Tea Leaf Astrologer

TEA LEAF ASTROLOGER

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Libra

(September 23 – October 22)

When the shoe no longer fits, no amount of stretching or bending will change that. This year has given you loads of opportunities to release what no longer serves your highest path. And with the solar south node eclipse in your sign on October 2, suffice it to say that this month is going to be more of the same — uncomfortable yet, ultimately, liberating. A word of advice on moving forward: You’re going to want arch support.

Tea leaf “fortunes” for the rest of you:

Scorpio (October 23 – November 21)

Be the squeaky wheel.

Sagittarius (November 22 – December 21)

Dog-ear the page for later.

Capricorn (December 22 – January 19)

Best not to download the app.

Aquarius (January 20 – February 18)

Lie down if you start feeling dizzy.

Pisces (February 19 – March 20)

Hint: They can’t read your mind.

Aries (March 21 – April 19) 

Book the trip.

Taurus (April 20 – May 20)

Bypass the candy corn.

Gemini (May 21 – June 20)

It’s time to call the shots.

Cancer (June 21 – July 22)

Write a love note to yourself.

Leo (July 23 – August 22)

Prepare for liftoff.

Virgo (August 23 – September 22

Sometimes more is more.

Wandering Billy

12 DAYS OF CHRISTMAS

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How I learned to always give credit where credit is contractually obligated

By Billy Ingram

For reasons I’ll never understand, from the mid-1980s until the mid-1990s, I found myself working as an artist for Seiniger Advertising in Beverly Hills, a movie poster design team that became known as “The New York Yankees of Motion Picture Advertising.” During the last century, when movies were enjoying the industry’s most lucrative period, a lean, mean design team of about 30 of us found ourselves creating one-sheets — the movie posters you see in theaters — and trailers for the biggest blockbusters ever.

We cranked out hundreds of posters for movies such as Pretty Woman, Hook, Ghost, and Field of Dreams, and worked on films that became franchises, including James Bond, Die Hard, Lethal Weapon, Indiana Jones, Beverly Hills Cop, Star Trek and Rocky. And that’s not even mentioning every Tom Cruise, Harrison Ford, Kevin Costner and John Hughes release. They all came out of the Seiniger studio. Here are a few meaningless yet entertaining anecdotes from a time when I was Hollywood swingin’…

The Prince of Tides: Barbra Streisand was/is famous for micromanaging her projects, all the way down to creative control over all advertising and publicity, including movie posters. For a couple of weeks after shooting wrapped, Streisand would send over suggestions for the Prince of Tides poster and I would work them up — usually consisting of a photo for the background, another for the foreground. They would arrive, about half a dozen at a time, promptly at 6 p.m. and she needed to see completed comps by 9 a.m. If at first glance I thought her choices odd, inevitably they turned out to be very attractive and astute. However, there was one particular on-set photo she liked a lot of her and co-star Nick Nolte in bed, Barbra in a nurturing position. Trouble was, she kept wanting to see her head larger, which naturally meant Nolte’s noggin got bigger. Eventually, the context was lost. That became obvious when someone passed by my desk, saw this mockup and remarked, “That looks like Barbra Streisand with her pet head!”

Boomerang: We were toiling away on a typical campaign for a romantic comedy starring Paramount Picture’s biggest star until one afternoon, when we were instructed to stop and switch directions. Seems the star decided he wanted to be the next James Bond. And, as it happened, that franchise was in limbo after License to Kill bombed at the box office. From that point on, every poster design for that Paramount romcom had to make the star look as “007” as possible. Bond being another studio’s property, what could have been an unusual casting choice (to say the least) was ultimately nixed — but, if Ian Fleming’s creation had belonged to Paramount, there’s no doubt the next entry in that franchise would have starred . . . Eddie Murphy as James Bond.

Moonstruck: The image of Cher on the Moonstruck poster (from a location shoot in Central Park by Annie Leibovitz) is one that almost everyone remembers. In fact, it won what is now the Academy Award for Best Movie Poster that year, another home run for the Tony Seiniger shop. That image is actually composed from three different photos — the head, the torso and arms, and the skirt with legs all came from separate frames.

This also-ran for Moonstruck (shown) has some of the same elements as the final poster, but . . . why is Cher up in the night sky lashing out at the logo? What’s even more puzzling is why is the moon moving so dangerously close to the Earth? File this one away for Cher’s sci-fi sequel: Moonstruck the Earth!

Star Trek VI: This particular comp, I had very little — if anything — to do with, but, whenever I drifted into a new project, I would pull the actors’ publicity contracts that we kept on file just in case. While this design by Bob Peak, a highly-acclaimed artist who rendered the illustration for the first Star Trek motion picture one-sheet, is striking and effective, I warned the art director that it would never fly. William Shatner’s contract stipulated that only Leonard Nimoy, DeForest Kelley and Shatner himself could appear on the movie poster, so this was a nonstarter.

