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Speaking of Traditions...

There’s no place like Greensboro

By Cassie Bustamante

In the age of streamable television and movies, some of my favorite childhood traditions have become a thing of the ’80s past: Saturday morning cartoons, singing commercial jingles on repeat with my brother — Who’s that kid with the Oreo cookie? — and annual movie marathons. Thanks to it being my father’s favorite festive film, our family always watched A Christmas Story during its 24-hour run on TNT. And for the longest time, the 1939 film The Wizard of Oz was an American Thanksgiving tradition more sacred than green bean casserole.

While I’m thrilled my three kids will never know the horror of “bagel bangs” and double-layered neon socks, it saddens me that some of these timeless treasures weren’t so timeless after all. But when we moved to Greensboro almost six years ago, I discovered that our little Emerald City had a November tradition of its own: the Community Theatre of Greensboro’s annual production of The Wizard of Oz.

Last year, our family, minus Sawyer, the oldest — an actual adult who claims musicals aren’t “his thing” — decided to partake in this community custom.

The day before our ticketed show, a Sunday matinee, 5-year-old Wilder and I are in the kitchen with roasted-potato-and-fennel soup simmering on the stovetop. Meanwhile, Chris, my husband, busies himself outside with leaf cleanup. “Alexa, play ‘Ding-Dong the Witch is Dead’ from The Wizard of Oz,” I command.

She does as told. (Modern technology can be a good thing, too!) The melody, paired with squeaky, studio-altered munchkin voices, echoes throughout the kitchen. Wilder moves his little body to the music, but stops for a moment. A dimpled hand shoots to his mouth as he giggles at the chipmunk-esque sounds emanating from the speaker. After that song, Alexa continues with other tunes from the “Merry Old Land of Oz,” but Wilder is not into hearing what Dorothy or Glinda have to say. Nope, he only wants the music of his new fav singing group: The Munchkins.

The next morning, he wakes and asks immediately, “Is today the day? Are we going to The Wizard of Oz?” As the day progresses, the question becomes, “How many more minutes?”

Finally, it’s almost showtime. We park downtown and skip to the Carolina Theatre, where families pile in. I see little girls dressed up as Dorothy and sparkling shoes on feet of all sizes. I’ve donned my black “Bad Witch” sweater as a nod to poor, misunderstood Elphaba. (Hey, I’ve seen Wicked, too!) Wilder, meanwhile, wears his ruby red Nikes.

We find our seats in the center of the balcony. Wilder struggles to see, but doesn’t care for the feel of the plastic booster seat. I’m already a little concerned the show won’t hold his attention and now I’m worried he’ll be uncomfortable, too. “Do you want to sit on my lap?” I offer.

He snuggles in and anxiously awaits the start of the show. The music begins, the curtain opens and we see Dorothy and Toto — and yes, a real dog is cast in the role!

Wilder sits on the edge of his seat, aka my knees. He’s utterly enthralled. Next to me, my daughter, Emmy, and I exchange occasional smiling glances. Almost three hours pass and not once has he taken his eyes off the stage — minus an intermission potty break — unless it’s been to hide his face from the Wicked Witch of the West and her entourage of flying monkeys.

I’m hot and sweaty, regretting the wool sweater I’ve worn, unaware that I’d be holding a human-sized space heater in my lap throughout the show, but I don’t care. Like those traditions I once thought timeless, these moments of borderline uncomfortable — but golden — closeness will similarly prove fleeting.

At the final curtain call, Wilder stands and cheers, whooping and hollering for the cast, especially the Tin Man. The Community Theatre’s executive director enters the stage to make some closing announcements, but our family takes that opportunity to beeline for the door before the crowd pours out. We can still hear her voice outside the theatre when she reminds the audience about next summer’s production of The Lion King Jr.

With his clammy little hand in mine, I drag Wilder hurriedly behind me, trying to catch up with Chris and Emmy. “Wait! Wait!” he shouts. “Can we see The Lion King?”

And just like that, it seems that a new-to-us tradition is born: Community Theatre productions.

“Of course we can,” I answer. While I am a parent who admittedly relies on YouTube and other digitally created content to entertain my children so I can accomplish tasks — or find a moment of peace, even — nothing can compare to the experience of real humans singing and dancing right in front of you. And while I don’t know how long his love of live theater will last, I plan to enjoy it while I can. Because this is the stuff of his own childhood memories.

Omnivorous Reader

OMNIVOROUS READER

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After the Amber

A novel of disappearance and guilt

By Stephen E. Smith

A startling buzzing blasts from your phone or TV, followed by a high-pitched whine, and a detailed description of a missing child inching across the screen. It’s an active Amber alert — a child abduction emergency. We experience these alerts too often, but we rarely learn what becomes of the missing child or how such a disappearance affects the child’s family, friends and the community in which the child lives.

Marybeth Mayhew Whalen’s 10th novel, Every Moment Since, is a fictional exploration of the emotional forces that wear on those who knew and loved 11-year-old Davy Malcor, who went missing for over two decades. The narrative opens with an early morning phone call informing Sheriff Lancaster that Davy’s favorite jacket was found in an abandoned building near the small North Carolina town of Wynotte. The burden of Davy’s disappearance is still very much in the public consciousness, fixed there by a bestselling memoir written by Davy’s older brother, Thaddeus, who had been responsible for watching over Davy on the night he vanished. On that tragic evening, Davy’s parents were attending a cocktail party, and Thaddeus ditched Davy so he could drink beer with his buddies. Davy wandered in the darkness with a mysterious new friend until headlights flickered through the neighborhood and Davy was gone. What happened that night transformed the characters’ lives and, years later, one question haunts them all: What might I have done differently?

