Chaos Theory

Chaos Theory

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Always the Chorus Girl

Never the star

By Cassie Bustamante

Some of my favorite childhood memories are rooted within the walls of my local Blockbuster, where my older brother, Dana, and I would cruise through the aisles, hoping the hot new release we wanted would be waiting on its shelf. When it wasn’t, I’d hit my second-favorite section: musicals. My mom had me hooked on the classics — My Fair Lady, A Chorus Line and anything with the adorably-dimpled Shirley Temple. One of my favorites was Gigi, starring the exquisite Leslie Caron. Of course, I now realize it’s a highly problematic story about grooming a coltish teenage girl to become a much older man’s mistress. French accents can make anything seem romantic. An avid musical theater fan, I imagined I’d one day be a star, as elegant as Caron or Audrey Hepburn.

Dear reader, I did not become that girl. Not even close. Over the years, I’ve had to admit that I will never be a star of stage, screen or television. Nor a chanteuse, though I can carry a tune. But, just before high school, my mother introduces me to Bye Bye Birdie, a film in which the beautiful Ann-Margret stars as Kim McAfee. Kim is a high school senior who’s just been pinned by Hugo but is randomly chosen to plant “One Last Kiss” on Elvis-inspired rocker Conrad Birdie before he deploys with the Army. In that film, I finally see the role I was born for.

I know what you’re thinking — “She’s no Kim McAfee.” And you’re right. But her hyper-enthusiastic brunette of a best friend, Ursula Merkle? That’s more like it.

It just so happens that the summer before my freshman year of high school, we spy a casting call in our small-town paper for a local theater production of, you guessed it, Bye Bye Birdie, just a couple towns over. For days, I practice Ursula’s lines in my bedroom mirror and work on the vocals to “We Go Together” from Grease because the music has a similar vibe. Plus, I already know that song well. So well, in fact, that I’m feeling cocky and even sprinkle in a little movement. It’s no Jennifer Beals Flashdance moment, but it’ll do.

Audition day arrives and my mom and I are piled into a room with all the other hopeful stage actors. We’ll all be trying out in front of everyone else. A little nerve-racking, for sure, but if you can’t do that, what business do you have performing for a packed house?

While I wait for my name to be called, I watch and cheer politely for everyone else as anticipation builds, my heart racing and my hands clammy.

“Tricia,” the director, Mark, calls. A young woman (and, yes, she’s over 18) walks confidently to the stage, waving at the director with a glint in her dark-brown eyes. It’s clear that she’s worked with this director before — their exchange of glances seems just a little chummy to me. “And what role are you auditioning for?

“Ursula,” she says. Her chestnut tresses bounce with the cocky bob of her head. She already knows this part is hers. And, truly, she’s really good. My palms start sweating something fierce as uncertainty creeps in. I take a deep, calming breath.

My turn arrives. I introduce myself and am given the same lines that Tricia has already read. The scene is one where Ursula is fan-girling for all she’s worth to Conrad Birdie. I begin, reciting the lines I know so well, then drop to my knees, clutching my heart as I say, “Speak to us, oh beautiful one, tell us how you make that glorious sound, that even now an anticipation of it has reduced me to a snarling, raging, panting, jungle beast!”

In that brief moment, I am Ursula. I have just owned that part. Mark exchanges knowing looks with his colleagues. My mom is beaming in her seat, her hazel eyes gleaming.

Someone else notices, too — Tricia. She stalks over to the director’s table and leans in toward Mark, whispering. His head, covered in dark-brown curls, nods along. And before I can say, “We love you Conrad,” Tricia is back on stage, having been given a second chance and reading yet another Ursula scene.

I look at my mom and panic: “What do I do? Do I ask if I can go again, too?” No, I decide. I know that I’ve given my best. And, at 14, I’ve already dealt with my fair share of mean girls. My mom has taught me exactly how to handle them: Do not let them get under your skin. Well, more like, don’t let them see that they’ve gotten under your skin. And never stoop to their level.

A few days later, back at home, our hunter-green kitchen telephone rings and Mom picks up. She hands it to me while putting her hand over the receiver: “It’s Mark!”

Still holding onto hope, I stretch the cord as far as I can and lean on the hallway wall, out of my family’s earshot.

“Your audition was really something,” Mark says, “and we’d love to have you in the chorus. In fact, we want to give you several speaking lines.”

Holding back tears, I accept the small part. I show up at the first rehearsal, head held high, knowing that I made a fully-grown woman sweat it out and worry that she was going to lose her part to a child. Over the course of the next several weeks, I shimmy, shake and belt out tunes along with a handful of other chorus teens who become close friends. Tricia, with an air of her “you-know-what doesn’t stink,” keeps her distance from our lowly chorus crew.

Sure, she got to play Ursula, but I learned something that’s stuck with me: Sometimes, it’s not about who you know, but how well you know yourself.  OH

Cassie Bustamante is editor of O.Henry magazine.

O.Henry Ending

O.Henry Ending

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A Hard Pass

Turns out, fourth time’s the charm

By Joi Floyd

Illustration by Harry Blair

It is an unusually hot summer day, even by North Carolina standards, when my stepdad, Gerald, finishes his latest project. He’s been working all summer on a go-cart. Hands sticky from my melting popsicle, I, a thrill-seeking 15-year-old, am ecstatic.

Both a mechanic and welder, he built it from scratch with a spare motor and leftover materials found under our carport. Then, he spray painted it teal to match our trampoline. When revved up, it makes a VROOM sound just like the sports cars he’s been fixing up the past few years.