Bugsy: One day, I noticed an older gentleman meandering around our bullpen, observing with interest how we were manipulating images, so I struck up a conversation. He was none other than George Hurrell, the photographic genius who captured indelible portraits of 1930s/1940s Tinsel Town immortals such as Garland, Harlow, Crawford, Bogart, Gable and Garbo. I was fascinated as he explained his technique of touching up those picture-perfect images directly on 8-by-10-inch negatives. This was 1991; he still had his studio, but confessed he felt his work had been forgotten in the business, and was grateful Warren Beatty had requested a photo shoot with him for the Bugsy poster. Hurrell passed away the next year.

With all the different directions and rush-order variations requested over several months, primarily by Warren Beatty, the one-sheet for Bugsy somehow became the most expensive of all time (a record I doubt will ever be broken) — around one million dollars just for the movie poster alone. And yet, as gorgeous as George Hurrell’s stark depiction of Beatty was on the final design that both star and studio agreed on (shown fronted by Annette Bening, photographed by Bruce Weber), Bugsy’s director, Barry Levinson, was so miffed at having been left out of the process, he rejected it and demanded input. As a result, the final poster was merely a generic tango pose of the two stars lensed by a more au currant Hollywood photographer, Herb Ritts. They could have photographed it at Glamour shots in the mall.

Before working at Seiniger Advertising (a company so exclusive the phone number was unlisted), I never gave one thought to how movie posters came into being. I just fell into it. During this almost 10-year period, I actually provided the illustration for The Hunt For Red October poster and generated graphics for award-winning trailers and main titles including The Fugitive and Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves.

Glamorous? Hardly. Almost every night, we had no clue when we might be able to go home; relentless deadlines resulting in 14-, 16-, even 26-hour days were expected. Working under the most stressful conditions one can imagine for long periods of time, we formed familial bonds that extend to this day, friendships and harsh relationships that I look back fondly on — and paydays I wouldn’t mind becoming reacquainted with.

Almanac

ALMANAC

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Almanac October

October speaks through the beaks of 1,000 crows.

Can you feel them gathering? Murders of 20, 40, 60 strong, each bird like a sibyl gone mad.

“The sun is sinking, sinking, sinking,” they shriek, raspy voices harsh and urgent.

You know it’s true. The days are much too dark, too soon. And yet, right now, the sky is a cloudless blue; the maple is thick with yellow leaves; the light has washed everything golden.

Don’t let the raucous birds rip you from the moment: The warmth of sunlight on your face; the scent of wet earth; the swirl of amber leaves somersaulting through endless azure.

The crows kick it up a notch, throw back their ink-black heads, blurt their ghastly premonitions until their babble turns to laughter.

Dark and maniacal, their howling conjures a mighty wind. Do not be frightened by the glossy-winged seers. Let them rally in the shadows while the days are still honeyed. Let them pull you more fully into the luminous now.

Cock your head sideways as the crows do. Can’t you see? It’s all here — the freshness of the season; the bitter whiffs of sweet decay.

Notice that the crunch of dead leaves somehow enlivens you. “Yes, the sun is sinking,” you want to call back. “But . . . the air is alive! The leaves are turning cartwheels!”

A wild laugh rises from deep within you. The light is fading. The crows are cackling. As autumn picks at her own golden thread, even the dead leaves seem to snicker.

Patch v. Orchard

Nothing says wholesome autumn fun like a pumpkin patch. Adorable. But if you’re looking for a pick-your-own adventure with an edge, venture to an apple orchard.

Spend a quiet hour among the trees. Study the gnarled branches. Listen for the thud of ripe fruit knocking against the sleepy earth. Dance with the shadows.

About 75 percent of our state’s apple crop is grown south of Asheville in Henderson County. Should you head west to peep and marvel at the turning leaves, consider stopping by an orchard — or farm stand — for the freshest of the fresh. 

At the very least, snag a gallon of cider to-go.

I remember it as
October days are always
remembered, cloudless,
maple-flavored,
the air gold and
so clean it quivers.

— Leif Enger,
Peace Like a River

Color Crescendo

True leaf peepers will tell you that the best time to hit the Great Smoky Mountains or Blue Ridge Parkway for peak fall colors is the second week of October. Go a week early and be underwhelmed; a week late and you’ll miss it.

Whether or not you take the drive, the color show will surely find you — if not through leaves then through flowers. Kaleidoscopic chrysanthemums. Luminous marigolds. Tender snapdragons. Drifts of brilliant pansies.

And just watch how autumn light transforms every gorgeous hue.

Sazerac

SAZERAC

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Sage Gardener

Drive down any country road as fall approaches, and you are likely to see a lot more Jerusalem artichokes than you could ever eat. The golden, daisy-like flowers gloriously polkadot almost every verge in Piedmont North Carolina. And, yes, they are native, though some label them invasive, but more about that later.