Whalen has provided an intriguing cast of characters. Tabitha, Davy’s mother, is divorced (a byproduct of her son’s disappearance) and lives alone in the house where Davy was raised. She devotes her time to advocating for the families of missing children. Thaddeus is profiting from his family’s misfortune with a bestselling memoir. Aniss Weaver, the last person to see Davy alive, works as a public information officer for the local police. Gordon Swift, a local sculptor, is the prime suspect in Davy’s disappearance, although there has never been adequate evidence to bring charges against him. We have all the ingredients for a suspenseful mystery.

But Every Moment Since isn’t your typical whodunnit. The plot is a trifle too straightforward: a boy goes missing, his family suffers, the community agonizes, a body is eventually found, and the mystery, albeit a slight one, is solved. There are too few plot twists or complications in the early stages of the narrative, and much of the expository information in the first 180 pages of the 363-page novel focuses on the minutia of the characters’ day-to-day lives. Throughout the story, there is a nagging need to “bring on the bear.”

Whalen’s focus, the moving force in the novel, is guilt, which the characters suffer to various degrees. Tabitha rebukes herself for having left Davy in Thaddeus’ care so she could spend an evening socializing. Aniss Weaver is troubled by her specific knowledge that Thaddeus is blameless. And Thaddeus, more than any of the characters, is troubled by the financial success of his memoir about his brother’s disappearance. Gordon Swift, although innocent, suffers from doubts about his sexuality and the community’s suspicion that focuses on him as the likely culprit.

Whalen employs various third-person points of view that are not arranged chronologically (think Pulp Fiction). And the chapters range from excerpts taken from Thaddeus’ memoir to Tabitha’s daily bouts of regret to pure narrative segments that nudge the story forward. Even Davy, who has long since disappeared from the immediate action, has a third-person limited view in parts of the novel.

If this sounds like a lot to keep straight, it is, and the reader is required to focus his or her attention on what is happening to whom and when. The only question that needs answering is why the narrative is presented in this disjointed fashion, which becomes apparent in the novel’s final chapters.

The reader might reasonably conclude that the novel was written with the audiobook in mind (available as a digital download through Kindle). Chapters featuring the various personas written in the limited third person achieve degrees of separation and distinction when read by voice actors representing the various characters. For example, book chapters about Tabitha contain too few distinctive hooks that the reader can employ to establish an ongoing connection with the character, and one’s attention must remain fixed on who is doing what and when. Read aloud, the connection is immediate and continuous.

Every Moment Since is not recommended for anyone suffering from ADHD or for casual readers who will likely put the novel aside for days and expect to pick up the narrative line without rereading. The shifting points of view will not detract from the novel’s impact if the reader remains focused.

Whalen creates believable characters and has a true talent for dialogue — and she is to be congratulated for taking on a challenging and complex subject. The disappearance of a child is a horrifying possibility for any parent, and the crippling emotions suffered by a family that has experienced such a loss are almost inconceivable. Every Moment Since is a reminder that we should take careful notice of the Amber alerts that come blaring across our TVs and phones. They aren’t works of fiction.

Pleasures of Life Dept.

PLEASURES OF LIFE DEPT.

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The Checkout Counter

The sale — and whopper — of the century

Memoir by Kay Cheshire

Note from the editor: This story won third place in our 2023 O. Henry Essay Contest

Long before online shopping was invented, everyone relied on newspaper ads for sales. Many years ago, a week before Christmas, one of our city’s large department stores advertised Christmas china and accessories for sale, and when the ads came out, so did the shoppers.

The china department was crowded with last minute bargain hunters admiring mugs with reindeer handles, Santa cookie jars and star-shaped serving platters. I found the perfect red bowl, decorated with snowflakes for my Christmas buffet, and joined the long checkout line. There was only one salesclerk, a young woman, doing her best to keep the line moving.

While waiting, I chatted with the women in front of and behind me in line. We discussed the weather, what toys kids wanted and how the holidays came faster and faster each year. I complimented the well-dressed woman in front of me on her beautiful green wool suit.

“I only wear it during the holidays. It’s so old,” she said, laughing.

As we inched our way to the checkout counter, more and more customers joined the already long line, now quite long. I wondered why the store hadn’t hired more people to help.

When only one woman was ahead of my new friend in the green suit, an older women in a mink coat with plaster-sprayed hair barged in front of her and asked the salesgirl, “Do you have more reindeer mugs in the back? I only see four and I need eight.”

“I’m sorry, all the sale items are out on the table.”

“There’s always more things in the back, you just need to check,” the woman insisted.

“There are no other holiday items in the back,” the salesgirl replied. “My manager said everything was out for the sale.”

The mink-coated woman huffed, but wordlessly walked away. The young salesgirl apologized to the customer for having to wait.

“There’s one in every crowd,” I heard someone in line say.

Just as the girl was about to help this customer, the mink-coated woman broke in line again, this time with a tree-shaped platter.

“Do you have a box for this?”

“We don’t have boxes here,” the salesgirl answered. “You need to go to gift wrapping on the first floor.”

“I don’t mean a gift box. I mean, did this platter come with its own box?”