Ready to race around, my sister, Bre, and I eagerly hop in. Within seconds, all three of us are strapped in and pulling out of the driveway. We swerve around the neighborhood, wind blowing through our hair and nothing but the sound of the motor and an occasional happy scream from the three of us.

Gerald spins the wheel effortlessly. His way of driving includes carefully gracing every turn with ease and he has no problem going a little over the speed limit to enhance the exciting squeals. “Who wants to drive next?” he asks as we pull back into the driveway. Bre jumps into the driver’s seat first. Her love for driving started early — obviously inherited from her car-loving birth-father, Gerald. And, just like him, she steers effortlessly. Swerving through the streets of the neighborhood like a professional NASCAR driver, she only steers toward home when we beg.

“Your turn, Joi,” Gerald says. I take the wheel, though I don’t quite have my drivers license, and immediately drop the clutch, sending us zooming backwards down the driveway. “Brake!” he yells, trying to keep his calm after the sudden rush. And brake I do, sending us flying forward — thank God for seatbelts. Every move after is just as disastrous. Speeding feels too fast, yet braking hits too hard. And the turns? Well, I crashed us straight into the curb. In no time, I discover that the NASCAR gene is a case of nature versus nurture and I don’t have it.

As I approach 16, I want nothing to do with getting my drivers license, but Gerald insists that it’ll be good for me. So, next thing I know, I’m in Driver’s Ed, scowling at the instructor. Only a few sharp turns and sudden brakes later, I manage to pass the class. But that only means I have to take the official test at the most hated place on Earth, the DMV. Luckily for me, but unluckily for most of the world, the COVID-19 pandemic means I don’t have to take the driving portion, but that doesn’t mean a guaranteed pass. In fact, I end up failing three times in a row — what even is a three-point turn?

“You’ll get it next time,” my mom says as I came out of the DMV after each failure, tears rolling down my face — somehow I don’t think she fully believes it herself.

I’m determined to make the fourth test my final. “Back again?” the DMV lady asks with a snicker as I march into the building, head held high. Indeed I was. Twenty minutes and four missed questions later, I pass. A cheesy grin grows across my face as the DMV lady snaps my picture for my license — and no, I will not be back again.

Though I didn’t start as the strongest, I grow confident in my driving skills and knowledge every day. Who needs a NASCAR gene when you have perseverance and a willingness to learn? Now that I know the ins and outs of the road, maybe I can tackle parallel parking — or maybe not.  OH

Joi Floyd is assistant editor of O.Henry magazine. When not spending all her time lost in a book or catching up on a TV show, you’ll most likely find her outside wandering around in search of a stray cat to feed.

Sazerac September 2026

Sazerac September 2026

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Sazerac September 2026

En garde!

Photography courtesy of Serge Timacheff/USA Fencing

It’s easy to underestimate 17-year-old athlete Abe Kaplan. He’s not a big kid. Cerebral palsy limits the use of his right hand and leg. By the age of 13, he’d tried karate, soccer, flag football and horseback riding. Then his parents, Eric and Karen, encouraged him to try a class at the Greensboro Fencing Academy — and something clicked.

“Abe’s mom took him to an introductory class on Saturday morning and he asked her to take him back for another that afternoon,” Eric says with a laugh. Within months of taking up the sport, Abe was winning tournaments against competitors who had no disabilities. While he understood that his disability would hold him back in able-bodied competition, he was reluctant to transition to para fencing, an adaptive form of fencing for athletes with physical impairments.

In 2023, Abe and his dad were visiting Washington, D.C., when they had the opportunity to attend a para fencing tournament. It was not what they’d expected. “If you haven’t seen it, you think, ‘Oh, it’s just disabled fencing,’” Abe says.

“But these people were athletes — strong, fast,” Eric comments.

A month later, the Kaplans were invited to Florida for a weekend training camp led by a para fencing coach for the U.S. team. After more months of training with national coaches in Atlanta, Abe flew with his father to his first competition in Warsaw, Poland.

The learning curve was steep. “Especially when you’re 14 years old and fencing grown men,” Eric explains.

Now, after three more years of training and international competition, Abe has advanced his world ranking. He could earn a spot on the team that will compete in the Los Angeles Paralympic Games in 2028.

He fences three hours a day, six days a week. He’s lithe as a panther and just as quick. I wouldn’t underestimate Abe Kaplan.

— Ross Howell Jr.

Window to the Past

Photography Courtesy of High Point Historical Society, High Point, N.C.

Thomas Built school buses are an iconic part of the American school experience. Built and manufactured in High Point since 1936, when Perley A. Thomas swapped cars for buses, these unmistakable vehicles have carried generations of students. Painted an iconic golden-yellow — now named National School Bus Glossy Yellow, according to Canada and the U.S. — they’re easy to spot but much harder to catch once they’re on the move, especially if you’re a sleepyhead running a minute or two late. After all, those wheels were made for rolling, so that’s just what they’ll do.

Indie Scene

Ingram, Brett. Digital-to-Analog Converter. 2019–26. Mixed Media, 19″ x 14″ x 8″.

From junk to treasure: Brett Ingram — UNCG graduate, director of two documentary features (Monster Road and Rocaterrania) and author of novel The Secret World of Renaldo Kuhler — has recently added tactile artist to his growing list of accomplishments, giving life to objects that would otherwise be tossed. And, what better way to showcase his love for salvaged parts than through assemblage art, a 3D medium that blends disparate parts, obsolete everyday objects and scraps into sculptural works. Ingram sources his materials almost exclusively from the world around him. “Largely, I get stuff off of the street when people put it out there to be picked up by the city,” he says. His pieces often feature analog items including microphones, cameras, gears, lenses and other mechanical components. If it once had a motor or moving parts, chances are Ingram can breathe new creative life into it.

