TV Dinner

Turkey vultures are
the ultimate scavengersBy Susan Campbell

There! By the edge of the road: It’s a big, dark bird. It looks sort of like it a wild turkey. But is it? Its head and face are red. It has a pale, hooked bill and a feathery neck. But the tail is the tip-off — it’s short. Definitely not the right look for a turkey — but perfect for a turkey vulture! (Feel free to call it a buzzard — or a “TV” by those in the know.)

The confusion is understandable since wild turkeyts have made quite a comeback in Piedmont North Carolina. In fact, turkey vultures and turkeys can occasionally be seen sitting near one another in farm fields where they both can find food or just take advantage of the warmth of the dark ground on cool mornings.

However, turkey vultures are far more likely to be seen soaring overhead or perhaps perched high in a dead tree or cell tower. These birds have an unmistakable appearance in the air, forming a deep V-shape as they soar through the air, sometimes for literally hours on end. They’re easy to spot with their very large wingspans. At the very end of their wings look for their distinctive finger-like primary feathers. The tail serves as a rudder, allowing the bird to navigate effortlessly as it is lifted and transported by thermals and other currents high above the ground.

It is from this lofty vantage that turkey vultures travel in search of their next meal. Although their vision is poor, their sense of smell is keen. They can detect the aroma of a dead animal a mile or more away. They soar in circles, moving across the landscape with wings outstretched, sniffing all the while until a familiar odor catches their attention.

Turkey vultures are most likely to feed on dead mammals but they will not hesitate to eat the remains of a variety of foods including other birds, reptiles and even fish. They prefer freshly dead foods but may have to wait to get through the thick hide of larger animals if there is no wound or soft tissue allowing access. Toothed scavengers such as coyotes may literally need to provide that opportunity. Once vultures can get to flesh, they are quick to devour their food. Without plumage on their heads, there are no feathers to become soiled as they reach into larger carcasses for the morsels deep inside.

Our summering turkey vultures perform elaborate courtship flights in early spring.  One will lead the other through a series of twists, turns and flaps as they pair up. As unattractive as vultures seem to us, they are good parents. Nests are well-hidden in hollow stumps or piles of debris, in old hawk or heron nests or even abandoned buildings. They seek out cooler spots that are well away from human activity in order to protect their blind, naked and defenseless young.

Vulture populations are increasing across North Carolina — probably due to human activity. Roadways create feeding opportunities year-round. Landfills also present easy feeding opportunities as well, believe it or not. During the winter months turkey vultures from the north migrate south, often concentrating in one area. Their large roosts can be problematic. A hundred or more large birds pouring into a stand of mature pines or loitering on a water tower does not go unnoticed.

But most people take turkey vultures for granted or don’t even notice them. In reality, they are unparalleled scavengers — especially given the increase in roadways and the inevitable roadkill that has resulted.  OH

Susan would love to receive your wildlife sightings and photographs at
susan@ncaves.com.

Ration the Passion

For Scorpios, it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that sting

By Astrid Stellanova

Scorpios are famously passionate, ambitious, intense and jealous. They will ask but they sure won’t tell. What they should know is that their best day is Tuesday, and to mirror their passion, they should don their best color — red. What you should know is this: They don’t always lay their cards flat out on the table, but they really don’t like it when the tables are turned. Cross a Scorpio and you will unleash the scorpion’s sting. And this: A Scorpio will never forget and may never forgive either.

Scorpios like to use their looks as a means of self-expression and will almost always make a big impression wherever they go and whatever they choose to do. They are as colorful as they are unique, too. Prince Charles is a Scorpio. So is Whoopi Goldberg. Ponder that, Star Children. Ad Astra — Astrid

Scorpio (October 23–November 21)

Friends are tempted to give you novelties on your birthday — things like pillows embroidered with “Drama Queen” or “If You Can’t Say Anything Good about Others, Sit by Me.” Much like the Dowager at Downton Abbey you can dish it out. You have a secret love of bling. Sugar, you also don’t like to admit your tastes are much more Vegas Strip than Park Avenue. This birthday, let go of any desire to be something or someone else and love your own fine self. You are an original, enigmatic and audacious in your ways — traits your friends rely on, Honey. When you blow out the candles on your cake — and there will be a blowout with cake — make a big wish. This just might be your year to win the whole dang shebang!

Sagittarius (November 22–December 21)

The fact is, Honey, you have become the Ernest T. Bass of relationships. You get mad at your beloved and your idea of resolution is to throw rocks at the window and howl like a hound dog during a King Moon. Time to start being the grown-up when it comes to love matters, my wild little Love Muffin. There is nothing or no one you cannot have once you stop trying to muscle your way to a solution.

Capricorn (December 22–January 19)

When everyone else was sitting down, you were just outstanding. Take a star turn and then take a seat. Sweet Thing, a strange turn of coincidence is about to make you glad you had such a fine sense of timing. It is more than goting to compensate for a rough patch you have just undergone. It’s (nearly) all over but the shouting, as Rick Bragg likes to say.

Aquarius (January 20–February 18)

Does Fifty Shades of Purple sound like the title of your memoir?  Well, you got all shook up over a loved one, and it sent your blood pressure through the roof. Lordamercy, nobody’s worth all that purple passion you’ve been spending. Spend some time in a meditation class instead, and promise yourself you are going to let that crazy-maker go. Then get a hobby for goodness sake — just not in surveillance or private-eye work. 

Pisces (February 19–March 20)

A life-changing experience has caused you to do some recent soul-searching. Now you are looking deep, trying to find a bigger purpose. You have extra special energy this month, Sugar Pie, and it is going to make you a magnet for special and inspiring experiences. If you have a metal detector, haul it out of the closet, as you are about to find something you believed lost for good.

