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Squirreling Away the Worst Christmas Ever

A ghostly green trail recalls the dispirits of Christmas past

By Cynthia Adams

One of the things we must navigate in our marriage is different perspectives on Christmas. My husband does not feel the same joy I do. For him, it’s more about acceptance. Losing his father when he was a boy left him painfully marked. Even now, the holiday is simply too much for him — the gifts, the preparations, the decorating, the meal planning. It overloads his pleasure circuits, which blow out as predictably as tree lights. 

I gamely ignored him until the most horrible, awful year hit, when Lady Luck turned on me. But that year didn’t stand out solely because of an unfortunate Christmas. The whole year had slid progressively downhill, like butter off a hot corncob, leading to its concluding wreckage, resulting in a hot, slippery mess around New Year’s.

The year of disappointments was ushered in by a family death, which was already a lot to handle. But then I came home for lunch one workday to discover everything on our front porch — the charming front porch with freshly restored Chinese Chippendale railings — was stripped bare apart from the mailbox. Someone had backed into the drive we shared with our Westerwood neighbor and loaded up a wicker sofa, two wicker chairs, a large antique ceramic vat that held our sneakers and an antique-pine room divider, leaving behind a single chair cushion. And our sneakers.

I wept. 

This was before exterior cameras and Ring wireless doorbells captured every package delivery and any porch pirate. These criminals practically had carte blanche. If they’d had more time, I imagine they would have taken the porch swing I’d recently repainted to match the house trim and removed the window box.

The police were sympathetic, but seemed to have nothing to offer beyond suggesting we speak to the neighbors to suss out any intel. Our neighbors, a bit elderly, had heard nary a peep.

By the holidays, I’d been in a yearlong funk. My husband attempted to cheer me up. “Let’s go Christmas shopping and get you a Christmas tree!” he announced one Friday night with enthusiasm. I looked up, startled. “Really?” I stammered. 

“Let’s go!” he said, suggesting we carry cash to shop more efficiently. Both of us had a few Benjamins in our wallets. We went to the mall, splitting up for various errands, and my heart lifted at joining the bustle of shoppers. As I stood with an armful of toys, a nicely dressed woman bumped me. “I can’t make this line go any faster,” I reproached, arching my brow when she did it a second time.

By the time I reached the register and deposited my gifts, I noticed something odd. The leather gloves on top of my bucket-style bag were gone. Heart thundering, I realized the wallet beneath was, too.

I stammered to the clerk that someone had taken my expensive wallet, a gift from my best friend, and she summoned mall security.

As I waited for them outside, my husband arrived, frowning. I kept it together until we got to the car. 

“I had nearly $500 in cash,” I moaned, tears streaming. My husband patted me, looking miserable.

“Honey, let’s go buy a Christmas tree and salvage this night.”

I took my hands down from my face and blew my nose. “I don’t think I can,” I sputtered.

“We’re getting a Christmas tree!” he insisted heartily. 

It was late. Many of the tree lots were closing. We cruised along High Point Road until we got to the former Hechinger’s, which had a tree lot out front.

“Here!” my husband soothed, parking. I protested. I was tired. Dispirited. “You can decorate it tomorrow!” he said, hoping to jolly me along. The odd fluorescence of mercury-vapor pole lights made all the trees unappealing and I stood listlessly.

“I’m picking one out,” he said, insistent.

He chose a tree, noting it seemed to shed a bit while dragging it to the car. I kept my mouth shut. 

“We’ll put it in a bucket of water till morning,” I suggested lamely. 

After spending Saturday morning verifying that credit cards were stopped and reporting the stolen checks, I pulled decorations out of the attic to redeem the day. In the glare of sunlight, the tree looked strangely green. Unnaturally green. And still droopy.

We dragged it in, strung lights and swept up dropped needles. By the time it was decorated, it seemed to have shed at least a fourth of the needles. I didn’t much care. “Why aren’t these needles brown?” I asked my husband, cupping them in my hand. 

“I . . . think they spray painted a dying tree green,” he said, avoiding my eyes.

“Per-fect,” I said, biting off the second syllable

But as the days passed, I learned things. Our insurance agent suggested we file an official police report, versus the mall security report, in order to take a tax loss. Familiar faces came to the house to take my statement. They remembered me, too.

“Tough year,” the officer murmured. “Thanks,” I managed. 

The officers reached out after Christmas with an update.  Asking if I could identify my robber, they produced a sizable album of mug shots. Having pointedly ask her to stop bumping me I knew I could. Thumbing through pages, I found her: polished-looking and business-like. 

She could have been a school principal, or bank exec.

“That’s her!” The pickpocket was known to hit busy shopping areas. The bump-and-lift move was a classic technique.

“She’s a professional,” they said. 

My emptied wallet was found among others discarded in a Durham hotel trash can. 

When they left, I sank down before the Charlie Brown-pitiful Christmas tree. I wanted it gone. The strings of lights practically slid off, taking more of the determinedly green needles with them. I stripped off the ornaments and dragged the very dead tree out to the curb.