While analog technology has experienced a resurgence in recent years, Ingram never abandoned his appreciation for it. In fact, the shift toward digital equipment became an unexpected advantage. “I could find lenses that are obsolete and could take them apart and use them in my art,” he says. What many considered outdated became the building blocks of his artistic vision.

From Kernersville news reporter to high school physics teacher to author, he has made use of his many skills throughout the years. So, how did he discover assemblage art? For Ingram, 2020’s COVID-19 isolation wasn’t just a boredom fest, it sparked some newfound creativity. “At one point, I had done stop-motion animation. I made the puppets out of found objects and that got me into that aesthetic.” He stopped making films, but kept on amassing parts and soon his art form was born.

Ingram doesn’t see assemblage art as making do with less, he sees it as making possibilities where others see waste. His approach shows that limitations inspire innovation and creativity can grow when resources are scarce. “I used to teach my students that a lot of the time what you end up doing is driven by the obstacles that you have to overcome.”

Though Ingram’s first ever solo exhibition at The Center for Visual Arts passed by earlier this year, you can still find pieces of his 3D art, his short documentaries and keep up with his works through his website, brettingram.org.

Unsolicited Advice

They say breakfast is the most important meal of the day, but we’d like to think our morning drink plays a major role in that as well. Your choice of morning bevvy has just as much significance as your stack of pancakes. Some reach for caffeine  while others prefer something milder. Either way, we bet your sip choice says a lot about who you are as a person.  

If a piping hot mug of salubrious tea is what shakes the slumber out of your eyes, then we’re going to guess your yoga set matches. While you probably flaunt a healthy heart, we can’t help but think that your daily tea craving is just for show. Though, with a gut as clean as yours, who cares what others think? You’re healthy and you know it, so toot that health horn as loud as you want.

For those addicted to the bitter taste of coffee, we’re almost certain you’re the backbone of our society. From unexpected deadlines to awkward conversations, there’s nothing they can throw at you that you can’t handle after you’ve indulged in your morning cup of joe. We bet your planner is packed to the brim and we know that you will check off every last one of those tasks — but first, coffee. 

Energy drinks? More like pure rocket fuel. Whatever problems our carbonated connoisseurs are faced with in the morning, we know it won’t stand a chance against them and their can of spark. With an overly fizzy flavor and enough sugar to match a jumbo bag of Skittles, only the ones committed to utilizing every second of the day are among this group. Tea drinkers fear you and coffee lovers commend you — but you’re probably too jumpy on your jitter juice to notice.

JOI DE VIVRE

The other day I decided to take a walk. After spending the day comparing my life to that of other people my age — those who had moved out of state, started new chapters or seemed to have everything figured out — I know it’s time to shut off my overthinking brain and get some fresh air at Country Park. As soon as I step foot on the path, that familiar Carolina breeze runs through my hair and the barks of excited pups greeting each other in the dog park can be heard from a mile away — as if a simple butt sniff greeting isn’t enough. A little girl, so captivated by the pedal boats that she isn’t watching where she was going, wanders right into my path. We bump into each other. “Oh, excuse me. Sorry ma’am,” she says as she picks up speed. A man and his dog lie in the dirt near the lake, guarded by a family of ducks. The ducks take turns splashing in the lake but ultimately return back to their post, protecting the man and his dog from the dangers of the lily pads. That’s when it hits me: I wouldn’t have my life any other way. I have a Tar Heel soul in need of that refreshing North Carolina air — even if it is hot and humid. Just then, that curious little girl and her parents make their way back from the pedal boat station. They’re soaking wet from head to toe, but the little girl flashes a toothy grin. Her mother playfully scolds her father for agreeing to let her in the driver’s seat. As they walk by, I catch a glimpse of the words on the mother’s shirt, “North Freaking Carolina.” I can’t help but smile. Yes ma’am, indeed it is. 

—  Joi Floyd

In Good Taste

In Good Taste

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Farm-Fresh and Flavorful

A miso ginger stir-fry

Story and Photograph by Jasmine Comer

The other day, I found myself perusing the meat section at the grocery store when a label caught my eye and left me scratching my head: Since when does beef need added “natural flavors”?

This isn’t a lecture on what you should and shouldn’t eat — that’s entirely up to you. But that grocery store moment made me realize just how lucky we are to have incredible alternatives right down the road. Our area is home to so many dedicated farmers and food purveyors who pour their hearts and souls into producing on a scale that’s more intimate than industrial.

For me, a trip to the farmers market is an instant mood booster. There is an unmistakable energy in walking into a space where everyone — from the purveyors behind the tables to the shoppers stuffing their totes — shares the exact same passion: real, local food.

There’s something special about knowing exactly where your food comes from and backing your neighbors who spend their lives growing and nurturing it. Because it hasn’t traveled 1,000 miles to land in your kitchen, it arrives fresh, handled with care and bursting with the kind of flavor that factory-farmed food just can’t replicate.

Right now, summer is putting on a show. Market tables are practically overflowing with peak-season squash, zucchini, sweet onions, tomatoes, corn, potatoes and vibrant heads of broccoli. Let’s not forget the incredible selection of sustainably-raised, local meats. On a trip earlier this summer, I came home with a haul of chicken, broccoli, zucchini, squash and onions to build a dish that lets that freshness shine. If broccoli is out of season by the time you’re reading this, you can easily substitute with more squash and/or zucchini.