Aries (March 21–April 19)

You spent your fall second-guessing everything you did and everything your closest friends did. Now, Honey, is a time to downshift and just bury some nuts for the winter ahead. Look on down the road and stop majoring in the minor stuff when you need to look at the major stuff. When you take stock, you have to admit you have been busy overdoing everything you ever thought worth doing at all — except for the nut thing. 

Taurus (April 20–May 20)

Learn something new. Take a friend for coffee. Befriend a stranger. But don’t drink and dial this month, because you are prone to talk too much and listen too little and then pray for rain when all your friendships dry up. The fine print bears reading, Sugar, before you sign that contract, too. Meantime, kiss a baby and indulge your love of sweet tea and a side of lemon pie. But don’t text or dial.

Gemini (May 21–June 20)

As much as you want to step into a situation and take control, try and hold your impulsive self back just a teensy bit. There has been mounting evidence that your involvement is not helpful. Meantime, you have got a big old mess to clean up on Aisle Nine. The mess is one you made; so don’t blame the first one you find to hang it on, Sweet Thing.

Cancer (June 21–July 22)

You are the Richard Petty of speedy karma, repeating a cycle over and over and over again on the roadway of life. Put a cop on anyone’s tail for 500 miles and they’ll get a ticket, too. Want to retire that title? This month gives you a long overdue chance to reevaluate things, Honey, and you are going to find the support you crave to break out. 

Leo (July 23–August 22)

When you step back and look in the mirror, as you secretly like to do, what do you see? Is it the same person everyone around you sees? Your secretive life is at the root of some pain you hold onto and carry around like a precious bag of gold. Trust someone and unburden yourself, Sugar. Self-truth won’t hurt one bit.

Virgo (August 23–September 22)

There’s a new sheriff in town you ain’t so sure you like. Get deputized, Sweet Pants, because you are going to have to deal with them no matter what. Meantime, you calculate your losses and pocket your winnings. You still are going to come out ahead, Darling. But pay attention to a lonely neighbor whose luck ain’t so great right now.

Libra (September 23–October 22)

There’s too many hands around the pottery wheel and it has you all befuddled. In a nice way, tell them to mind their own business, and don’t apologize. Meanwhile, you are the UP in somebody’s 7UP and don’t even know it. Sugar, you have more sex appeal than ought to be allowed throughout this whole dang star cycle.  OH

For years, Astrid Stellanova owned and operated Curl Up and Dye Beauty Salon in the boondocks of North Carolina until arthritic fingers and her popular astrological readings provoked a new career path.

Veganomics

Ya gotta eat your spinach, baby! And collards, beets, beans, potatoes, carrots and other good things that grow in the ground. Come out and celebrate ’em all at Triad VegFest (November 5–6). The two-day event is the brainchild of Maria Dormandy-Taylor, owner of Aracadia Lodge (a vegan event center) and Dharma Farm Animal Refuge in Archdale. Dormandy-Taylor is also the proprietor of the food company Lovin’ Spoonfuls (maker of Nuchi Sauce). VegFest celebrates the benefits of a plant-based diet with a symposium at UNCG, a reading and book signing by marathoner and author Charlie Engle (Running Man) at Scuppernong Books and a Holiday Market Fair of local, sustainable, plant-based foods and crafts at the Greensboro Farmers Curb Market. But don’t stop there: Keep grazing on greens all month, the perfect accompaniments to Thanksgiving Tofurky. Info:
triadvegfest.org.

Claystation

What is it that’s so satisfying about pottery? Perhaps because it’s both beautiful and utilitarian — and started out as a piece of Earth. At 10 a.m. on November 12th you’ll have the opportunity to admire such works at Potters of the Piedmont Pottery Festival at Leonard Recreation Center (6324 Ballinger Road, Greensboro). Started by Earthworks Gallery in 2002, the festival has expanded to include the works of fifty-some potters from across the Piedmont, Virginia and South Carolina. So come out and support them so they can make a kiln-in. Info: pottersofthepiedmont.com.

Fir Sure

Go fell it on the mountain! Fresh-cut, locally owned and grown Christmas trees brought down from higher altitudes in N.C. are coming to the Greensboro Farmers Curb Market (501 Yanceyville Street) from 7 a.m. to Noon on November 26th. Want a little more bough wow in your life? Grab some garlands and table decorations, get your Clark Griswold on with several strings of lights, and start decking those halls. Info: (336) 373-2402 or
gsofarmersmarket.org.

It Was Twenty Years
Ago Today . . .

Or, twenty years and change, that Jim Dodson’s Final Rounds landed in bookstores. It hardly needs an introduction in these parts, but for anyone who’s been asleep for two decades: The esteemed editor of this publication (who’s a Greensboro native) chronicled his trip to the links of England and Scotland with his dad, who learned how to play the royal and ancient game while serving as an airman during World War II. Golf provides the context for a work that is part memoir, part love letter to the Gate City and a paean to the bonds of paternal and filial love. Scaling The New York Times bestseller list, among others, the book has been translated into seven languages. All told, it has sold more than 600,000 copies, a testament to the power of its universal themes. But “final” hardly describes the journey of Final Rounds’ author. After reading the book, a fellow by the name of Arnold Palmer asked our man JD to pen his biography, A Golfer’s Life, just one of eleven of tomes in the Dodson canon. Look for yet one more from our editor, muse and fearless leader, The Range Bucket List, due out June 1, 2017.