In coming months, ground squirrels would quickly scamper over the nuclear green tree needles. Even after we moved two years later, a stubborn ghost trail remained from the front porch to the sidewalk.   

Embedded. Evergreen. Impervious.

Omnivorous Reader

OMNIVOROUS READER

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Finishing Touches

How Katherine Min’s last novel came to be

By Anne Blythe

The story about the making of The Fetishist, Katherine Min’s posthumously published novel, is almost as interesting as the book itself. It has been touted as a novel ahead of its time — a comic, yet sincere, tender and occasionally befuddling exploration of sexual and racial politics.

The story is told through three main characters: Daniel Karmody, a white Irish-American violinist from whom the novel gets its name; Alma Soon Ja Lee, a Korean-American cellist, who’s only 13 when the first of many fetishists she encounters whispers, “Oriental girls are so sexy”; and Kyoto Tokugawa, a 23-year-old Japanese American punk rocker who devises a madcap assassination plot to avenge the man she believes to be responsible for her mother’s suicide.

The novel starts 20 years after the estrangement of Alma and Daniel and ends with them reconnecting. In between, readers get to see Kyoto’s zany failed assassination attempt of Daniel and subsequent kidnapping. They’ll learn of his dalliances with a cast of women — many of them musicians, such as Kyoto’s mother, Emi — while he longed for the excitement and thrill he felt with Alma.

The intertwining of the narratives of these protagonists and the intriguing significant others in their orbits lead to alluring plot twists and a timeless appraisal of the white male’s carnal objectification of Asian women. But let’s start with the end of the book and the touching afterword by Kayla Min Andrews, Min’s daughter, a fiction writer like her mother, who explains how The Fetishist came to be published.

It almost wasn’t.

Min was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2014 and died in 2019, the day after her 60th birthday. She was an accomplished writer who taught at the University of North Carolina at Asheville for 11 years, as well as a brief stint at Queens University in Charlotte. Her first published novel, Secondhand World, a story about a Korean-American teen clashing with immigrant parents, came out in 2006 to literary acclaim and was one of two finalists for the prestigious PEN Bingham Prize. During the ensuing years, Min worked on what would become her second and final novel, The Fetishist, reading portions to her daughter over the years.

“My new novel is very different from Secondhand World,” Min told her daughter during a phone call Andrews details in her afterword. “It’s going to have many characters, omniscient narration. Lots of shit is going to happen — suicide, kidnapping, attempted murder. It’ll be arch and clever, but always heartfelt. I’m gonna channel Nabokov. And part of it takes place in Florence, so I have to go there as research.”

Min completed a draft of The Fetishist sometime in 2013, her daughter writes. “I assumed she would pass it to me when she was ready,” Andrews wrote. “But she was still revising, polishing.” Then the cancer diagnosis hit.

Although fiction had long been Min’s forte, she stunned her family shortly after getting the news, letting them and others know that she no longer was interested in what she had been writing and instead found purpose in personal essays examining her experiences with illness and dying.

“She never looked back,” Andrews wrote. “When anyone asked about The Fetishist, Mom would say, ‘I’m done with fiction,’ in the same tone she would say, ‘I’m a word wanker,’ or, ‘I’m terrific at math.’ Matter-of-fact, with a dash of defiant pride. She didn’t refer to The Fetishist as an ‘unfinished’ novel. She called it ‘abandoned.’”

And that was that.

As Min’s life was coming to an end, she and Andrews discussed many things, such as where she wanted her “remaining bits of money” to go, and how the playlist for her memorial service should include The Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go,” DeVotchKa’s “How It Ends,” and Janis Joplin’s “Get It While You Can.”

“What we did not discuss in the hospice center was her abandoned novel. Or her essay collection. Or anything related to posthumous publishing,” Andrews wrote. After several years of grieving, therapy and a new celebration of her mother, Andrews and others saw to it that The Fetishist, found nearly completed in manuscript form on her mom’s computer, would be shared with others. Andrews helped fill in the story’s gaps.

“I am so happy Mom’s beautiful novel is being published; I am so sad she is not here to see it happen,” Andrews wrote. “I’m happy The Fetishist’s publication process is helping me grow as a writer and a person; I’m sad Mom’s death is the reason I’m playing this role. I suppose I no longer conceptualize joy and sorrow as opposites, because everything related to The Fetishist’s publication makes me feel flooded with both at once.”

Sorrow and joy are among the emotions that flood through The Fetishist, too. Min had it right when she told her daughter her novel would be “arch and clever, and very heartfelt.” The author’s note at the beginning of the novel sums it up well:

“This is a story, a fairy tale of sorts, about three people who begin in utter despair. There is even a giant, a buried treasure (a tiny one), a hero held captive, a kind of ogre (a tiny one), and a sleeping beauty,” she advises her readers. “And because it’s a fairy tale, it has a happy ending. For the hero, the ogre, and the sleeping beauty, and for the giant, too. After all, every story has a happy ending, depending on where you put THE END.”

Almanac

ALMANAC

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Almanac December

By Ashley Walshe

December is a bite of ginger, a dusting of sugar, a thick swirl of molasses.