The play here is simple but elevated: Crisp vegetables and tender chicken are quick-sautéed and tossed in a delicate, but rich miso-ginger sauce. The vibrant crunch of the mid-summer produce combined with the deep, savory umami of the miso turns a few simple market finds into an absolute knockout, no flavor enhancements needed.   OH

Miso Stir-Fry

Ingredients

Stir-Fry Ingredients

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 pound boneless skinless chicken thighs, cut into bite-sized pieces

1 cup broccoli, chopped into bite-sized pieces

1 zucchini, sliced ¼ inch thick

½ onion, sliced

2 pattypan squash, sliced ¼ inch thick

Miso Ginger Sauce

2 garlic cloves, grated

1 teaspoon fresh ginger, grated

1 tablespoon rice vinegar

1 tablespoon white miso

1 teaspoon sesame oil

1 tablespoon soy sauce

1 teaspoon chili garlic sauce (optional)

2–3 tablespoons brown sugar

2 tablespoons water

 

Directions

In a large skillet, heat olive oil over medium heat. Add chicken pieces  and cook for 5-6 minutes or until browned, stirring occasionally. It’s OK if they are not cooked all the way through.

While the chicken is cooking, stir together the ingredients for the sauce and set aside.

Once the chicken is browned, remove from the skillet and add the broccoli. Sauté just until barely fork tender, stirring occasionally. Pour sauce into skillet, add chicken, zucchini, squash and onions and simmer until sauce thickens, approximately 6–7 minutes.

Remove from heat immediately, and serve over rice if desired.

On the Ball

On the Ball

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Coasting Through Courses

Local golfer Alex Smalley rides the waves

By Ron Green Jr.

Photograph by Raymond Carlin III — Imagn Images

Alex Smalley doesn’t seek the spotlight, but occasionally it finds him.

That was the case at the PGA Championship at Aronimink Golf Club outside Philadelphia in May when Smalley, who lives in Jamestown, found himself the center of attention. In the sixth year of a solid PGA Tour career, Smalley owned a two-stroke lead entering the final round of the year’s second major, putting him 18 holes away from a career-altering victory in a major championship.

It was an unlikely place for Smalley and his Sunday playing partner, Matti Schmid, considering that between them they had zero PGA Tour victories and a minimal number of top-five finishes, few enough that they wouldn’t require the standard number of fingers and toes to count them all.

But golf can be funny that way.

And though Smalley ultimately finished tied for second, three strokes behind winner Aaron Rai, the experience helped redefine the career of the understated 29-year-old, who is a member at Sedgefield Country Club, site of the Wyndham Championship.

Despite the fact that he shared the lead with 18 holes remaining in a national championship, Smalley did his best to make it a Saturday night like any other.

“I was in the final group at the John Deere [Classic] a few years ago and it was the first time, so the thoughts were running through my head and I didn’t sleep great,” Smalley says.

“This felt like a pretty standard Saturday night.”

That meant a quiet evening with Smalley studying his yardage book, a hockey game on in the background and trying his best to sleep through the night. Two out of the three came easily, the sleep not so much.

On Sunday, Smalley shot 70 to finish tied for second with Jon Rahm, and though Smalley didn’t win the Wanamaker Trophy, the week reinforced his belief that he belonged in the spot where he found himself — near the top of the leaderboard.

“I didn’t get off to the best start Saturday or Sunday, but I was able to fight my way back both days and have decent finishes to both rounds. It just goes to show that even when I have a bad start I can hang in there and fight and claw my way back. That was a good realization to have,” Smalley says.

Back home the next week, Smalley was congratulated by some Sedgefield Country Club members who recognized him. “I told them it still doesn’t feel real, like it almost didn’t happen but it did,” he says.

Smalley grew up in Wake Forest (the town, not the university), about a 90-minute drive from Jamestown where his family moved in the summer of 2017, between his sophomore and junior years at Duke University.

Once Smalley graduated, he decided to stick around and now lives close to his parents. When he’s not on the road, Smalley tends to stay close to home, so close that when he’s asked if he has a favorite dinner spot or two, nothing comes immediately to mind.

“My parents don’t live far away so I go there pretty frequently,” he says.

And when Smalley is on the road playing tournament golf, his mother, Maria, is rarely far behind. Early in his career, his mother caddied for him, but as he has settled into his PGA Tour life, Maria is there to document her son’s performance, using it as a foundational piece.

She walks every round her son plays, takes detailed notes on every hole down to the yardage, which direction the wind was blowing and any other pertinent details, often capturing shots with her cellphone.

It’s their version of analytics, accentuating the detailed data available through the PGA Tour’s ShotLink system. The information and the videos go back years and, in the broader sense, document Smalley’s steady progression as a player.

Smalley’s mother worked in chemical analysis after graduating from Duke with a PhD and his father, Terry, is an assistant professor of biochemistry at Wake Forest University after spending more than two decades in the pharmaceutical business.

Smalley turned pro in 2019 after graduating from Duke, where he won three college tournaments and played on the 2019 United States Walker Cup team, posting a 3–1 record.

He won consecutive Sunnehanna Amateurs in 2018–19, becoming the first player since Rickie Fowler to win the prestigious event two years in a row.

On the PGA Tour since 2021, Smalley has been a consistent performer, blossoming this spring with the best run of his pro career, a stretch that included a pair of runner-up finishes, a tie for third and a tie for seventh in five events.

“Golf is like a roller coaster. When you’re playing well you’re at a peak, you want to stay at that peak for as long as you can. And then inevitably there will be valleys and you want to get out of those as quickly as you can,” Smalley says after having just tied for third at the Charles Schwab Challenge at Colonial Country Club. “Obviously, I’ve been playing decently well the last few weeks and good golf is fun golf, I guess. Just trying to ride the wave as long as I can.”  OH

Ron Green Jr. has been writing about golf for more than 40 years and is senior writer for Global Golf Post magazine. The first golf tournament he ever attended was the 1965 Greater Greensboro Open at Sedgefield Country Club.