Feathered Feast

Want to know how to eat like a bird? Then stock your backyard with nutritious fare, plenty of water and shelter, and watch your fine-feathered friends flock to the feeder.  On November 17th at 2 p.m. Barbara Haralson of Wild Birds Unlimited will offer helpful hints on how to attract various species at a talk hosted by Westridge Gardners Club (Greensboro Council of Garden Clubs, 4301-A Lawndale Drive). Woodpeckers, for instance, are partial to suet, while bluejays go for peanuts, and nuthatches, in spite of their name, are nuts for sunflower seeds. Now for some advice on how not to attract squirrels . . . Info: thegreensborocouncilofgardenclubs.com.

Texation

Everything’s bigger in Texas, the saying goes, and that includes the ten-gallon sound of the Texas Tenors, who achieved fame and fortune just six years after appearing on the TV show, America’s Got Talent. And talent abounds among the trio of Marcus Collins, John Hagen and JC Fisher, whose diverse stage experience allows for a broad repertoire that includes opera, pop and country tunes. Hear them sing holiday favorites, from “White Christmas” to “O, Holy Night,” as they did to sellout crowds in the Gate City two years ago at the Greensboro Symphony Orchestra’s Tanger Pop series — Back for the Holidays on November 19th at 8 p.m. (Westover Church, 505 Muirs Chapel Road). Tickets: (336) 335-5456, ext. 239.

Dibs!

Get your sharp elbows out — and credit cards, too — and head to First Choice on November 30th at 5:30 p.m. at Greenhill (200 North Davie Street). The prelude to Winter Show (December 4–January 13, 2017), First Choice allows you to buy an art credit in a $500, $1,000 or $2,500 increments, and apply it to the piece of art of your choice. What’ll it be? A sculpture? A painting? An abstract something or other? With more than 500 works available for purchase, you’ll be overwhelmed with — well — choice. Info: greenhillnc.org.

Sister Soldiers

Love, war, adventure, discrimination, the daily routine  . . . As a salute to Veteran’s Day (November 11th), Touring Theatre of North Carolina presents Star-Spangled Girls, (Triad Stage, 232 South Elm Street) a review commissioned in 2005 by the UNCG Veteran Historical Collection. Based on diaries, letters and oral histories of women who served in the Armed Forces during World War II — WACs, WAVES, Army nurses and Red Cross volunteers — the show punctuates its vignettes with rousing music from the period. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or triadstage.org.

OGI SEZ

Ah, November, the month we’ve all been waiting for. Not just for the usual reasons of pumpkin pies, cooler weather and Thanksgiving, but for that thing that happens November 8. Personally, I just want it to be over so that the savage beast within can return to being soothed by music.

• November 11, High Point Theatre: Speaking of being soothed, there is no better mode of decompression than the melodic piano stylings of the legendary George Winston. Whether it’s New Age, ragtime, New Orleans R&B or his take on Vince Guaraldi’s jazzy Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack, he will cure what ails you.

• November 11, The Crown above the Carolina: After dropping out of UNC twelve years ago, Joe Pug hit the road, guitar and songbook in hand. He soon landed an opening slot for Steve Earle, got signed to a Nashville label, moved to Austin and recorded two more CDs. This will be his first stop after a tour of New Zealand and Australia.

• November 12, Blind Tiger: If you know the blues, you know famed guitarist Tab Benoit. But you may not know that the Baton Rouge native is also the Voice of the Wetlands, an active conservationist preserving Louisiana’s endangered coastal areas. Even more reason to love him.

• November 19, Cone Denim Entertainment Center: From child prodigy to Grammy-award winner, Jonny Lang has seen it all. He is a recovering alcoholic and converted Christian but can still burn up that Telecaster like hellhounds on his trail.

• November 26, Greensboro Coliseum: When it’s billed as the “King and Queen of Hearts Tour,” who else could it be but Maxwell and Mary J. Blige? Oh, yes, they are superb on their own, but put them together and a spellbinding night is guaranteed.

Same Old Game

Just new stuff

By Clyde Edgerton

Iím in the bleachers watching baseball practice. My youngest son, 11, has just started playing — this is his second practice ever — and so far, he likes it. After the first practice, we shopped for equipment, and I hear some of you already thinking: Why does Papadaddy always gripe about high prices?

The answer is this: I didn’t buy anything between 1994 and 2012, until I finally started shopping for my children’s sporting equipment.

But on the softer side — the nostalgic side — this baseball business is taking me back, in good ways, to over 60 years ago. “Yep,” I say to my son, “I started playing baseball when I was 9 years old.”

“What?” he says, “They had baseball back then?”

When I was 10 or 12, our coach worked at a local funeral home and drove a hearse to practice. I can see the hearse as it pulled onto the field near first base — long, shiny, and black. This is all true. My friends and I would open the swinging rear door and pull out a canvas bag of bats, a handbag of baseballs, and a large duffle bag with the catcher’s equipment and bases and the little plastic things held together with stretch bands that we fitted over our ears when batting. These flimsy head protectors became the norm in the late ’50s, as I recall. (Protective head gear was a consequence of mid-century political correctness.)

While we were shopping a few weeks ago, my son and I inspected batting helmets, baseball gloves — for fielding and batting — bats, baseballs and a protective cup. The protective cup comes with a pair of fancy black underwear to hold the cup in place. The reason my son is expected to buy his own equipment these days is because if, say, a funeral home bought a bag of, say, 20 baseball bats, then the funeral home could be out four grand. Easily. Check it out at your local sporting goods store.

In addition:

My son’s bat: metal. Ours: wooden.

My son’s headgear: a hard plastic helmet. Ours: (early on) a cloth cap.

My son’s cleats: plastic or rubber. Ours: steel.

My son’s batting gloves: two. Ours: none.

My son’s “protection”: a plastic cup. Ours: underwear (most of us, I guess).