Beyond the kitchen window, the quiet earth glitters in gentle light. Birdsong warms the frosty air. Save for the twitch of slender ears, a cottontail rabbit sits frozen in a sunbeam.

Just as the seasons announce themselves with unmistakable clarity, so, too, does this day. You reach for a hand of ginger, a paring knife, a timeworn recipe. Today is the day for ginger cookies.

As you peel and mince, the redolent fragrance of fresh ginger awakens your senses. Imagine growing in the darkness as this root did. The way life might shape you. What gifts for healing you might hold.

Butter softens on the stovetop. You stir in the ginger, brown sugar, cinnamon and molasses. A pinch of sea salt. Vanilla extract. Another pinch of sea salt. 

Whisk in the egg. Add the flour and baking powder. The steady dance of wooden spoon stirs something deep within you, too.

This is how it goes. Homemade cookies send you time traveling. As you shape the dough, the timeworn hands of the ones who shaped you begin to clarify. 

Memories are sharp and warm and sweet — here and gone like frost across the leaf-littered lawn.

As for the cookies? Same, same.

Sink your teeth into the golden edges, the chewy centers, the sugar-laced magic. Delight in the depth of flavor. Let the ginger bite back.

Sprig and a Peck

Here’s a fun fact about a favorite Yuletide parasite. The word mistletoe is derived from the Old English misteltan, which roughly translates to “dung on a twig.” You can thank its high-flying seed mules for that. Although the white berries are toxic to humans, many bird species rely on mistletoe as a mineral-rich food source throughout the barren days of winter. If you find yourself standing beneath a festive sprig with the one you adore, consider tucking the etymology morsel away for later.

Moment of Gratitude

Cold air makes for dazzling night skies. Check out Aries (the ram), Triangulum (the triangle) and Perseus (the hero who beheaded Medusa). Not a night owl? Christmas Bird Counts happening across the Carolinas this month are a constellation in and of themselves. If rusty blackbirds and yellow-rumped warblers are more your speed, consider joining a local count to get in on the action. (Map available at carolinabirdclub.org.)

Stars and birds aside, don’t forget to count your blessings. The great wheel continues to turn. Winter solstice arrives on December 21. As we celebrate the longest night of the year — and the promise of brighter days to come — give thanks for the warmth and brilliance in your own life. You know what they say: The best things in life aren’t things.

December has the clarity, the simplicity, and the silence you need for the best fresh start of your life.

— Vivian Swift

O.Henry Ending

O.HENRY ENDING

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A Tooth Fairytale

Straight from the mouths of babes

By Cassie Bustamante

Once upon a time, a little boy named Wilder lived with his family in a wee brick house situated deep in the enchanted forest of Starmount. His father, Christoph, was a kind and hardworking man who traversed the land each week to to ensure that fellow countrymen would have plentiful CAVA pita chips. His fair, raven-haired mother, Cassandra, wove stories together for the townspeople’s entertainment.

One Sunday evening, huddled around the kitchen table with his mother and father, Wilder pushed away his plate of warm, soft pita bread and steaming lentils.

“My tooth is wiggling,” he lamented. 

“Oh, ‘twill soon fall out!” his mom exclaimed, clapping her hands together in glee.

Little Wilder’s eyes welled with tears. “Will it hurt?”

“No, my son,” quoth Christoph. “Alas, it happens to all of us. But I bear good news! New teeth doth grow in their place. Just look at your mother’s beautiful smile!”

Blushing, Cassandra grinned for her beloved. “And,” she leaned in and whispered, “if you put your tooth under your pillow, the Tooth Fairy will bestow upon you a gift.”

The next morning just before the golden sun rose above the trees, Christoph loaded his trusty steed, Ford, and promised a safe return. But, of course, that very evening as Wilder was brushing his teeth like all good boys do, he felt something strange. With his elfin finger, he plucked something white and wondrous from his mouth and beheld it in his open palm.

“Your tooth!” Cassandra exulted! 

He burst into a fit of giggles. “The Tooth Fairy is coming tonight!!!”

His mother dressed the excited child in his bedclothes and tucked him in. “Sleep well, my love,” she said, “for the fairy only visits sleeping children.”

But lo, the Tooth Fairy, who should have known this day would soon be upon her, was ill prepared, yet determined to make her first visit extra special. Little boys love insects, she thought, but fireflies were out of season. As luck, or perhaps magic, would have it, she reached into her drawstring pouch and pulled out a 5-pound gold coin — the perfect first tooth prize. 

She rummaged through cabinets, stumbling upon a strand of twinkling, tiny fairy lights. Ah, better than a hundred fireflies! Soon after, she discovered a clear purple unopened bottle of bubbles. Who doesn’t like bubbles?

Flitting into Wilder’s chamber, she snuck her spritely hand underneath his pillow and swiped the tooth. Pecking him ever so softly upon the cheek, she left her offering, glimmering magically, on his bedside table. Pleased with her last-minute merry-making, she patted herself on the back, fluttered her wings and dashed off into the starry night.

A few hours later, Cassandra was awakened by a sound. The fairy? But her door swung open and in walked a weary Wilder.