“They didn’t come with individual boxes; the platters were shipped as a group.”

“What kind of store is this?” the woman blurted out, walking away.

As the woman in front of me in the green suit finally made it to the cashier counter, the mink-clad woman interrupted a third time, with a white plate.

“I need eight of these and I know you have more in the back because these are not on sale.”

The young girl replied, “As soon as I finish with these ladies who have been waiting in line, I’ll be glad to help you, but I can’t leave right now.”

The mink woman said, “I’m good friends with the general manager of this store and I think he needs to hear that his salesclerks are slow and rude.”

“The woman behind me whispered, “She needs to look in a mirror to see rude.”

The green-suited lady said to the interloper, “Do you also know the wife of the general manager?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, I’m meeting her for lunch so tell me your name. If I’m late because you prevented this young woman from doing her job, she’ll know why.”

The mink coat shook as the woman slammed the plate down. Storming away, she shouted, “Tell her the salesclerk in china needs to be fired.”

“This young lady is exactly the kind of employee this store is lucky to have,” my new friend answered.

“Do you really think I’ll get fired?” the young girl asked.

“Of course not. I doubt she knows the general manager. She just made that story up, thinking you would be intimidated.”

“I really need this job. I know I’m slow, but there was supposed to be two of us until the other woman called in sick. I told the manager I could handle this by myself, but it’s having to wrap each piece of china in plain newsprint before bagging that makes me so slow.”

“We can do that for you, can’t we girls?” the green-suited woman said, turning towards me and the woman behind me.

“Oh no, I can’t let you do that,” the salesgirl said, horrified. “I’ll get fired for sure. Besides, you’re having lunch with the wife of the general manager.”

“You won’t get fired. Just tell anyone who asks that we’re your volunteer Christmas elves helping out today. And I am not having lunch with anyone. I can tell a whopper of a story as good as the woman in her mink!”

We paid for our items, then stood behind the salesclerk. The three of us started wrapping each customer’s purchases. After an hour, the sales table was empty, and all the shoppers were happily wishing us a Merry Christmas.

“Thank you all so much. I don’t know what I would have done without you three ladies. You’re definitely my Christmas angels.”

I’m not sure “angels” would describe us, but if it hadn’t been for the courage of the woman in the green suit, customers would have been upset over the long wait, and the young salesgirl indeed may have lost her job. I learned — and maybe we all learned that day — how the spirit of kindness from just one person can create a ripple effect, inspiring those around her.

A week later, there was a picture in the newspaper of the general manager of that store and his wife attending a charity New Year’s Eve party. There she was, the lady in the green suit, whose kindness had organized us to help the young salesgirl. She certainly could tell a whopper of a story. 

Omnivorous Reader

OMNIVOROUS READER

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Have Your Hike . . .

And treat yourself, too

By Anne Blythe

Sometimes amid the hubbub of daily life, it can be easy to forget how many natural gems surround us in North Carolina only a short distance away.

We’ve got the Atlantic beaches on the eastern edges and the Appalachian Mountains climbing in the west. In between, there are woodlands, rocky outcrops, sandy plains, grassy expanses, and the many rivers, lakes and waterways coursing through them.

If you’re a runner, hiker, cyclist or leisurely walker, there’s a vast array of trails to explore in these many regions, from Murphy to Manteo.

And, lucky for us, Palmer McIntyre and Hollis Oberlies, two outdoor enthusiasts from Greensboro, have compiled a guide to 30 of these places and scouted out nearby spots for refueling in Trails & Treats: A Hiker And Runner’s Guide To Great Trails And Good Eats in North Carolina.

“Trails of all kinds, whether tucked into the edge of the woods in a neighborhood park, up steep mountain summits, or circling a quiet, secluded pond, provide an escape from the everyday and connect us to the beauty of the natural world,” the pair write in the introduction to the book published this year. “A little fresh air and exercise in a serene setting can be the perfect respite from our busy lives and a way to refresh our minds.”

The women, who first bonded as their daughters became “fast friends in elementary school,” have hiked and biked many miles together over the years. They’ve done a 50-mile backpacking trip on the Appalachian Trail, the 40-mile bike tour through the five boroughs of New York and the Register’s Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa, a weeklong, 500-mile event.

In 2021, they started talking about working together to produce a guide that combined two of their passions — their “love of outdoor adventures and rewarding treats.”

Neither had ever thought about writing and publishing a book, they said in the acknowledgements of their guide. Oberlies, a runner since she was a child, owns and operates a graphic design business, and could bring that skill and expertise to the project. McIntyre, who’s worked with the Piedmont Land Conservancy since 1996 and been actively involved in saving natural areas in the Triad, could share her wealth of knowledge about trails and the trail networks she advocates for.

The two set out to explore both new trails and old favorites.

The result is an easy-to-use and fun-to-peruse book full of potential adventures. McIntyre and Oberlies have helpfully divided their 30 trail picks into four areas — the Mountain, Triad, Triangle and Charlotte regions. They’ve included the mileage for each trail leg or loop, the degree of difficulty and bits of geological or historical significance that will make a visit all the more meaningful. As a bonus, they provide words of inspiration and wisdom from some of the world’s great thinkers to ponder as you lace up your shoes before you get going or while you unlace them after a satisfying jaunt.

Take, for example, the words from noted author and neuroscientist Abhijit Naskar that lead off their take on the Laurel Bluff Trail, one of Greensboro’s Watershed Trails that extends above the southern shoreline of Lake Townsend between Lake Brandt Marina and North Church Street.