My son’s fielder’s glove: synthetic, stiff, and complicated. Ours: leather, limber, and plain.

My son’s infield surface: mostly grass. Ours: mostly dirt.

My son’s outfield surface: grass. Ours: mostly dirt.

My son’s pitching mound: raised. Ours: flat.

My son’s dugout: concrete behind a fence. Ours: a wooden bench, in the open — with splinters.

My son’s coach: loves the game. Ours: loved the game.

I’m so glad the game is the same. Three strikes, four balls, three outs. Secret signals and hidden ball tricks, balks, walks and home runs. Timing, speed and precision. It’s still best to step on the base with your inside foot, watch the third base coach as you approach second base, start with your glove on the ground to catch a grounder. And the playing field itself — it expands outward from home plate. Unlike football, basketball and other sports, boundaries exist on only two sides of a baseball field, not all four sides. Hit a home run and the ball could travel all the way around the Earth and roll up behind home plate and still be in fair territory.

After the second practice, we’re gathering up equipment to head home. My son says, “Dad, they make a backpack for gloves, helmet and all that. It has two sleeves for two bats. We could get one at Dick’s along with another bat.”

“If we get another bat, we’ll have to sell your bicycle, the trampoline and your bunk bed.”

“You mean . . . like a yard sale?”

“Sure. Good idea.”   OH

Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels, a memoir and a new work, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW.

Hillbilly Blues

Poor, white and not quite forgotten

By Stephen E. Smith

The presidential election is either over or is about to be, and, barring an unforeseen catastrophe, we ought to be breathing a collective sigh of relief. But in our hearts we know the truth: It ain’t over yet. The media, including the publishing industry, aren’t about to let us rest. We’ll no doubt be obliged to examine in excruciating detail the cause-and-effect relationships that inflicted this grievous wound on our national psyche.

Publishers, of course, get us coming and going. White Trash; The Making of Donald Trump; Hillary’s America; The Year of Voting Dangerously, etc. — Amazon lists at least 17 books that address the pre-election mêlée, enough reading to keep us bleary-eyed and brain-bruised until the next election cycle, and well beyond.

Of these many offerings, Hillbilly Elegy: A Memoir of a Family and Culture in Crisis, by J. D. Vance, has been the chief beneficiary of our need to grasp the incomprehensible. Published in late June, this Horatio Alger memoir shot to the top of The New York Times and Amazon.com best-sellers lists and stayed there. This was due in large part to promotion by the author and Amazon that fostered the belief that Hillbilly Elegy offers a profound insight into the rise of Donald Trump as a presidential candidate.

A quick read of Amazon’s “Editorial Reviews” is explanation enough: “What explains the appeal of Donald Trump? . . . J.D. Vance nails it” (Globe and Mail); “You cannot understand what’s happening now without first reading J.D. Vance . . . .” (The American Conservative), and so forth. Only The New York Times acknowledged a mild albeit flawed apprehension of fact: “Mr. Vance has inadvertently provided a civilized reference guide for an uncivilized election . . . ,” “inadvertently” being the operative word.

In February, Vance wrote an op-ed for USA Today headlined: “Trump Speaks for Those Bush Betrayed”: “. . . .what unites Trump’s voters,” Vance wrote, “is a sense of alienation from America’s wealthy and powerful.” In a print interview with Rod Dreher, senior editor at The American Conservative, Vance stated, “The simple answer is that these people — my people — are really struggling, and there hasn’t been a single political candidate who speaks to those struggles in a long time. Donald Trump at least tries.” Vance’s appearances on ABC, CNN and NPR only reinforced this perception, and by the time he arrived on the set of “Morning Joe,” Vance’s criticism was even more focused, asserting that Donald Trump is “just another opioid” to many Americans struggling with loss of jobs, broken families and drug addiction.

All of which begs the question: Does Hillbilly Elegy explain the rise of Donald Trump?

It doesn’t. No amount of tortured exegesis can conclude with a calculated degree of certainty that the anecdotal examples offered in Hillbilly Elegy lead to a statistical generalization regarding the wide-ranging support garnered by the Trump candidacy. Despite the claims of critics and the author, the book does not present, directly or indirectly, a viable explanation for the recent national unpleasantness — and the hype surrounding the publication of Hillbilly Elegy amounts to little more than a subtle form of literary bait and switch.

Misrepresentations aside, it’s safe to say that Vance has written an insightful and readable memoir that details the estrangement of a segment of America’s displaced white underclass. His personal story, which comprises most of the text, is straightforward: Poor boy from a broken, drug-befuddled family wants to make good and does. The sociological narrative is also immediately explicable: As “hillbillies” migrated from Kentucky and other Southern mountain states, they clustered in desultory communities around the factories that offered them work. But this relocation came at a price. The traditional culture that once rendered support and stability from birth to death was sacrificed to economic prosperity. When the high-paying jobs disappeared, neighborhoods of poor people were left behind, lacking the social networks that sustained them in their mountain communities.

To his credit, Vance’s message is one of personal responsibility. He has no patience with convenient excuses or the tendency to shift blame to the media, politicians, or the middle and upper classes. Succinctly stated, his advice is to pull up your pants, turn your hat around and make something of your life.

Hillbilly Elegy possesses the same appeal that propelled Rick Bragg’s 1999 All Over but the Shoutin’ onto the best-sellers list — it’s thoughtful, compelling in its grim detail, and ultimately faith-affirming. No red-blooded American can abandon the belief that any lucky, talented, hardworking schmo can become a success, but the wise reader will understand that Vance’s story is not an allegory for life; it’s merely the recounting of a series of random events arranged in such a way as to suggest meaning.

