the party. Thankfully, Mike Tyson’s tiger wasn’t invited.

I returned to the house a week later to find that one chestnut’s trunk was girdled. Two redbuds had broken limbs and deep gashes in their trunks. A third redbud looked like it had been run through a wood chipper.

So, belatedly, I bought metal posts and chicken wire to make baskets that would protect all the saplings. The girdled chestnut and the shattered redbud I sawed off nearly at ground level, below the damaged bark. Redbuds are tough. I expect they’ll sprout and I’m hopeful the chestnut will, too. I was sorry to lose all that growth, though. The chestnut had stood a good 10 feet tall.

Now all the saplings and stumps are nestled securely behind wire.

What happens at a Vegas bachelor party stays at a Vegas bachelor party.

And I certainly can’t blame the bucks.

Another gardening lesson learned.  OH

Ross Howell Jr. is a contributing writer.