Tears streamed down his rosy cheeks as he sneezed and wheezed, tiny, iridescent bubbles emerging from his nostrils and ears. When he opened his mouth to speak, his breath smelled faintly of Dawn, his mother’s dish soap.

“The Tooth Fairy came,” he hiccuped, “and she brought me water that I don’t like!” Out came a mournful wail, followed by a string of bubbles that floated to the ceiling, where they popped in a rain of tiny, glimmering droplets.

Cassandra leapt out of bed and dashed to his room. The twinkling bottle sat with its lid ajar, easily mistaken for some sort of magic potion — or, for a parched and sleepy little one, a wonderful draught of water. 

“Did you drink this?” she asked.

Wilder nodded sadly and coughed, another bubble springing from his lips.

After an ancient cure — animal crackers — to cleanse his throat, the effervescent coughing simmered down and he settled into bed, where he quickly dozed off into blissful slumber. Every few breaths, a small bubble escaped from his nose. 

     And every now and again to this day, if a bubble blows by you on a twilight breeze, you can be sure that, somewhere, Wilder is snoring softly. As for his mother, she’s still weaving fantastical yet mostly true stories together for the townspeople.

Tea Leaf Astrologer

TEA LEAF ASTROLOGER

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Sagittarius

(November 22 – December 21)

You know that shameless party guest who just can’t stop with the eggnog? Darling, you are the eggnog. Rich, indulgent and best in small doses, most folks simply don’t know how to handle you. This month kicks off with a Sagittarius New Moon conjunct a retrograde Mercury in Sagittarius (read: you’re going to feel tipsy). Wait until December 5 to dive into that new project you’re all charged up about. Success may take a while, but the seeds you plant now will take root.

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

The gift isn’t always obvious.

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

Don’t leave before the second act.

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Make friends with your color palette.

Aries (March 21 – April 19) 

Look under the couch.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

Cut the fluff.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

Invest in wool socks.

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

Double dog dare you to care less.

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

Two words: sugared cranberries.

Virgo (August 23 – September 22)

Tacky is as tacky does.

Libra (September 23 – October 22)

Go for the upgrade.

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

Prepare to dazzle yourself.

Chaos Theory

CHAOS THEORY

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All Aboard!

A magical ride on the Polar Express

By Cassie Bustamante

The rain pelts us sideways as we stand under a flimsy Ikea umbrella, not meant to withstand North-Pole-in-the-Piedmont winds — or a light breeze, for that matter. I huddle in closely to Chris as our youngest, 5-year-old Wilder, nestles against our legs. Wilder’s rosy cheeks match his cherry-red Nikes and the Santa-suits on his gray fleece pajama pants, which are sopping wet. My own red-and-white, buffalo-check flannel bottoms are also drenched. Chris is high and dry above the waist, thanks to a red raincoat, but he clearly didn’t embrace the Polar Express spirit as Wilder and I did by donning holiday sleepwear. Instead, he wears the fabric of our city — denim. Never a great choice in a rainstorm, but when we’d left the house an hour ago, only a soft drizzle was falling.

A couple of months earlier when I’d booked the Polar Express train ride at the N.C. Transportation Museum in Spencer, it had seemed like a great idea. With two jaded teenagers in the house who snicker at Santa, it’s getting harder and harder for me to conjure up holiday magic each year, even for the little one. In the days leading up to our North Pole excursion, we’d repeatedly read Chris Van Allsburg’s book. Now, “Seeing is believing” keeps echoing in my mind, reminding me why I am here. But standing amid strangers in the mud and muck as we await the arrival of our train, what I’m seeing is anything but magical. And then I remember the rest of the passage: “Seeing is believing, but sometimes the most real things in the world are the things we can’t see.”

“Choooo-choooooo . . . ” the train pulls up to our platform, disrupting my thoughts. The shivering crowd of families, matching pajama sets clinging damply to their bodies, erupts into cheers. Wilder’s face, along with those of the other young children surrounding us, finally begins to glow with excitement. Meanwhile, parents, grandparents and adults alike are thinking how magical a warm and dry passenger car is going to be.

“All aboard!” A behatted conductor yells as a boy dressed in jammies joins him on the platform to act out the late-night boarding scene from the book. Meanwhile the adults in the crowd of cold, wet excursionists await entrance. I hear mutters of what I’m thinking: “Just let us on the train!”

Finally, the gates open. A collective sigh of relief echoes through the cabin as we all find our seats. Along each side of the interior, garlands of popcorn and beads, red mug ornaments and greenery glisten against strings of lights. On each seat sits a golden ticket. Wide-eyed, Wilder holds his up: “A real golden ticket!”

Soon, an attendant asks for our tickets. I reflexively pull my iPhone from my pocket to show our three Etix vouchers. Big, fat, nonbelieving adult mistake. Wilder slaps his forehead. “Mom, not those!” The smiling agent rescues me and repeats: “May I see your tickets,” she says, enunciating that last word as it clicks into place. Wilder, to the rescue, proudly hands it to her.

She goes to town with a paper punch, handing our tickets back, each one featuring the letter “B” cut into it. I lean into Wilder and whisper, “For ‘believe.’” He peers at me through the holes of his ticket, his blue eyes sparkling with wonder.