Readers should also bear in mind that better sociological studies have come and gone without notice. One is reminded of Linda Flowers’ 1990 Throwed Away, which detailed the economic exploitation of eastern North Carolina sharecroppers and tenant farmers.

As for articulating the emotional toll taken on those Kentucky mountain people who migrated north, poet Jim Wayne Miller summed up their sense of loss in five lines from his 1980 collection The Mountains Have Come Closer. The final stanza of the poem “Abandoned” reads:

Or else his life became the house

seen once in a coalcamp in Tennessee:

the second story blown off in a storm

so stairs led up into the air

and stopped.  OH

Stephen E. Smith is a retired professor and the author of seven books of poetry and prose. He’s the recipient of the Poetry Northwest Young Poet’s Prize, the Zoe Kincaid Brockman Prize for poetry, and four North Carolina Press awards.

Let the Mishegoss Begin

And other musings around town

By Billy Eye

“If a fellow isn’t thankful for what he’s got, he isn’t likely to be thankful for what he’s going to get.”
— Frank A. Clark

Someone I admire most in this bourgeois burg is Kamala Lee who spent years in and out of hospitals recovering from near-fatal injuries inflicted upon her at age 6 by a drunk driver. It’s been a two-decades long process since then, with multiple corrective surgeries needed as she grew into the inspiring individual she is today. One of her talents is photography, both still and video, and lately Kamala has been documenting Greensboro’s vibrant music scene. Check out some amazing performances she’s captured on YouTube but, whatever you do, don’t even suggest you’re going to drink and drive this holiday season. She’s a diminutive but deadly martial artist.

The former Meyer’s Department Store downtown at 200 South Elm has undergone a slick makeover, the first two floors impressively reimagined as spacious offices and a meeting space for the Chamber of Commerce, taking full advantage of the magnificent picture windows ringing the building. Fifty years ago, this corner hustled and bustled around the holidays with eager shoppers having family portraits shot in the mezzanine photo studio. Some of them would then lunch in the Garden Room (what most everyone called the Tea Room), known for buttermilk pie, fudge cake sundaes and the Shopper’s Special: a bowl of soup surrounded by three miniature club sandwiches. Across the street at Ellis-Stone, on the main floor there was a fireplace bursting with wrapped gifts given out to VIP customers’ kids, all overseen by a life-size cardboard cutout of Santa, when the real Kris Kringle wasn’t present. Of course, Christmas decorations didn’t go up until after Thanksgiving when, the very next day, holiday-themed windows magically appeared, and everything inside was lavished in tinsel and bows. The store’s modern-day makeover is so extensive that only the elegant exterior stone carvings and a thick bronze plaque commemorating the opening of Meyer’s in 1924 remain from one of the city’s premier shopping destinations.

Action Greensboro, a sister organization to the Chamber of Commerce, is also headquartered inside a historic property. For two years it was ensconced in the Art Deco-inspired showroom my grandfather had built for his Ford truck dealership in the late-1940s, located a couple of blocks from The Depot on Forbis Street (now Church). Action Greensboro shares the space with contractor Frank L. Blum who, I’m surprised to learn, is not author of the Oz books. There’s not much to suggest the structure’s automotive past but the Indian Motorcycle dealer in the adjacent building operates out of what was the Ford Truck repair shop, where you can still see the original windows intact towards the rear. Wondering what Action Greensboro does? Their stellar efforts enhance the quality of life across our community — the Greenway, those “Made in Greensboro” banners, Center City Park. And in less public displays, such as K–12 education programs that partner with local universities and synerG, which exists to stem the drain of young professionals out of the city. All worthy of our gratitude.

You are undoubtedly well into Christmas shopping by now, either checking off that list or doing your utmost to avoid the whole mishegoss. That person on your list who has everything? Here’s something they don’t have: a custom-made rubber stamp made from your design. Gone the way of the buggy whip you say? Not so, just drop in at Gate City Rubber Stamp Co., right next door to the Carolina Theatre, where they’ve been for almost half a century. The proprietors are sisters Joyce Tuggle and Elaine Stringer who told me, “The business started in 1957. My sister came to work here in December of 1969, I came in July of ’70. We were right across the street from S.T. Wyrick [on North Greene]. We moved here around 1973. We laugh that we’ve got 100 years of [combined] experience almost.” Everyone feels like a kid again with an inkpad and a rubber stamp. It’s irresistible, and you’ll thank me later.

Haven’t decided yet if I’m doing Thanksgiving this year. I’ve been serving turkey with all the fixins on and off since the 1980s, for friends with no particular place to go. Sometimes as many as a dozen people arrive unexpectedly; I always end up making new acquaintances when the festivities really kick into gear, after folks fleeing their families show up in need of sanctuary. Come to think of it, I think that’s how I met Kamala Lee. I first started serving Thanksgiving while living in L.A. I had everything catered back then because I ate out every meal, never had any kind of food or drink on hand, not even a saltshaker in those bare cupboards. Now I enjoy the hours-long process making everything from scratch. It’s the only meal I know how to cook. Any other time of year if you come to my place for dinner it’s Pop-Tarts and Kool-Aid. Oh Yeaaaah!  OH

It will come as a surprise to almost no one that Billy Eye has been referred to simultaneously as both a turkey and a ham.

One Sorry Girl Scout

Grateful to a wise and patient leader

By Jane Borden

Open (and very belated) apology to Rosa McNairy, leader of Girl Scout Troop 181, 1986 — 1995.

Dear Rosa,

If you are still alive, it’s a miracle. “Death by 21 Tween Girls” should be a listing in medical journals, or at least a line on a cocktail menu.