State of Mind

State of Mind

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Out of Bounds

The good, the bad and the laughable

By Tommy Tomlinson

This time of year provides one of the great pleasures in life: the golf nap.

I’m not much of a fan of watching golf on TV. I’m a huge fan of falling asleep in the middle of the final round of the Zero Turn Radius Lawn Mower Open or whatever the PGA Tour happens to be running on a given weekend.

The long stretches of quiet . . . the reverent tones of the announcers . . . the polite applause from the crowd . . . they’re better than melatonin washed down with warm milk. When I go down for a golf nap, sometimes I dream of my real-life golf adventures. Not that I was a good golfer. Never broke 100 in my life. But I do have a few stories.

I’m just going to come right out and say this one, even though it will sting every real golf lover like a chest hair wax: I played Augusta National, home of the Masters.

If you are not a golf fan, this is sort of like saying I stowed away in an Apollo capsule and walked around on the moon. Mortals are not supposed to do such things. You basically don’t get to play Augusta National unless you are: 1. a pro golfer; 2. a billionaire; or 3. you know a 1 or a 2.

Except . . . every year the club has a media day — or used to — where the shlubs who cover the tournament get to play. I’m told it’s a lot tougher to get an invitation now. But in the mid-’80s, if you worked for the Augusta paper — which I did — you got one.

Here are the lights, high and low:

• I played with a set of mismatched clubs and wore a pair of Converse high-tops.

• Our playing partners accidentally put their cart into a power slide on a wet patch of grass on No. 10. If the course superintendent had spotted them, we might still be serving time.

• I carded a tidy 13 on No. 12, the short par-3 famously known as one of the thorniest holes in golf. You know one way to make it thorny? Knock four balls into Rae’s Creek.

• My final score was 118, a tidy 46-over.

• However! I parred No. 16, the par-3 where Tiger Woods holed his famous chip in 2005. Almost birdied it myself. (I told you there was a highlight.)

Believe it or not, that was not my most stressful day of golf. My most stressful day of golf was a few years later, in 1992, when I followed through on a pitch I made to my editors at the Charlotte Observer: What if I played all the miniature golf courses in Myrtle Beach in one day?

It soon became clear that, barring teleportation, there was no way to play all the courses in the Myrtle Beach area in a day — there were more than 60 back then. So I restricted my playing area to within 10 miles of the old Myrtle Beach Pavilion. That still left 16 sites, some with more than one course. It took 14 hours — which included drive time between the courses, occasional pee breaks, and waiting for two preteen boys who were in front of me at one course and argued after every single hole. Not that I still think about them or anything.

I played 369 holes in 851 strokes. On the last course I ended up playing with three French tourists. There was no possible way I could explain to them what I was doing.

I had a few other notable moments in my golfing life. I snap-hooked a drive onto a cart path one time and the ball rolled halfway to the next county, a good 500 yards, like that scene in Tin Cup when Don Johnson wins Kevin Costner’s car. I had to shake hands on the first tee of a tournament with a guy who, for reasons too convoluted to go into here, I was pretty sure was going to punch me. (He didn’t.) I watched a friend get so mad he threw his 5-iron up in a tree, then got his 6-iron stuck up there trying to knock it out.

But my playing career ended on a midweek morning at the old Renaissance Park course in Charlotte, now called the Harry L. Jones Sr. Golf Course. I was playing with some friends who were way better than me. Their drives found the fairway. My drives found the rough and the woods and the out-of-bounds markers. At one point I drove my cart across the fairway to track down a wayward shot, and a groundskeeper on a tractor roared over to yell at me for driving off the cart path. (Some courses let you stray from the path, others don’t; I hadn’t known the rules for this course.) He said he had a good mind to throw me out. I have enough stress in my life. I don’t need to get hollered at on a golf course by a guy in a John Deere hat on a John Deere.

A few holes later, I hit my best drive of the day — right down the middle. I don’t think I mentioned that one of the features of this particular course is the large boulders in some of the fairways. My shot hit one of those boulders as square as if I’d aimed it there. The ball rolled halfway back to me. My friends tried, and failed, not to laugh.

In that moment I could hear the golf gods speaking.

Put down the clubs, they said. Go home and have a nap. OH

Tommy Tomlinson is the author of two books, The Elephant in the Room and Dogland. He was a longtime columnist for the Charlotte Observer and has written for Esquire, The Atlantic, ESPN the Magazine and many other publications. His online newsletter is called The Writing Shed. He lives in Charlotte with his wife, Alix Felsing.

Birdwatch

Birdwatch

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Late Summer’s Song

Subhead

By Susan Campbell

The beauty of doves is taken for granted. They are numerous, even abundant, everywhere we look. Their cryptic coloration and still habits make them easy to overlook. Mourning doves are the most familiar of the group statewide. Of course, we also have plenty of rock doves (aka pigeons) and increasing numbers of Eurasian collared doves here as well. However, it is the mourning dove that deserves our attention.

The species has a sleek, medium-sized light brown body and wings that are splotched with black. It also has a small head, a pale bluish crown and eye ring as well as a long wedge-shaped tail that is edged in white. At close range, a rosy sheen can be seen on the breast feathers of the males. The mourning dove’s name originates from its plaintive song. The hooting quality of the notes has been known to fool people into thinking they are hearing an owl.