“The path reveals itself once you start walking.”

What McIntyre and Oberlies reveal is that there are short steep sections of this single-track path that are challenging, while the overall 7-mile trip out and back is still suitable for children with beckoning opportunities to get close to the water. If you’re a runner, they say there’s almost always a tree canopy overhead providing sought-after shade in the hot summer months as you test your mettle on rocky and root-strewn areas that can trip up the inattentive.

If you didn’t pack trail snacks from the recipes sprinkled throughout the book (or even if you did and depleted your stash while on the loop), the trail guide suggests a stop at Giacomo’s Italian Market on New Garden Road for cleverly named sandwiches and other “fresh, high-quality, Italian foods.” For those with a sweet tooth, there’s also Maxie B’s on Battleground Avenue, where owner Robin Davis turned her yogurt shop into a bakery that not only has an array of cakes, pies, cookies and tantalizing cupcakes. Homemade dog treats are on the menu, too. If a fruit smoothie is more to your liking, they suggest a stop at Juice Shop Smoothies on Lawndale Drive.

If you’re looking for a trail a little farther away from home or a recommendation for a post-hike adult beverage, the intrepid trail and treat guides have listed breweries and cocktail stops as well.

They’ve offered lists of gear essentials and things to watch out for in what they describe as a “unique first-time guide, written by a female hiker and runner duo.”

Kind of like you might savor the pages of a cookbook, whether you’re adept in the kitchen or not, McIntyre and Oberlies have created a guide that’s a joy to flip through.

“This guide is not for the coffee table, but meant to become a favorite companion, tucked into the side compartment of your car door, your backpack or placed on your bedside table after a day on the trails, reminding you to plan your next day out,” the duo writes. “ . . . Each path is an opportunity to explore, create memories, and renew your inner spirit.”

Simple Life

SIMPLE LIFE

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October Dreams

The house on the hill that haunts my slumber

By Jim Dodson

During the decades we lived on a forested hill in Mid-Coast Maine, October’s arrival was greeted with relief and joy.

To begin with, it signaled the final exodus of summer tourists, who left behind their spending money in the pockets of local businesses. The cost of a seafood supper roughly halved and it was possible to venture into town to lunch with friends without being caught in a traffic jam. By mid-month, even the annual invasion of “leaf peepers” was drawing to a close.

On our hilltop, we watched the 500-acre forest around us erupt into a dazzling pageant-fire of golds and reds, and wildlife grew more active as the days grew shorter.

I remember walking down our long gravel driveway to fetch the afternoon mail with my toddler daughter, Maggie, and pausing to watch a flock of ring-necked pheasants calmly cross our path, spectacular creatures completely unconcerned by our presence.

The family of white-tailed deer that inhabited our forest could be seen most October evenings finishing off the last of the hostas, which I had strategically planted at the rear of our property to keep them away from the house in high garden season. We were often visited by beavers and skunks and, on one memorable occasion, a gangly, young male moose harmlessly crossing our upland meadow to the late summer bog where bullfrogs croaked at night. The fireflies were gone by then, replaced by the lonely cry of coyotes deep in the woods.

October is a time of serious preparation in Maine. For the last time of the year, somewhere around mid-month, I mowed the half-acre of grass that surrounded our hilltop lilium and put away my beloved John Deere lawn tractor until next spring. I also cut down and raked out several large perennial beds, and split and stacked hardwood for an hour each day, preparing our wood pile for the cold days and nights just ahead. October was the month of our first evening fire, something we all looked forward to.

The last warm days of the month were a bonus. We packed up a picnic and took the kids to one of our favorite spots, Popham Beach State Park, a spectacular 3-mile sandy spit near the mouth of the Kennebec River, where a short-lived colony was established in 1607. Popham was — and probably still is — the most popular beach in Maine. But, by October, the beach belonged again to the locals. Our children, far-flung and now in their 20s and 30s, have fond memories of walking out to the famous “Rock Island” at low tide and swimming in the ocean, warmed ever so slightly by the summer’s passing. On the way home, if the timing was right, we stopped off at our favorite seafood shack at Five Islands for fried clams and blueberry ice cream, even as its owner was preparing to shut down for the season.

The decision to sell our beloved house in 2008 was possibly the toughest one we’ve ever had to make. A year before, however, we moved to North Carolina, foolishly believing that we would simply keep our precious Maine house and return to it each summer. But, after letting it sit empty with only a caretaker looking after it for one full winter, it became clear that this was a recipe for trouble. Maine winters are tough on people and houses alike. We reluctantly decided to sell the place to a charming young couple from Connecticut who dreamed of making my dream house theirs.

The timing couldn’t have been worse.

Thanks to a national collapsing housing market and the start of the Great Recession, the sweet couple from Connecticut failed to sell their house in time, and we wound up selling to a couple from Massachusetts, who got a sensational deal. The wife adored the gardens and the quiet of the forest. The husband, however, complained that the house’s exposed hemlock beams made the interior “look unfinished.” He also didn’t like the closets or the notches on the rear of the utility door that memorialized the growth of our four kids.

I nearly backed out of the deal, but finally signed because the woman loved the place.

I stayed out of Maine for more than a decade, joking to friends that it was too soon to return and risk never coming back. That hilltop, after all, is where I designed, built and owned my first house, got married and had my children, created my first garden, and stayed longer than anywhere else. If you are curious to see why it will forever own a piece of my heart, try googling “Zillow, Topsham Maine, 12 East Merrill  Road.”