A sensitive decibel meter may still register our shrieks ricocheting through the Irving Park Scout Hut on Dellwood Drive, which is why I write today, instead of calling, in case you’ve lost your hearing. Sorry for that.

Sorry also for not obeying the Girl Scout Law, as I definitely didn’t “do my best to be honest” or “fair,” when I tried to steal extra caramel Chewies on our canoeing trip down the Dan River. I did not “help where I was needed,” when we earned a badge for making butter and I shook the jar of cream, like, twice, before passing it along. Neither was I always “cheerful,” “friendly,” and “considerate” — sadly, the Girl Scout Law includes no fidelity to the character traits sleepy, tardy and sarcastic.

When we got to middle school, and started forming cliques, and Tricia Black and I made up songs deriding one another, I was definitely not “a sister to every Girl Scout.” (Sorry to Tricia, as well.) Neither did I do my best “to respect authority” when I went through that phase of responding to every Scout leader request by saying, “only because I want to, not because you told me too.” And I definitely didn’t “use resources wisely” when I almost never remembered to flush the loo.

I would also like to apologize for doing cartwheels so close to the rock face during our rappelling trip that one of the guides had to discipline me. And, in general, for only ever selling the minimum number of cookie boxes, in spite of the fact that they funded such trips; for never holding the flag up high enough; for talking during presentations; and for just gluing badges onto my sash rather than sewing them.

While I’m at it, I should also apologize for staying up past bedtime at your daughter Margaret’s slumber party, and then filling your freezer with wet bras and pairs of underwear, which never even froze, and no one cared about anyway. Sorry, also, for making Margaret prank-call your next-door neighbor, Mikey Godwin, from your home phone, to find out if he liked me. He didn’t.

Mostly, I apologize for relying on you as much as I did, when the whole point of Girl Scouts was to be self-sufficient. Even as I wrote this letter, I called to ask you questions. (Sorry for forgetting the reason we went to Savannah was to see the Home of Girl Scout founder Juliette Gordon Low: “It made a big impression, I can tell,” you aptly said.)

Sorry for being afraid and embarrassed to shower with the mentally handicapped children who were also staying on the USS Yorktown in Charleston. Thank you for reminding us what we share in common.

Thank you for teaching me to ski, and introducing me to the ballet. Sorry I called the ballet boring. Thanks for teaching me how to travel, and even to ride the subway in Montreal — sorry for complaining it was cold — and for insisting, without relenting, that we each try a snail. They were delicious. My apologies for taking forever to finish that meal and every meal. For many years, I ordered snails when I saw them on the menu in order to recall the culinary adventure. I eventually stopped, though, because snails are expensive.

Sorry for having no idea how much time and effort you selflessly put into running our troop.

Thank you and the rest of our always cheerful leaders and chaperones. When I asked what you all got out of it, you said, “Seeing y’all mature and have fun and become young women. Some of you made strong friendships even if you’re all over the country. The more you put into something the more you get out of it. It’s not something you can measure.”

Here’s something you can measure: the number of times I was disciplined for setting noncampfire items aflame.

Although my contrition is sincere, I do take solace in one unshakable asset we all — no matter how ill-behaved or ungrateful — had on our side: At least we weren’t Boy Scouts.  OH

Yours,

Jane Borden, who carted her sash all the way to Los Angeles, where she lives with her husband and daughter, and no longer lights things on fire.

Food & Trucks:
A Literary Mash-Up

In the season of eating and travel, why not?

We can tell that the food truck phenomenon has reached its zenith, because now you can buy prepackaged, microwave-ready “food truck” food — sometimes in boxes shaped like food trucks! Still, we love the very idea of food trucks, and we’re thrilled to host Vivian Howard (of the PBS show A Chef’s Life) along with her food truck here at Scuppernong on November 3 (sorry to say, but the event is already sold out).

Howard’s new book, Deep Run Roots: Stories and Recipes from My Corner of the South (Little Brown, $40) has more than 200 recipes from Eastern North Carolina. She’s the owner of the acclaimed Chef & the Farmer restaurant in Kinston, North Carolina, and has embarked on a grand tour with her truck, serving meals along with the wisdom she’s gained from her years in the restaurant business.

“Part story, part history, part recipes, I’d like to think Deep Run Roots is much more than a cookbook,” Howard has said, as she has won hearts (and full bellies) across the Old North State, including ours.

But Howard has us thinking about food. And trucks. Is there a literary intersection? Can we find it? Without GPS?

For a kid, there is nothing cooler than hitting a food truck with Mom and Dad, and then plopping down right there on the curb to devour an overstuffed taco. Now foodies can go behind the scenes of their favorite food trucks with a fun board book: Food Trucks!: A Lift-the-Flap Meal on Wheels! (Little Simon, $7.99). Lift the flaps to see what makes the food in different trucks so yummy, from fryers to griddles, from snow cone dispensers to ice cream freezers. Like its counterparts in real life, this book is a crowd-pleaser!

For those craving Som Tam from the streets of Bangkok since vacationing in Thailand or those wanting to try their hand at authentic Jamaican jerk pork but not sure where to start, look no farther than this slim volume, The World’s Best Street Food (Lonely Planet, $14.99). Perfect for a small kitchen shelf, these recipes from street carts the world over are well-organized and easy to follow, authentic but with substitutions given for harder-to-find ingredients so that you can get started exploring the world’s best street food right in your own kitchen. This is a great gift for adventurers who delights in trying new world cuisines. 