By late summer, doves are flocking in large numbers, in and around big fields. They feed busily on the ground, swallowing a variety of seeds as they fatten up prior to migration. All doves will consume large amounts of whole seeds in their crop and then perch in a safe spot to digest. Where and how far they may fly depends on weather and food availability. Most do not move long distances but rather seek out areas that will hold a diversity of grains for weeks at a time. Flocks of hundreds of birds can be found perched on wires or in snags adjacent to good foraging habitat.

Young of the year blend in well with the adults very soon after fledging. Their tails may not be quite as long, nor will their heads be as distinctly patterned, but these are field marks that are only visible at very close range. Three to five clutches of two is not unexpected in a season. With the moderate climate in North Carolina, especially along our coast, mourning doves have been found breeding in every month of the year.

There is no better time for individual mourning doves to seek safety in numbers than early September. Labor Day weekend marks the beginning of hunting season, and doves are the first on the calendar. Their robust population handles the harvest nationwide. This is due, at least in part, to their fast and erratic flight behavior that makes the birds a challenging target.

Dove hunting has a rich cultural history in the South. It is a time to bond with family and friends, enjoy the waning days of summer afield and perhaps even bring home enough plump breasts for a hearty meal — or at least some tasty hors d’oeuvres. Scouting out the right spot is the key. Hunters will survey different known locations looking for the best variety of seed-bearing cover crops, strategic perching sites and hopefully at least a few doves hanging around. For those who do not have access to suitable private land for hunting doves, the State Game Lands (Sandhills, Caswell, Jordan and others) offer opportunities. Both manage habitat specifically for mourning doves year-round. But even if you do not hunt, take some time out and look for these attractive birds — no binoculars are required. OH

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

Wandering Billy

Wandering Billy

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A Soulful Saturday and Sunday in September

Beat the heat at the John Coltrane International Jazz & Blues Festival

By Billy Ingram

“I start in the middle of a sentence and move both directions at once.”    — John Coltrane

The John Coltrane International Jazz & Blues Festival celebrates its 15th anniversary next month, though it’s been 20 years since festival founder and organizer Joe Williams arranged for a statue of Coltrane to be erected at High Point City Hall. A Philadelphia transplant, Williams was shocked to discover the peerless saxophonist-composer was a Furniture Capital native and resolved to rectify that slight. “I just couldn’t believe that I didn’t see pictures and [announcements] all over the place saying ‘Home of John Coltrane.’ He’s a real big deal all around the world.”

The jazz world went cold after Coltrane left the station in 1967 at age 40. He didn’t just play an instrument — he inhabited that sax, imbued it with his essence, became one with it, transcended from this earthly realm when astride it. Words as a means of describing Coltrane’s seductive musicality are lacking; no alphabetic assemblage can ever soar to such heavenly heights, his albums being the shortest distance between that tentative first kiss and soon to be disheveled bedsheets.

Williams’ yearly music festival bearing Coltrane’s name has attracted a roster of rhythmic royalty: Stanley Clarke, Snarky Puppy, Kenny G, George Duke and Blood, Sweat & Tears come to mind. This year’s lineup over the first September weekend is no exception. Here are a few highlights:

Born two years before his father’s death, Ravi Coltrane picked up his dad’s mantle, and a saxophone, to carve a successful career for himself as a highly sought-after, Grammy-nominated recording and touring artist. He’ll grace the festival stage for the third time this year. Another sax savant, Mike Phillips is stylistically a mash-up of the traditional jazz masters he studied — Coltrane, Charlie Parker, Sonny Rollins — and the hard-edged, rhythmic energy of ’90s hip-hop. He was the first musician signed by Michael Jordan to the Nike Jordan Brand, and the only musician (and soloist) who toured with Michael Jackson, Prince and Stevie Wonder.

Equal parts sayin’ and sass, French chanteuse Cyrille Aimée blends vibrant Caribbean rhythmic undertones with more traditional jazz notes. Her accomplished combo applies fresh polish on a pleasing playlist peppered with snappy show tunes and 20th-century gems such as “Young At Heart,” “It’s a Good Day” and “La Vie en rose.” Don’t miss this one!

Recently completing a European tour, Victor Wooten and the Wooten Brothers have sent audiences swinging and swaying to their funky bluegrass infused beats since the 1960s. “On Sunday, they will hold a masterclass following Saturday’s concert,” Williams points out. It’s a rare opportunity to get up close and personal with Victor Wooten, Béla Fleck’s sideman who Rolling Stone readers voted one of the Top 10 Bass Players of All Time in 2011. “Bringing in that level of talent to not only teach but talk with people that have a love of the industry, who are trying to accomplish something. Last year I had Snarky Puppy for the first Masterclass. This time Victor Wooten came to mind and, with his brothers, you get the whole family.”

This year’s high point, if you will, might be singer-songwriter Ledisi, whose 2025 soulfully silky 12th album, The Crown, caresses the ear like those occasional dreamy LPs from the 1970s. Carefully crafted by way of unadorned arrangements focusing on that silky soulful voice, what emerges is a symphonious intimacy in the tradition of Janis Ian, Melissa Manchester, Roberta Flack, Nancy Wilson, Dorothy Moore and Marvin Gaye, minus that era’s de rigueur vocal histrionics. With the exception of Moore and Gaye, those artists never produced a flawless, pitch-perfect album on par with this one.