Looking back, however, coming home to North Carolina was one of the wisest moves we ever made. Over 17 years, I’ve had the opportunity to create four arts magazines, publish nine books, and make scores of new friends while deepening my oldest friendships. Moreover, during the past decade, we’ve fully restored a lovely mid-century house in my boyhood neighborhood, just two doors down from the house where I grew up. Talk about a spiritual homecoming.

Fortunately, Octobers here are also spectacular. The murderous heat of summer is finally gone, the garden is winding down for another year, the night skies are clearer, and Piedmont North Carolina kindles its own breathtaking pageant-fire of leaves.

But every now and then I have dreams about our old house in Maine.

Invariably, it’s October in this dream and I’m walking through the empty rooms of our old place, wondering what will come of it now that I’m long gone. You see, I never went back there to see it.

Not long ago, however, my savvy wife, Wendy, proposed a cure for my October dreams.

Next year, either in September or October, we plan to rent a house somewhere on the coast of Maine.

Who knows? Maybe when I’m there I’ll dream about our wonderful house and garden back in Carolina. 

Home Grown

HOME GROWN

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Mama Macabre

My secret weapon

By Cynthia Adams

When I gave my mother a pillow needlepointed with “Drama Queen,” she cast me a look before promptly sticking it in a closet — where it remained.

Mama always had a penchant for drama, whether emblazoned on a pillow or not. Her Katherine Hepburn-like older sister was a stark contrast. Our cool-as-a-cucumber aunt made us invariably wonder even more: Why all the drama? 

Was it the advent of high-drama television when Mama was young? However exciting 1940s-era radio programs (a staple of her youth) were, televised dramatizations enacted in real time were a leap forward. 

From her mother, an otherwise no-nonsense lady who knew her way around any situation (from cooking and baking for a crowd to tilling the garden and growing her own veggies), Mama had inherited a curious thing: a passionate devotion for daytime soaps.

Their very names trembled with dramatic tension: The Edge of Night, Guiding Light, The Secret Storm — Mama and her mother, Mama Patty, eagerly followed each one. 

Complete fiction, they both agreed. Outlandish storylines, they assented. They even recognized that the actors were just too perfect-looking. Even so, they were totally, passionately glued to the tube, Monday–Friday, from after lunchtime (then called “dinner”) to near suppertime (now called dinner.) 

These detergent-sponsored dramas unfolded along a consistent trajectory — usually as follows: a. rags to riches, b. riches to rags, or c., the most convoluted, a fall, a rise, then a fall again. 

Later in life, another passion usurped Mama’s attachment to soap operas. True crime reflected many of the same dramatic ingredients.

This fascination solidified during the O.J. Simpson trial. 

My mother never lost interest, from June 17, 1994, the night of the televised white Bronco chase. She watched each development thereon, and knew each and every gory detail, from the infamous glove manufacturer (Aris) to alleged assignations with a lover, to the most obscure points.

Yet I had underestimated just how invested Mama had become. 

So, when I took my mother to L.A. following bypass surgery, she had clear requests. First and foremost, she wanted to drive past the Beverly Hills homes of her favorite television and movie stars. Also, she wanted to visit the infamous Simpson site. That site.

She actually knew Nicole Brown Simpson’s Brentwood address.

With great misgivings, I drove Mama to Brentwood. She practically knew the way without aid of GPS.

When I slowed near the apartments briefly and sped on, Mama insisted I turn around and pass by again, but slower this time.

Gritting my teeth and gripping the steering wheel, I was deeply conflicted and yet did as she asked — she was a cardiac patient!

Mama’s disappointment was evident. Too many things (fences, trees, pedestrians) obstructed a clear view. What did she expect anyway? A historical marker? Plus, she complained, I was still driving far too fast. 

Our reactions to the scene were radically different.

She expressed how shockingly modest the apartment complex was. I pointed out this was an actual crime scene, not a stage set.

Digesting how appalling it was that a horrific landmark was now a tourist destination, we returned to the hotel at my insistence. She didn’t appreciate the irony when I later booked us on a Grave Line Tour of celebrity homes. To Mama’s mortification, the guide pulled up before our hotel driving a gray hearse, no less. (The company’s website is priceless. Its tagline, “We put death on the map,” is truth in advertising. Now, you can stipulate if you prefer a “limousine ride through the City of Fallen Angels” over the hearse.)   

But her interest in the dark side of the human psyche steadily intensified as she grew older. In the fall of 1994, when Susan Smith murdered her children in Union, S.C., Mama again absorbed every broadcast interview, each sordid detail.   

Had she, I ventured jokingly, harbored a secret desire to drive me and some of her more vexing children into a lake? Of course not, she snapped. 

Mama had a paralyzing fear of water and could not swim. 

Otherwise, who could say? I wondered aloud. Mama didn’t laugh.

She even went with me to Union (along with hordes of other media folk) in pursuit of a story about the murder’s impact on a small town thrust into an intense media glare. Mama’s retention of minutiae actually proved helpful.

She quickly recalled the spot where Susan and her boss had occasionally met for drinks. There, a bartender talked on record, thanks to Mama, who innocently plied him with questions, murmuring sympathetically while nursing her favorite cocktail, a Bloody Mary. (Naturally.) He winced when I pulled out a notebook, yet Mama somehow put him at ease — a feat I couldn’t have managed alone. 