What is the most frightening eighteen-wheeler in literary history? Undoubtedly, the truck in Richard Matheson’s short story “Duel,” which was made famous by Steven Spielberg’s early made-for-TV feature of the same name. There’s a collection of Matheson’s stories available — Duel: Terror Stories (Tor Books, $19.99), and it includes several stories adapted into some great Twilight Zone episodes. Is there food? There is a truck stop diner scene, but it won’t make you feel like settling in for a nice meal.

We confess we haven’t read Michael Perry’s Truck: A Love Story, but it’d be a shame not to mention it here. The New York Times calls it “a funny and touching account” of a love life ruined by Neil Diamond. And the Chicago Tribune, in an over-the-top food metaphor, says “Perry takes each moment, peeling it, seasoning it with rich language, and then serving it to us piping hot and fresh.” There you go. Food and Trucks.

Let’s reverse our thinking. Are there any food trucks named after novels? We hear tell of several, notably Buffalo, New York’s The Invention of Wings and a number of food trucks named after Papa’s A Moveable Feast.

NEW RELEASES FOR NOVEMBER

November 1: And Every Morning the Way Home Gets Longer and Longer: A Novella, by Fredrik Backman. The author of A Man Called Ove offers an exquisitely moving portrait of an elderly man’s struggle to hold on to his most precious memories (Atria Books, $18).

November 8: J. D. Salinger: The Last Interview: And Other Conversations. Melville House Publishing does a great service with their Last Interview series, and a famous recluse like Salinger is particularly interesting (Melville House, $16.99).

November 15: Twenty-Six Seconds: A Personal History of the Zapruder Film, by Alexandra Zapruder.  The moving, untold family story behind Abraham Zapruder’s film footage of the Kennedy assassination and its lasting impact on our world (Twelve, $27).

November 22: I’ll Take You There, by Wally Lamb. Lamb’s new novel is a radiant homage to the resiliency, strength and the power of women (Harper, $25.99).

November 29: Prince Lestat and the Realms of Atlantis: The Vampire Chronicles ( Vampire Chronicles #12 ), by Anne Rice. Is it possible? Another? (Knopf, $28.95).  OH

This month’s Scuppernong Bookshelf was written by Brian Lampkin and Shannon Jones.

They Dined on Mince

One cook’s recreation of mincemeat pie — without a runcible spoon

By Diane Compton

It wasnít long after I married that my mother joyously gave up her job as executive producer of Thanksgiving.  My husband promptly dismissed the old standbys: green bean casserole, sweet potato casserole, Jell-O salad, mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce “fresh” from the can. Having more faith in my culinary skills than actual evidence, he tagged and circled all sorts of derivative recipes from popular cooking magazines and I, eager to please, attempted them all. The family endured many years of this with great kindness and “compliments” such as, ”I’ve never tasted anything like this before!” But a generous pour of good wine and lively conversation overcame any mistakes and thus the day was declared a success.

The arrival of children and the gift of my grandmother’s cookbook, Pure Cook Book, published by the Women’s Progressive Farm Association of Missouri, heralded a return to the classics of the holiday. A virtual time machine, this worn, torn and faded tome took me into her Depression-era farm kitchen. Page stains and handwritten notes marked favorite recipes, among them mince pie. Why not start a new tradition connecting the generations and add this to the holiday table? My suggestion elicited all kinds of family reactions. From the daughters: “Ewww! Sounds gross!” From the husband:  “Hmmmm, I ate it, once.”  From my parents: “What’s wrong with pecan pie?”

Convinced that anything made from scratch would be far, far superior to packaged stuff, I began a search for the perfect mincemeat recipe. The family promised to try it with all the enthusiasm usually reserved for boiled cabbage.

Pies are the dessert of choice for the creative cook. Imagine, between two layers of pastry an infinite universe of fillings with few rules and, given enough sugar and butter, almost always delicious. Grandmother’s cookbook featured eleven recipes for mincemeat. Where to start? Traditional mincemeat really does contain meat. The first recorded recipes go back to the eleventh century where meat and dried fruits were combined with newly available spices — cloves, nutmeg and cinnamon — then soused with lots of brandy. Over the years mincemeat became sweeter as fruit became the predominate ingredient. All the recipes in grandmother’s cookbook still included meat but not a drop of brandy. Oh, yeah, 1930, the Prohibition era. Today, commercially available mincemeat is heavy on fruit, sugar and spice with nary a whisper of meat or brandy. No wonder this wimpy stuff has been relegated to the bottom shelf of the baking aisle. My challenge: to make authentic mincemeat appealing to modern tastes.

This recipe restores both brandy and meat; specifically beef suet to the ingredient list. Suet is a specialty fat found near the kidneys. With a higher melting point than butter, suet adds deeper and more nuanced flavor to mincemeat, maintaining the connection to its carnivorous history. Suet can be hard to find but fortunately Greensboro’s
Gate City Butcher offers suet from Harris-Robinette Farms in Pinetops, North Carolina.

Another reason to try mincemeat pie? The filling can be made in advance and so can the crust. If you make your own pastry, line the pie dish with rolled dough, wrap and freeze the dish, and it’s ready to go at a moment’s notice. Mincemeat pie needs a top crust. Roll the dough into a circle on plastic wrap, cover with another layer of plastic and roll the circle into a tube before freezing.

Making the mincemeat filling is a great family activity, with lots of chopping and kid-friendly
ingredients. Also, unlike the sugar bomb known as pecan pie, mincemeat is not cloyingly sweet. Start with a 4- or 5-quart heavy saucepan or Dutch oven on the stove and add the following:

3 pounds of apples, peeled, cored and diced. Use a variety of Golden Delicious, Granny Smith, Jonagold or McIntosh.

2 1/2 cups of dried fruit. Try a combination of raisins, golden raisins, currants and maybe some diced dried cherries for fun.