Ledisi’s first release on Verve Forecast in 2007 (“Lost and Found”), and subsequent saucy Newport Jazz Festival performance that same year, established this New Orleans-born crooner as a powerhouse entertainer who continues to blossom in unexpected directions within every lush garden she cultivates. Inspired by immortal song stylists that came before her, in 2021 Ledisi released a collection of songs made famous by Nina Simone (Ledisi Sings Nina), then, just last October, devoted an entire album (For Dinah) to the Queen of the Blues, Dinah Washington. Vocally, she more than equates herself with a sultry rendition of “What a Difference a Day Makes” and an exuberantly bubbly duet with Gregory Porter on “You’ve Got What it Takes.”

An aside: I once asked blues legend Johnny Otis (“Hand Jive”) about Dinah Washington since they were close. He told me about Ms. Washington taking Little Eva (“The Loco-motion”), a freshly-minted, 19-year-old pop star from coastal North Carolina, on a shopping excursion in Los Angeles. Washington was a notorious hard-partier, Otis told me, so he was reticent to allow innocent Eva to possibly be led astray but figured, what the heck, it’s just a couple of hours. When the two chart-toppers returned, Eva’s face, he said, was painted up like a hooker, decked out like a $2-tramp. As for Washington, she was laughing hysterically at Otis’ dismay.

With any luck, Ledisi might slip into Dinah Washington’s extensive songbook when she rarifies our air with melodic ardor on Sunday, September 6, at Oak Hollow Festival Park.

This is a prestige event for our sister city. “Not just for High Point, but for North Carolina,” Williams insists. “With audiences traveling from all over, from 25 different states, tons of people coming in from Charlotte, Raleigh, the mountain areas of North Carolina.” With five or six truly remarkable performances by seminal artists each day, “we try to keep the price very reasonable compared to what you get.”

Plus, a portion of festival proceeds goes to purchasing instruments for musically inclined youngsters who can’t afford them. The lucky recipients are selected based on written essay submissions. “Being in the music entertainment business and seeing young people from all walks of life, it’s their ticket, their way out,” Williams says. “If a child never gets an instrument, they can never go any further. That’s their starting point.” Williams often uses his industry connections to acquire otherwise prohibitively expensive or custom-made instruments for worthy budding musicians, and who knows? “Hopefully, they will develop into the next Coltrane.” Explore more at ColtraneJazzFest.com.

While I have you here . . .

Acclaimed theater and screen actor Shannon Cochran, Page High School Class of ’76 grad, is making her Broadway debut this month in Paranormal Activity, a suspenseful drama the L.A. Times calls “The year’s best staged production.” She’s no stranger to the horror genre, having already terrified moviegoers as Anna Morgan’s sinister spirit in The Ring and its creepy sequel. You may recall reading about Cochran in my April 2023 Wandering Billy column. But you knew that, dintcha?

“The response to this play is unlike anything I’ve ever done,” Ms. Cochran (she’s a Broadway star now!) told me before embarking for The Great White Way. “People just want to gather together in the dark, scream at what they know isn’t real but seems to be magic, laugh at each other for screaming, then clutch their date for dear life.” Enjoying boffo box office this year in four major cities, she reveals that Paranormal Activity consistently attracts masses that aren’t normally playgoers. “And that’s worth everything!” Could a Broadway run lead to Tony Awards next summer? Stay tuned . . .  OH

Billy Ingram contributes weekly to O.Hey, an email newsletter companion to O.Henry magazine, and can be reached at: tvparty@bellsouth.net. And you can subscribe to O.Hey by visiting ohenrymag.com and clicking on the light blue box.

Omnivorous Reader

Omnivorous Reader

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The Ryan Express

Will we see his like again?

By Anne Blythe

As Major League Baseball enters its stretch run, separating pretenders from true contenders for post-season play, Raleigh-based sportswriter Tim Brown has a new book that diamond purists will want to tuck into.

Although you can’t write a comprehensive Nolan Ryan life story without mentioning the record 5,714 career strikeouts and seven no-hitters, Brown chases a different plotline. In his biography Nolan: The Singular Life of an American Original, Brown goes beyond the box scores that detail the feats of the Hall of Famer with the longest playing career in MLB history. He takes his readers down to Alvin, Texas, the gritty, close-knit small town that shaped the ethos of the league’s ultimate power pitcher whose unparalleled longevity spanned 27 years.

“I think the essence of Nolan Ryan is here, in Alvin” Brown told a contemporary of the pitcher at a senior center Bingo game. “These are the towns that make men like him.”

Alvin doesn’t hide its pride. It has a statue of Ryan, a museum room dedicated to him, and a high school baseball field, junior high and community center named for him. Restaurants proudly display photos of the famous (infamous) headlock that Ryan threw on Chicago White Sox batter Robin Ventura in a 1993 game when the third baseman rushed the mound after a fast ball struck him on the arm. Brown dedicates a whole chapter to that legendary scene and one of the most replayed baseball clips of all time.

Through interviews with people who grew up with Ryan and knew his whole family as well as his wife, Ruth — Nolan’s high school sweetheart — Brown delivers much more than a baseball book. It’s a story of a family, a state and a way of life that led to a relentless work ethic. Brown’s profile of a man who has been the subject of dozens of books also embodies a good bit of myth-busting, while creating a few of its own.

With the gift of vivid storytelling that often sets sportswriters apart from the pack, Brown shows you the young boy pedaling his bike down narrow roads to “dusty ballfields.” You can almost hear the Texas drawl of the longtime Alvin residents swapping their Ryan stories that often have only a tangential connection to the development of the hometown boy’s famous pitching arm.

“Undertake a retelling of Nolan Ryan’s life through the prism of time and discover that the stories of cowboys far outnumber the actual cowboys, which doesn’t make them any less entertaining,” Brown writes. “In real life, we’ve moved on to the drugstore kind, to keyboard outlaws and Fortnite addicts and snowplow parents and participation trophies and cars that drive themselves. Starting pitchers who beg out after five innings and then get handshakes for it.