It turned out the bartender was an old school friend of Susan’s. He shared details of her troubled adolescence and abuse, something he wouldn’t have done without Mama’s coaxing.

Till her end, Mama was helplessly hooked whenever a dark story broke. 

Recently, I could not help but think of her as the Murdaugh murders and trials unfolded, horrifying and stupefying in their violent scope and retelling.

It’s a story that would have no doubt necessitated a return to South Carolina, Mama in tow, ready to ply a possible source. 

Bloody Mary, indeed.

Birdwatch

BIRDWATCH

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They’re a Hoot

Keep a sharp ear out

By Susan Campbell

Listen . . . an eerie trill or spooky shriek from out of the darkness at this time of year just might indicate the presence of an eastern screech-owl. Territorial adults readily use a mix of screams, tremolos with different pitches and long trills to advertise the boundaries of their home range. Their vocalizations are remarkably loud for such small birds: Screech-owls only stand about 8 inches high. They can be found in forests all over North Carolina, especially in thick pine stands, so much of our Piedmont habitat is great for them. Furthermore, they are with us year-round.

Eastern screech-owls can be either a dull gray or a rich rufous color. Dark splotches and vertical striping on the breast and belly provide excellent camouflage against tree bark, where they can be found roosting during daylight hours. Tufts of feathers on the head give an eared or horned appearance. They may be sitting close to a tree trunk or peering out of a cavity. As is the case with most raptors, females are larger than males. Nonetheless, females have higher pitched calls. Rarely are they seen, unless crows or flocks of songbirds signal their presence by frenzied flight and raucous calling.

This species is found throughout the eastern United States as well as along the Canadian border and in easternmost Mexico. Although they may wander somewhat outside of the breeding season, eastern screech-owls are not migratory. These diminutive owls breed in the springtime. Pairs, who usually stay together for life, nest in cavities, utilizing old squirrel or woodpecker holes as well as purple martin houses and wood duck boxes. Not surprisingly, pairs of screech-owls will readily take to boxes made to their exact specifications. A female simply lays up to six white eggs on the substrate at the bottom of the cavity. Incubation takes about a month, and then the young birds take another month to develop before they fledge. During this period, while the female remains on the nest, her mate will hunt nightly for the growing family.

Eastern screech-owls eat a wide variety of prey. Rodents are a large portion of their diet, but they also readily catch frogs, large insects and other invertebrates, including crayfish and even earthworms. They have been known to feed on roosting birds and the occasional bat. Screech-owls are very much at home feeding on mice, rats or voles that can be found around bird feeders at night — as well as moths and beetles attracted to outside lights. These birds adopt a “sit-and-wait” strategy, then pounce on their prey and swallow it whole. Owl gizzards are specially adapted to digest the soft parts of the creatures they eat and then ball up the bones, fur and other indigestible bits into an oval mass that is regurgitated each day. Favored roost sites or nest cavities can be found by locating piles of these masses (or pellets, as they are referred to) on the forest floor. Unfortunately, screech-owls often hunt along roadsides and are prone to being hit by cars as they swoop low over the pavement to grab a meal.

Overall, however, eastern screech-owls are a successful species that has adapted well to the changes humans have made to the landscape. In fact, urban individuals tend to be more successful than their suburban counterparts, likely due to several factors, including fewer predators, more available prey and plenty of cavities in the landscape. So, spend some time outside after dark and train your ears for the trill or tremolos of our eastern screech-owl. No doubt there are one or two living in your neighborhood. These cute little birds are anything but scary once you get to know them. 

O.Henry Ending

O.HENRY ENDING

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My Roommate

A dapper apparition

By Renee Skudra

I have only seen him once, in profile, passing from the living room into the kitchen: a dapper, middle-aged man in 1940s clothing — attired in a patterned knit vest, double-pleated gabardine trousers, dark brown loafers and a fedora. Startled, as I jumped up from my seat at the kitchen table, he vanished.

I’m a largely rational creature and once considered myself the sort of person who didn’t believe in ghosts. I’ve read in paranormal literature that a ghost sighting is often referred to as an example of “ontological shock,” an event that causes one to question one’s worldview. Believe me. It has.

I have witnessed lights and spigots turning on and off, objects moving or falling, shadows that pass through walls, freezing cold spots with the central heating set at 74 degrees, a voice from my computer screaming “You’ve got mail!” at 3 a.m.

I have had to conclude that a dead person interacting with the living world — aka a ghost — inhabits my house. While you may scoff at that, spending only one night in my house would make you a believer. For the moment, my ghost and I have reached an uneasy peace. Neither of us is leaving.

However, I am in good company in believing that my roommate/apparition exists. According to a survey conducted by the Pew Research Center, close to 20 percent of people say they have seen a ghost. That equates to more than 50 million ghosts out there in the U.S. alone. A 2019 Ipsos poll found that 46 percent of Americans say they believe in ghosts.

The idea that the dead remain with us in spirit is indeed an ancient and abiding concept. From the Bible to Shakespeare’s Macbeth, from TV ghost hunting shows to my own kitchen, we’re obsessed by specters. Skeptics keep the debate going. They argue that, if ghosts are real, their existence will be verified through controlled experiments. They posit that reports of ghosts can be explained by psychology, misperceptions, mistakes and hoaxes. According to a 2019 article entitled “The Science of Ghosts” in Science News Explores, scientists found zero evidence that ghosts exist. What scientists have discovered, though, are a multitude of reasons why people might feel they have had ghostly encounters — hallucinations and pareidolia top the list. Pareidolia is a tendency for the human brain to find patterns amongst ambiguous stimuli. Is that a face you see in a cloud? Effectively, the brain finds meaning in the meaningless.