The train roars to life, chug-chugging along the track. Through its speakers, “Hot Chocolate” begins to sound — Hot! Hot! Ooh, we got it! — as the train’s chefs and attendants perform a lively dance in the aisle, dispensing chunky, chocolate-chip cookies and cups of steaming hot cocoa.

While Wilder nibbles, breaking off bits with the biggest hunks of chocolate first, the gentle voice of a grandfatherly narrator begins reading the book that inspired this ride. A few attendants, holding the largest copies I’ve ever seen, walk up and down the aisle so that everyone can see the illustrations. Though he’s seen the pages a million times, Wilder cranes his neck for a good look, savoring every moment of his personal Polar Express ride.

As the train eases to a crawl into “The North Pole,” Wilder plasters his face to the window. I stop myself from ruining the magic by scolding him for fingerprints on the glass. His gaze is  locked on an oversized Santa, whose downy beard billows in the wind. And then Santa raises his hand into the air. In it, a sleigh bell. “The first gift of Christmas!” he proclaims before handing it to the pajamaed boy we saw earlier on the platform.

With a basket full of sleigh bells, Santa boards our train car and makes his way down the aisle, handing one to every passenger as the jingling slowly sweeps from front of the car to the rear. Seated in the very back, Wilder’s anticipation mirrors the chiming crescendo. With a white-gloved hand, Santa gently places the very last sleigh bell in my little boy’s clammy palm with a “Merry Christmas.” Words escape Wilder, who, for the next minute, just stares in wonder at the treasure in his grasp.

“Though I’ve grown old, the bell still rings for me, as it does for all who truly believe,” the book concludes. And as our ride ends and we prepare to face the bitter rain, I put my bell in my pocket and take Wilder’s hand in mine. While I came here on a mission to give Wilder something to believe in, I am leaving with more than that. I’m carrying the knowledge that Santa’s spirit and magic are alive and well in this world. Dare I say, I believe.

Poem December 2024

POEM

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Poem December 2024

Winter Solstice

The sun through branches lights

my face. I look through

my eyelashes: prisms.

I close my eyes,

the field glows

warm carmine.

No snow, no

promise of snow.

A crow bark-laughs.

Another clatters its beak like castanets.

Their chatter perhaps

of pecans aplenty

or the simple mad joy

of being alive

in this moment.

It is easy

to love

what is passing.

Debra Kaufman

Sazerac December

SAZERAC

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(Don’t) Wait for It

Who knew that when Jimmie “JJ” Jeter’s mother took him to see a local summer production of Annie as a middle schooler, one woman’s performance would change his entire life? “The woman that played Miss Hannigan gave the performance of her life,” he recalls, almost 20 years later. Jeter, a Winston-Salem native, remembers being awestruck and overcome with a sense of knowing, “I want to do that.” The very next day, his mother reached out to the Community Theatre of Greensboro, where Jeter would become involved in various productions, even landing the lead role of Troy Bolton in High School Musical 2.

Throughout much of his off-stage high school career, Jeter performed for the North Carolina Black Repertory Company’s Teen Theatre, where then artistic director Mabel Robinson introduced him to the late Matt Bulluck, professor emeritus of drama at the University of North Carolina School of the Arts. After witnessing his chops, Bulluck suggested he audition for the school. With Robinson’s guidance, Jeter prepared a monologue and was admitted to its high school program, attending there his senior year. “I had no idea what I was doing and that program completely changed my life,” he says. Following in Bulluck’s footsteps, Jeter went on to study at Juilliard, where he graduated with a fine arts degree in acting in 2016.

Now, Jeter is returning to Greensboro, this time on the Tanger Center stage, as Aaron Burr in the Broadway sensation Hamilton. “This feels like a full-circle moment for me,” he says. “It is an honor to go, ‘My blood, sweat and tears are . . . right here in Greensboro. It’s still there, right there.”

While Jeter has played all seven male principal roles — on Broadway and in the Australian tour — he says that currently, he’s partial to the role he’s in. Jeter once heard the character’s originator, Leslie Odom, say that there are more Burrs than Hamiltons in the world. “There’s a lot that we recognize in him that we see in ourselves, the things that we don’t really talk about or bring up.” Portraying Burr every night, he says, holds him accountable. “Hey, we have to be honest about who we are, right?” Plus, Jeter adds, Burr has the best songs in the show, including his favorite: “The most gut-wrenching song to sing every night — ‘Wait for It.’”

And what’s Jeter willing to wait for? His order from his family’s Winston-Salem restaurant, Simply Sonya’s: mac-n-cheese, collard greens and his mother’s chicken with the secret family sauce. “I can taste it now,” he says, dreaming about his upcoming jaunt through the Triad with the show. “I already told my mom, ‘Go ahead and have my order ready, please!’”