“Call it evolution if you must,” Brown continues. “What survives in the witnesses is the gooey insides of old age, the pixel-free highlights, and the romantic version of a game played on the last tendril of an ulnar collateral ligament.”

Ryan, the youngest of six children born to Martha Lee (Hancock) Ryan and Lynn Nolan Ryan Sr., was initiated into a tireless work ethic at a young age. He was up before dawn, rolling and delivering the now defunct Houston Post with his father, who also worked in the oil fields. He was steeped in the ranching culture, and grew up in a world where men were taught to do the work and own the outcome, no excuses. They were taught to speak only when necessary and stand by their word.

Brown acknowledges the adversity that Ryan faced in his career — his boom-or-bust years with the Mets, and the lingering feeling that he was unable to live up to his potential coming out of high school as a skinny kid with a triple-digit fastball. And it’s no secret that Ryan’s all-or-nothing pitching style — likely influenced by the Alvin mindset baked into him — led to a high number of free tickets to first base for the batters at the other end of his fast balls. Like another pitcher of his era — we’re thinking Bob Gibson — taking the mound was nothing less than taking charge. Pitcher and hitter were mano a mano.

In an interview incorporated in the prologue of Brown’s book, Ryan takes us to where he is now and the evolution of the sport that has made him an unmatched statistical anomaly and a seemingly untouchable benchmark for pitching durability. Surrounded “by the reminders of a life — not just a career, but a life — built on the ideal of finishing what he’d started,” Brown writes, Ryan leans back in his leather chair, hoists a leg on the edge of the desk and says, simply, “The game has changed.”

“Not mad. Not put out. Just saying,” Brown writes.

Then Brown offers something for the purists to ponder as modern baseball bullpens rely on a parade of specialized relievers for the starters who rarely, if ever, stay on the mound for an entire game.

“Going on six decades after he arrived, that something like a Nolan Ryan happened in the same game that is today’s version is almost inconceivable,” Brown writes. “That it might again is unthinkable. Then, it’s fair to wonder if the game has changed all that much. Or if the men who play it have. That’ll have to work itself out.”  OH

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

Home Grown

Home Grown

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Sea-Monkey Business

From soup to what?

By Cynthia Adams

Illustration by Miranda Glyder

As soon as I could read, I stripped the Campbell’s soup labels off to send in for prizes, such as membership in the Lassie fan club. Becoming a Lassie fan clubber in good standing — one who adored the TV dog along with countless others — was irresistible.

So what if my poor mother never knew what soup she was opening? Off went the requisite labels, a dollar and my carefully printed order form.    

From the moment it arrived, I kept my cherished Lassie’s picture in my special Lassie fan club wallet. And pined for such a pet one day. Alas, Mama did not think house pets were hygienic.

Briefly, we had Pete, a family parakeet. Although a chipper little bird, he was short lived. Unlike Lassie, Peter never solved a crime or conundrum.

Lassie, the rough collie, died in June 1958 in his Hollywood home at age 18. His son replaced him on the show.

Still, I held a solemn funeral for Pete when he went claws up.

Then, on a Bazooka bubble gum wrapper, I discovered Sea-Monkeys. 

Sea-Monkeys, also advertised on the rear cover of comic books, captivated me. The ad made them look like merrily cavorting miniature sea horses, which I could own myself! 

“Just add live sea-monkey eggs . . . and grow the most ADORABLE AND ENTERTAINING PETS.”

Dollars never idled an instant in my Lassie wallet. Packaging up the requisite bubble-gum wrappers with the order form and cash, I proudly ordered my very own Sea-Monkeys without a word to my mother. She might object to my keeping real pet monkeys in my room, I reasoned, but Sea-Monkeys were probably quiet and unobtrusive. They would be a bother to no one, confined to a small tank I would have to procure somehow.

Surely, once Mama saw them frolicking as the ad depicted, she would fall in love.

My tiny fingers trembled with excitement as I carefully opened the much-anticipated package. But soon, that was replaced by concern. The Sea-Monkeys, as received, were minute, worrisome and mystifying, looking nothing like any monkey I’d ever seen. More like dried herbs in a cellophane packet. Skimming the scant information, I read these were eggs, not actual Sea-Monkeys. 

Dutifully following instructions, I placed them with tap water in a large, clean mayonnaise jar. Wait and watch them grow, the ads said.

I waited. I watched.

And waited some more. Whatever it was I was supposed to be watching for didn’t seem to be happening.

Meanwhile, I told my friends about my pet Sea-Monkeys growing at home. But in actuality the doubts sown the moment I opened the cellophane packet were the only things actually growing.

What children have in direct proportion to imagination is a lack of patience. It seemed I waited weeks — perhaps it was only days. But the water grew murkier. No tiny Sea-Monkey faces appeared, pressed against the jar, twee features I knew I’d adore upon sight. 

What the desiccated Sea-Monkeys actually are, dear readers, are brine shrimp.

Pouring the smelly water down the bathroom drain, I suppose the Sea-Monkeys got a burial at sea, minus fanfare.

Sea-Monkey sales continue today, a big ruse netting big dollars for the company that markets them.

The Sea-Monkey scam made me more devoted to the honest Campbell’s soup folks and Lassie. I lapped up bowls upon bowls of alphabet soup.

Bazooka, hawkers of Sea-Monkeys, mostly lost my approval. Though I still ruefully bought it on occasion. For as savvy marketers know, little children, even those with long memories, make for poor cynics.  OH

Cynthia Adams is a contributing editor to O.Henry magazine.