Still ghost stories persist. Prime Minister Winston Churchill and First Lady Grace Coolidge swore they saw Abraham Lincoln in the Yellow Oval Room. George Washington is said to have regularly revisited the historic chamber at Mount Vernon where he died in 1799. The ghost of former N.C. Governor Daniel Fowle has been haunting the Governor’s mansion. 

As I’m writing this, the light suddenly flickers in the den and once again my volume of Black’s Law Dictionary has fallen from its shelf and lies, open, in the middle of the floor. I replace the book, as I have so many times before, and calmly say, “Please leave the law books alone.” When you live with things that go bump in the night, you have to give them a modicum of respect and hope they do the same for you.

Art of the State

ART OF THE STATE

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Earth Is at the Center

Christina Lorena Weisner’s art explores new frontiers

By Liza Roberts

Christina Lorena Weisner’s art emerges from her deep connection to the earth, to its systems and rhythms, its elements and mysteries. She studies the planet like a scientist and discovers it like an explorer, venturing to its far ends to record its extremes in person, to live within its phenomena. She turns her insights into art she hopes will inspire awe for our planet’s grandeur and empathy for its vulnerability.

Her latest fascination is the North Pole, where she spent two weeks immersing herself last spring with an expeditionary art and science residency called The Arctic Circle. “I can only describe it as the most impactful experience of my life,” Weisner says. “I’ve been interested in water for a long time, and I wanted to immerse myself into this landscape of glaciers in order to better understand it.” 

The expedition’s ship, which carried 30 fellow resident artists and scientists, took Weisner and others to the Svalbard Archipelago by outboard Zodiacs twice a day, always surrounded by “a triangulation of guards with guns” to protect them against polar bears. While ashore, Weisner planted an orange safety flag in the icescape, making it a recurring motif in her photos. She also used a drone to shoot video from above and collected plastic. 

“You’re in a land that you know is changing, you’re looking at a glacier that might not be there in 100 years. You’re looking at history,” she says. That history was evident in other ways, too, like a massive pile of whale bones left behind by 19th century whalers, and the detritus left behind by scientific explorers of that time. “There were many instances where I was thinking of human history as it relates to geological time,” Weisner says. 

The trip “was the catalyst for a whole new body of work,” says Weisner, who is headed back next May. That work includes still photography of that mythic frontier, sweeping video and installations that incorporate pieces of plastic she collected in and around Svalbard.  

Recently, her work was in Surface and Undercurrents, a group show at Dare Arts in Manteo, and this month she is part of a group exhibit at Emerge Gallery & Art Center in Greenville. Next April she will be featured in a group show at Central Connecticut State University on climate change in the Arctic, and in June her work will be exhibited in a solo show at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Arlington, Virginia. 

A native of Richmond, Virginia, Weisner says she can trace the beginnings of her work as an artist to a job she had with Nag’s Head Ocean Rescue in her early 20s. When she wasn’t saving swimmers, she stared out at the ocean for 10 hours a day. “I would watch the sun move across the sky and the moon come up,” she says. “I was very aware of these bigger processes — these large-scale movements, like waves coming over from the coast of Africa — that we’re not often aware of.

Other little-seen influences in her work come from her wide-ranging education, which includes an MFA from University of Texas at Austin and separate undergraduate degrees in both world studies and fine arts from Virginia Commonwealth University. The interplay between humans, time and the planet has long been a theme in her work. As a former competitive swimmer and regular runner and biker, she experiences the world in a visceral way, creating art that is informed by the way we live within the world and the way the world lives with us. 

From her home in Kitty Hawk (she’s soon to move to Duck, two Outer Banks towns away), Weisner rides a bike or runs along the beach every day to note its transformations. “It’s the same beach, but it’s completely different, the water color, the form of the waves, the temperature of the wind,” she says. Sometimes she finds objects to incorporate into sculpture as she goes. 

Waves and wavelengths — audio, seismic and light — all inspire her. A meteorite impact crater in Southern Germany was the subject of sculpture and installation art she created with the Fulbright Grant she was awarded in 2013; she used seismometers to record earthquakes as part of a Mint Museum installation in 2018.

One early morning in March 2022, I had the chance to witness her in action. On the shores of Kitty Hawk Sound, I watched as she zipped up her wetsuit, assembled a series of floating sculptures, and waded with them into the frigid waters. The sun wasn’t fully up, the air was barely 40 degrees and the art she was wrangling was bigger than she was. Weisner took it all in stride. In a matter of minutes, she’d glided 50 yards from shore and her art was floating all around her.

The largest of the three pieces of art with her that morning was one she’d attached to her outrigger kayak and towed 275 miles down parts of the Eno and Neuse Rivers and through the Ocracoke Inlet in 2019, recording audiovisual information and environmental data (including a panther sighting) along the way. Two smaller works included discarded beach chairs from one of her regular oceanside jogs.

Her approach with every subject, Weisner says, is to embrace what she doesn’t know, and to let her new knowledge as well as her material guide her. 