After working with Hamilton in some capacity for the last eight years, the next dream is to write and act in his own show, à la Hamilton creator Lin-Manuel Miranda. Perhaps a “zombie musical. It sounds crazy, but it’s going to be so cool!” We’ll be waiting in the wings for that show to hit the Tanger Center, but for now, we’re not throwing away our shot at catching Jeter as Aaron Burr.   — Cassie Bustamante

Just One Thing

We’re nuts about the entire “Life & Times of Charles M. Schulz” exhibit at Alamance Arts in Graham. Known for his entire Peanuts gang — including that blockhead Charlie Brown, plus Snoopy, Schroeder, Linus and so many more moon-faced kiddos  — Schulz published the very first Peanuts comic strip on October 2, 1950, launching what would grow into a phenomenon that includes movies, books, TV specials and a theme park. Still today, Gen Z-ers are snagging merch from Peanuts collaborations with brands such as American Eagle and Pottery Barn. Just last December, Architectural Digest asked, “Will 2024 Be the Year of Snoopy Girls?” While this exhibit features a replica of Schulz’s studio, you’ll also get to see character panels with insight into their personalities. Our pick? Lucy Van Pelt. We know — you’re thinking “Good grief! That bully?” But yes. She knows what she wants — piano man Schroeder and, apparently, real estate — and she’s willing to go after it. Schulz himself said, “Lucy comes from that part of me that’s capable of saying mean and sarcastic things, which is not a good trait to have, so Lucy gives me an outlet.” And don’t we all need a creative outlet for our inner Lucy? When you’re done putting the last ornament on your very own Charlie Brown Christmas tree, hitch a ride with the Red Baron to Alamance Arts to check out this exhibit that’s fun for the whole gang through January 17. Info: alamancearts.org.

Letters

To Cynthia Adams in response to her July 2024 column, “The Dog Who Owned Us”

I just read this article by Cynthia Adams in the July issue. Admit it brought a tear to my eye.

It called to mind this short article on a similar topic I wrote not so long ago. I would appreciate it if you would share it with Cynthia so she might enjoy.  
— Jon Maxwell

An excerpt from “An Ode to Our Family’s ‘BFG,’” published in the Greensboro News & Record, September 2015:

What we failed to appreciate was how much the right dog can teach us all.

From the litter, Gavin picked an energetic white/black female that was apparently the leader, and enforcer, among her siblings. It did not take long to settle upon “Bonnie” as a suitable name for this darling wee lass. When we stopped by my brother’s house for a backyard cookout, Bonnie scrambled from Gavin’s arms and bolted across the yard to my wife Caroline’s lap, where she rested contentedly for most of the afternoon. In one fell swoop, she had effectively neutralized the only potential holdout to her being welcomed into the bosom of our family.

Unsolicited Advice

When the Mayans brewed their first steaming cup of hot chocolate around 500 B.C., it’s likely they never imagined that Tom Hanks would sing a whole song about it in The Polar Express. You know the one: Hey, we got it! Hot! Hot! Say, we got it! Hot chocolate! Of course, they probably also never guessed their concoction of ground-up cocoa seeds, water, cornmeal plus chili peppers would evolved into a milky, creamy dessert-worthy treat. Wondering what to sprinkle on, aside from that sweet dollop of whipped cream or pile of marshmallow pillows melting atop your mug? Say, we got it! Hot chocolate toppers!

Chocolate’s best pairing? Sorry, Cupid, put away the strawberries and wait your turn — it’s more chocolate. Grab a high-quality dark chocolate bar and your veggie peeler to create the cutest, richest curlicues, melting into a bittersweet symphony of flavors The Verve would envy.

Feeling salty? Say seasoning’s greetings with a dash of coarse sea salt. Or indulge in a cinn-ful treat with a sprinkle of cinnamon. How about a nod to its origins by kicking it up a notch with chili powder. Alexa, play “Christmas Wrapping” by the Spice Girls.

Did your confectionary delights turn out less than delightful? Don’t toss those cookies! Crumble ‘em up and rebrand them as ganache garnishes.

Take your holiday rage out — say, we got it — by placing a candy cane in a plastic baggie and smashing it to smithereens. Sprinkle atop your hot cocoa for a chocolate and peppermint delight that’s winter’s answer to mint chocolate chip ice cream.

But our go-to? Peppermint schnapps. All the mint chocolate goodness plus a delightful buzz. Leave this treat out for Santa and you’re bound to get on the last-minute nice list. Or find Santa snoozin’ in your easy chair on Christmas morn.

Sage Gardener

Cranberries are weird. They are grown beneath layers of peat, sand and clay covered by water and are harvested by combing the floaters off the surface. As anyone who’s unearthed a bag left over from Thanksgiving knows, they are slow to go bad, so much so that sailing vessels of yore stored them in barrels on long sea voyages to stave off scurvy. When dropped, they bounce like a ball. In fact, early cranberry farmers bounced them down staircases, discarding the ones that didn’t make it to the bottom. No evidence suggests that the Pilgrims ate them at the first turkey throw down. Nobody knows where the name came from, maybe from low German kraanbere because the flower’s stamen looks like a crane beak. American Indians called them sassamenesh, which English speakers thankfully ignored. Indians used them to make pemmican, a winter staple made by mixing fat, pounded, dried meat and often dried fruit. Cranberries, by the way, grow on vines, not bushes, and belong to the same genus as blueberries, Vaccinium, derived from the Latin word for cow, vacca — maybe because cattle gobble them up. Native to North America and northern Europe, they grow wild from Nova Scotia to North Carolina. Rather tart in flavor, some people “carve” the jellied cranberry straight from the can and feature jiggling slices of it on a serving platter. NPR diva Susan Stamberg goes on and on about her mother’s cranberry relish, which includes onion and horseradish. Me? I’ll stick to my own mama’s unjiggling cranberry relish, made with bouncy fresh berries, orange segments and grated rind.
— David Claude Bailey

And the Award Goes to . . .