1/4 cup of chopped candied peel (orange or citron)

2 tablespoons minced crystallized ginger (optional, but lovely)

1/4 pound minced suet. Can’t find suet? Beefaphobic? Substitute butter and you’ve made what Grandmother called “mock mince.”

2/3 cup packed brown sugar

1/4 cup molasses

Zest and juice from an orange and a lemon

Pinch of salt

2 cups apple cider

And now, the spices. Mincemeat uses a small amount of several expensive spices, many that you bought before your first iPhone. Don’t do it! Just 2 to 3 teaspoons of fresh pumpkin pie spice is an economical alternative to separate jars of cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, mace and cloves.

Remember we’re making pies here so don’t get too caught up in the exact ingredients, add more or less of things as you like. Grandmother used what was available. Got a bit of ground venison in the freezer? Be truly authentic and add some to the pot! Don’t tell the kids.

Bring everything to a boil, reduce heat and simmer on low for 2  hours, stirring occasionally. When the mixture begins to thicken, stir more frequently. Add 1/4 cup of brandy and stir often for 15 minutes until thick and jammy. Cool and refrigerate. Filling can be prepared a week in advance.

On pie day, add the filling to your prepared pie dish. Unroll the top crust and place over the filling. Decoratively flute the edges and don’t forget to cut a few vent holes in the top. For a glossy golden crust, brush the dough with a little beaten egg and sprinkle some coarse sugar on top. Bake in a preheated 400°oven for 20 minutes then reduce oven temperature to 325° for another 30 to 40 minutes. Cool completely. Can be made a day ahead.

Mincemeat filling also makes a great cookie that can be baked ahead of the holiday and frozen till needed. Spread a little caramel frosting on top and make it special.

That first year I took great pains to make the pie’s edges and top beautifully decorative because its true, we “eat with the eye” first. Everyone bravely tried a slice because after all, it was pie!  My daughter confirmed, “This is lovely, it just needs a better name.” Forget it, Darling. This traditional holiday pie is a living link to generations of family celebrations.

I treasure my Grandmother’s cookbook and touch the handwritten notes, imagining her as a new bride learning to cook and care for her own family. It was both cookbook and household guide, full of practical medical advice and handy hints, some guaranteed to horrify (remedies made of kerosene, turpentine and gasoline figure prominently). Unfortunately the back cover along with the last chapter “How to Cook Husbands” is missing. I wonder: Did my grandfather have a hand in that?  OH

Diane Compton is tech class instructor and in-home specialist for Williams-Sonoma at Friendly Center.

Blowing His Cork

A rookie sommelier’s predicament

By David Claude Bailey

When a fancy new barbecue place, BoHog, opened up in Greensboro some years ago offering both eastern- and western-style N.C. barbecue, plus Texas beef brisket, I was delighted. Although the barbecue was cooked over natural gas, BoHog, which has since closed, served wine and beer — the latter of which has always seemed to me a perfect complement to cue. I realize there are wines that are supposed to pair well with cue. And, yes, every year Childress Vineyards comes out with a Fine Swine Wine vinted and blended to complement Lexington-style barbecue. But give me a bottle of William Sydney (counterintuitively) Porter’s favorite beer, Pilsner, or some good old iced tea.

So when a friend from New York came to town and wanted to try some of our fabled Piedmont barbecue, but with real wine rather than Cheerwine, I told him he could choose between some really good Stamey’s or Country Barbecue without wine or OK cue with it. He chose the latter. There is, in fact, no accounting for taste. 

As I was trying to explain the difference between creamy and vinegary slaw, minced and sliced pork (no crunchy outside meat at BoHog), an energetic and eager-to-please waiter arrived at our table to take our drink orders. Ed asked for the wine list. I don’t know who looked more horrified, the waiter or myself, but the waiter found a card on a table offering four wines by the half-bottle: a red, a pink and two whites. Ed ordered merlot and our waiter looked like a deer in the headlights until Ed said “No. 3.” After No. 3 had been pulled from BoHog’s wine cellar, our server, who had obviously been newly schooled in wine stewardship, presented Ed with the bottle of merlot he was carrying in a towel as if he were showing a newborn babe to the father. Ed nodded approvingly.

Then began the longest three minutes I’ve ever spent in a restaurant. While we were attempting conversation, the waiter looked for some sort of pull tab to remove the lead wrapper from the neck of the bottle. Not finding one, he went at it with a shiny tool he removed from his apron. Ed tried to avert his eyes and twisted his napkin in his hands beneath the table as the ordeal progressed. Then came the screwing in of the corkscrew. On the third try and at a 45-degree angle, the sound of cork squeaking against metal and then metal against glass came from somewhere within the towel. The corkscrew was the type that required using one part of the tool on the lip of the bottle as a fulcrum and then leavering out the cork with a handle. For a while, it looked as if our lad was wrestling with a small alligator wrapped in a towel, but soon a satisfying pop came from deep within the towel, and after a proferred sip, Ed nodded again and two glasses of BoHog’s best were poured. The cheap and fruit-forward merlot, in fact, complemented the mildly sauced pulled pork.

A collective sigh came from the table as the waiter retreated and conversation resumed — until we noticed that our waiter had returned to our table holding something abjectly in his hand as if it were a dead mouse. Ed turned sympathetically to him and asked him if we could somehow help him. The waiter held out the mangled remains of the cork, blushing, but, ever optimistic, and said: “I forgot to give you your cork. I know I messed it up real bad, but if you want me to go get another one, I will.”  OH

O.Henry’s editor at large (and getting larger), David Claude Bailey, once attended Greasehouse University in Kansas City so that he could judge the Jack Daniel’s World Championship Invitational Barbecue competition.