“I’m still a process-oriented artist,” she says, one focused on “openness to material and play, not taking my work too seriously . . . and not being too pigeonholed.” She thrives when she can employ all of her senses in the making of her art, especially work that involves nature. And she loves making connections across time and place. 

When the polar vortex winds of 2022 washed an old canoe up on the side of the road near her house, for instance, she picked it up and brought it home. “It had beautiful layering on it,” she says. “The water had rotted holes into it. I think it had been submerged in the sound for a couple of years.” 

The fact that winds from the Arctic dislodged it and brought it to her North Carolina shore fascinated her, she says, and that canoe has become part of her latest Arctic-inspired installations. “No place is an isolated place,” says Weisner. “Everything we do — everything that happens in one geographic location — impacts other geographic locations.” 

Chaos Theory

CHAOS THEORY

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A Haunting Tale

Yes, ghosts are real. Unless you’re my kid who’s going to bed — then no

By Cassie Bustamante

“Ghosts aren’t real,” I tell my 5-year-old, Wilder, as I tuck him in for the night, regretting that I let him watch Scooby-Doo. I don’t actually believe what I am saying, but parents will say whatever they have to to get their kids to just go to sleep. Just ask Adam Mansbach, author of the infamous Go the F*** to Sleep.

But back to the matter at hand. “Ghosts are very real,” I tell my husband, Chris, once Wilder is asleep. He doesn’t agree — and always sleeps like a champ. “Don’t worry. If I die first, I’ll prove it to you,” I say. “I can’t wait to haunt you!” (Actually, yes, I can.)

Do I have proof? No, but I have stories.

When I was a teen growing up in a small town in western Massachusetts, my godmother, Aunt Debbie — my mom’s sister, younger by just a year — would take me on weekend shopping trips, east to Boston or west to Stockbridge. She didn’t have kids of her own so she treated me like her daughter, buying me dangling jewelry she called “baubles.” We’d jam to the tunes of Gloria Estefan and Steve Winwood, and she’d regale me with stories from her life, which seemed much more dazzling and whimsical than my family’s boring white-picket-fence, suburban existence. What I didn’t understand at the time was that those seemingly exhilarating moments were part of her ups. She never shared the downs of her bipolar disorder with me.

Debbie was somewhat of a widow. She’d lost her husband, Michael, to ALS, but they’d been separated at the time of his diagnosis, remaining legally married for insurance purposes. As his illness progressed, despite each having new significant others, their friendship became stronger than ever.

Immediately after his funeral, friends would drop in to share memories, drinks and laughs. But then she threw a party akin to the wild ones they threw when Michael was alive, certainly not your typical post-burial get-together.

On one particular godmother-and-goddaughter weekend as we’re on our way to the Berkshires, she spills the details. “I had a cake made with his face on it and put candles in his eyes,” she says. Already, I’m intrigued and we’re both giggling over the absurdity of it all. After all, this was 1995 and face cakes weren’t really a thing yet. “We turned off the lights and had a seance. One of his friends said, ‘Debbie, you shouldn’t do this! He’d be so mad!’”

That night, she continues, a vicious storm passed through, knocking out power and tossing a tree onto her little Honda sedan, which was parked in the driveway. Coincidence? Maybe, but there’s more.

Pictures fell off a stable living room shelf.

“The alarm by the hall closet kept turning on when I would walk by,” Debbie says. Not just any hall closet, but the place where she stored Michael’s suits, soon to be passed on to his younger brother. “I said, ‘OK, Michael. I get it — you’re telling me something!’” she says as we cruise down the highway. “I decided to rifle through the pockets and discovered a watch he didn’t want his brother to have.” And, as soon as she retrieved it, the alarm was silent.

On the morning of April 2, 1996, just as I was getting ready for school, my mom received a call. Her sister had taken her own life — just shy of her 40th birthday — the night before. Though tragic, it wasn’t a complete surprise, although we’d hoped things were turning around for her. She’d found a new love, bought a house with him and was, it appeared, happy. But you never know the demons someone battles.

In the months that followed Debbie’s passing, I looked for signs of her presence everywhere. I watched for lights to flicker or alarms to sound seemingly on their own. I played the Mary Chapin Carpenter cassettes that I inherited from her collection, hoping a message might come through. But no visitations followed and I decided she was finally resting in peace.

Ten years later to the day Debbie died, it is April 1, 2006.

I’m in Maryland visiting my parents with my first baby, 8-month-old Sawyer, who has slept solidly through the night since he was 6 weeks old. At midnight on the nose, something startles me awake: a noise over the baby monitor.

But Sawyer isn’t crying. In fact, he’s cooing and chatting away happily, as if talking to someone. And in that moment, I know exactly who: Debbie, who always loved babies, but never had her own. Debbie, who loved me like a daughter and would have loved this baby as if he were her own grandchild. Paralyzed by this realization — and slightly terrified, if I am being honest — I decide not to go to him. He babbles. He gurgles. He coos. And, as if lulled by an unsung lullaby, he drifts to sleep. I, of course, check on him later and find him snoozing peacefully, the corners of his mouth forming a sweet smile behind his pacifier.

So while I tell a little white lie to Wilder because I’m ready to go to bed myself, I do, in fact, think ghosts are real. And perhaps one day, hopefully 50 years from now if I am lucky, Chris will be telling our grown children and grandkids about the little ways I’m letting him know I’m still around. No matter what, I’ll make a believer out of him yet.