Earlier this year, we were honored by the N.C. Press Association with the following editorial awards:

First Place in Feature Writing:
Cynthia Adams for “Wine Not Now”

Third Place in Feature Writing:
Billy Ingram for “Greensboro’s Jeanaissance”

Third Place in Profile Feature:
Cassie Bustamante and Bert VanderVeen for “Minding Her Business”

Second Place in Lighter Columns:
Cassie Bustamante for “Chaos Theory”

Third Place in Lighter Columns:
Jim Dodson for “Simple Life”

And in the advertising sector:

First Place in both Special Sections and Real Estate Ads

Second Place in Retail Ads

Third Place in Advertising Campaigns

We’d also like to congratulate our sister publications — PineStraw, SouthPark and Walter — who each took home awards as well. And a special shoutout to the team at Walter for snagging the award for general excellence. O.Henry is proud to be part of The Pilot’s team of stellar publications and digital offerings. We look forward to bringing you more stories highlighting the “Art & Soul of Greensboro” in 2025.

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

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Magnificent Migration

The splendor of snow geese

By Susan Campbell

Here in central North Carolina, when someone says “goose,” we tend to think Canada goose. Canadas are everywhere — year-round — large, brown and white, often noisy and hard to dissuade from our yards, ponds and parks. Like it or not, they congregate in the dozens after breeding season ends in mid-summer. But these are not the only geese in our state during the cooler months. If you travel east, you will find snow geese — and not just a few dozen but flocks numbering in the thousands.

As their name implies, snow geese are mainly white in color. Their wing tips are black but their bills, legs and feet are pink. There is also, at close range, a black “grin patch” on their bills. Size-wise, snows are a bit smaller than Canada geese but their voices are, unquestionably, louder. They produce a single-syllable honk which is repeated no matter whether they are in flight or on the ground, day or night.

These beautiful birds are, like all waterfowl, long-distance migrants. As days shorten in the fall, snow geese gather and head almost due south before cold air settles in. Migration finds them high overhead, arranged in “V” formations and flying mainly at night, when conditions are cooler. They may stop and feed at staging areas along the way, staying in the same longitude for the most part. When flocks finally arrive in North Carolina, it will be in the early morning hours along our coast. These will be individuals from Eastern populations — birds that have come all the way from western Greenland and the eastern Canadian Maritimes.

During the winter, snow geese remain in large aggregations that move from well-known roosting locations, which are usually larger lakes, to nearby feeding areas that provide an abundance of vegetation — seeds as well as shoots and roots of nutrient-rich plants. These are likely to include native aquatic vegetation as well as agricultural crops such as corn and soybeans. As they move from place to place, even if it is a short distance, the birds will swirl up and into formation, honking all the while, and then swirling dramatically again as they descend. It is a sight to behold!

These distinctive birds can sometimes be found inland in the cooler months, though they are most likely to show up alone or in small numbers, mixed in with local Canadas. You might find the odd snow goose or two in a farm pond, playing field or agricultural area in the Triad or Sandhills.

To fully appreciate the splendor of these beautiful birds, it is worth a trip east in early-to-mid-January. For the best viewing, try the large agricultural fields adjacent to, or on, Pocosin Lakes National Wildlife Refuge. You also may find birds moving to or from the lake at Lake Mattamuskeet National Wildlife Refuge. Pea Island National Wildlife Refuge on the coast holds a smaller number of snow geese in December. They can be seen feeding along N.C. 12 until the wild pea plants there — one of their favorite foods — are spent.

Wandering Billy

WANDERING BILLY

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Circling Back to the Psychic on the Corner

By Billy Ingram

“I used to be psychic, but I drank my way out of it.” — Mark E. Smith

For nearly a quarter-century, there’s been a psychic living on or next door to the corner of Cornwallis and Lawndale Drive, a modest sign in the window advertising her supernatural services. Her name is Dorine and it’s been exactly four years since I impulsively dropped in for a crystal reading and then wrote all about it in “Wandering Billy.” I decided a return visit was in order.

I consider myself a skeptic but with an inclination to believe that it’s possible for someone to possess psychic powers. An interest was sparked when Mrs. Jean Newman, an English teacher at Page High School in the 1970s (she’d previously taught at Grimsley and later at Smith), decided to forgo her planned Shakespeare lesson, and instead regaled us with stories about transcribing clairvoyant sessions conducted by Edgar Cayce (1877-1945), known as “The Sleeping Prophet.” In subsequent research, I could find no record of her involvement, but it may be telling that Cayce’s lifelong transcriber and unmarried collaborator’s last name was Davis, Mrs. Newman’s maiden name.

My own personal interactions with psychics are limited but not totally lacking. In Los Angeles in the early-1980s, I worked on a two-week long TV pilot for a daily Entertainment Tonight-style program centered around unexplained phenomenon. One of my assignments was to ferry “psychic” Sylvia Browne — that flatulent phony Montel Williams foisted on his audience of shut-ins in the 1990s — to and from the studio. Afternoon television’s Aunt Hagatha, her future forecasting and accuracy when it came to pinpointing missing persons was about as precise as that of a toddler straddling a toilet. I was the only person that would have anything to do with that arrogant gasbag, while everyone else on set avoided her like the plague she became. Whether they were previously acquainted with Sylvia Browne or that was just a visceral reaction, either way, it was perfectly understandable.

During those two weeks, I relished this rarefied opportunity to delve daily into every one of the Whitman’s Sampler of astrologers, tarot card slappers, clairvoyants, palm readers, fortune-tellers and prognosticators serving as the production’s on-site consultants. Shades of Paddy Chayefsky’s Network, the program even had a soothsayer predicting next week’s headlines. Truthfully, most of those freelancers I conversed with on that project came across as very credible, genuinely gifted in their particular mastery of the mystic arts.

I’ve had more than a few profound occurrences in my lifetime that can only be explained by some form of sixth sense at play. So I entered into my Friday afternoon session with Dorine, our psychic on the corner, with an open — but cautious — mindset. Asked what medium (so to speak) she excelled in, Dorine insisted that she doesn’t communicate with the spirit world; hers, she says, is an intuitive gift.

Being a somewhat spiritual and self-aware individual, just about everything she told me about myself was spot on, corresponding precisely with her reading four years ago. I am, after all, the same person, so a radically different assessment would have been troubling.

Could she have recognized that I had written about her years ago? She only had my cell number and the name “William.” That was also the case last time. Practically the first thing she asked was, “Have you ever thought about being a writer?” But then she went on —  just five minutes after meeting me — to detail traits about myself that I’m convinced no-one could possibly detect or infer from anything I’ve ever written. Maybe I do walk around with my heart on my sleeve at times, but I went sleeveless that day.

As much as I was leaning into the experience, I was determined to remain impartial, stubbornly so. When Dorine asked what my question was to her, I straight-up expressed a desire to understand whether or not she actually possessed psychic abilities. “I feel like I’m under a microscope,” she said at one point. “You are — I apologize!” was my response, attempting to quell any resulting negativity that I might be inadvertently harboring. What she expressed to me, and I agree wholeheartedly, is that, if a person is not receptive, she can’t possibly do what she does. The reluctant subject throws a block in the pathway, so to speak. Therein lies the conundrum underlying any psychic reading.

In our first meeting four years earlier, Dorine informed me I would be entering into a relationship in the next year, likely with a physician, that would involve extensive traveling. No such luck. This time it was predicted that traveling to New York is in my near future — not outside the realm of possibility. She indicated money was not a problem for me and, I suppose when you don’t have any, it isn’t much of a bother. Suggesting that I had been a healer in a previous lifetime, she wondered if that had manifested itself in this existence? Possibly so, but if she had intuited instead that I was once a corny 1930s’ nightclub lounge act, that would have resonated more clearly.

It was more hit than miss, however. “So what are you doing with art?” Dorine asked. I was preparing a canvas that day to do a painting, only the second time I’ve done so in the last 20 years. I do feel she accurately described the painting I completed a few months ago, which is difficult, given that it’s an abstract. That genuinely impressed me. And when it came to identifying who I am at the core of my being, she was amazingly dead on.

What should one expect from a psychic reading? The Oracle of Delphi or a modern day Edgar Cayce connecting to God’s messengers on the other side? Is keen insightfulness, which this lady clearly possesses loads of, proof of clairvoyance? What impressed me most was that, when told she was wrong, she didn’t equivocate or try to say, “Maybe that’s true of someone close to you.” She simply said, “Well, that’s what I’m picking up.”

If you’ve never sat for a psychic reading and you’re psy-curious, or, even if you have, Dorine seems like the real deal? She definitely doesn’t come across as a con artist or huckster. And I’d know because I had a glancing dance with one of those shady characters decades ago, not to mention witnessing Sylvia Browne’s naked fakery on display. Dorine’s advice to me was exactly what I needed to hear, what I had been telling myself, in fact. Of course, take this with a grain of for-entertainment-purposes-only salt.

Now that I think about it, more than two decades ago, right about the time Dorine began her paranormal practice on the corner of Cornwallis and Lawndale, that parcel of land had been rumored to be the site of a Walgreens or some other big box store that would complement Lawndale Shopping Center, deeply upsetting the residents of that genteel Kirkwood acreage perimeter. Given how quickly the dominoes fell under Friendly Center’s encroachment into its surrounding neighborhoods, could there be an otherworldly explanation for the vanishing of that retail expansion project?

Or maybe, just maybe, I’ve been watching too many episodes of Unsolved Mysteries.