My introduction to Helianthus tuberosus was at my mother’s table, where my dad heaped Braswell’s sensational, bright-yellow artichoke relish on his pinto beans as I still do. The turmeric-spiked relish probably originated in the South Carolina Lowcountry, where Mrs. Sassard’s version, like a lot of things in Charleston, “is world famous.”

Jerusalem artichokes themselves are world famous, exported as a delicacy from the New World to France in the 1600s, where they were initially hailed, like so many novelties from the New World, as “dainties fit for queens” — but likely before the queen and her court actually tried them. By 1621, one writer complained, “which way soever they be dressed and eaten, they stir and cause a filthy loathsome stinking wind . . . and are a meat more fit for swine than men.” Not surprisingly, their popularity in Europe dimmed, and it wasn’t until recently that chefs, searching for tasty and unusual local produce, rediscovered them. They were quickly dubbed a superfood because of their nutritional value and their containing — keto alert! — inulin instead of starch. (Inulin is a carb related to the sugar fructose, but is largely indigestible, making sunchokes, as some marketing guru relabeled them, a good choice for diabetics.)

Soon, upscale eateries were featuring Jerusalem artichoke orzotto graced with parsley-and-peanut pesto or truffled sunchokes with brie and honey.

If you’ve never had them, they are slightly sweet with notes of peanut, potato and water chestnut. Not, in fact, much like an artichoke, despite the name. “Jerusalem” purportedly arose when some half-witted Brit tried to pronounce the Italian word for sunflower, girasole. “They can take the form of velvety purees, soups, hearty gratins, crunch crisps (French fries), stew fillings, creamy mash and even ice cream!” enthused one gourmet. 

They are so prolific that Master Gardeners issue warnings. Like crabgrass — and every bit as aggressive — they spread underground by rhizomes. I’ve seen them take over not one but several adjacent raised beds in a community garden. One gardener reported transplanting two plants and ending up with 70 pounds. With each plant producing as many as 20 tubers, “as potatoes were requisitioned for World War II,” one writer says, “Jerusalem artichokes saved millions from starvation,” providing food for humans and livestock.

Harvested from October to March, they are available from time to time in farmers markets and grocery stores. Worried about the gastric distress? Through the miracles of modern science, some home economics scientist discovered that cooking them with lemon juice transforms them through something called acid hydrolysis, rendering them gone with the wind.

Just One Thing

“A camera lies,” says Greensboro artist James Celano, who graduated from the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts more than 40 years ago. Known for his oil paintings of still life, figures and landscapes, Celano says he prefers to paint from life and can tell when an artist is working from a camera image. There are giveaways, he says, such as an exaggerated foreground that disrupts the scale. But the biggest reason he avoids it? “I find that work very flat emotionally.” A born-and-raised northerner, Celano and his wife, Diane, made the Gate City home over 30 years ago, bringing with them their toddler son and their own textile design business, Diane Celano Studios, which serviced clients such as Burlington Industries. “That’s how we paid the bills and kept me independent and free from having to depend on galleries.” Celano converted their home’s two-car garage into a studio space. It’s there that he sets up objects and paints his still life oils. Dollface, seen here, is part of a birds-eye view series and will be part of an exhibition at Ambleside Gallery. “It’s been about 15 years since I’ve exhibited in Greensboro,” says Celano. While he’s participated in GreenHill’s Winter Show, this is his first solo exhibition here in a long time. He’s gathered 26 new paintings, most of them still life, that will be on display from October 4–31, with an opening reception from 6–9 p.m. on October 4.

Window to the Past

Feeling witch-crafty? Go homemade with your Halloween costume this year. Give it a whirl — just as these Grimsley Whirlies once did back in 1949.

Water Color Talk

If you’ve walked into The Art Gallery (TAG) at Congdon Yards in High Point recently, you may have already spied the Watercolor Society of North Carolina Exhibition, a juried show featuring 69 paintings created by its members. On September 29 — ahem, before we went to press — the best in show was selected by this year’s juror, renowned watercolor artist Lana Privitera. Originally from Spain, Privitera is a signature member of both the National and American Watercolor Societies. Since we couldn’t yet share the show’s winner, we’re showing off what this judge is capable of. Some Cups and Polka Dots is not a photograph. Despite what your eyes may tell you, it’s a watercolor on paper. Frankly, her painting of dishware looks more realistic than the photos our iPhone 13 snaps — obviously a result of considerable talent combined with epic patience. It “went through many stages and many weeks of work before I felt that the composition and the balance of colors, values and texture were cohesive and interesting,” she reflects. Plus, there’s a lot of behind-the-scenes work before the paintbrush tip ever hits the paper. “Coming up with a unique composition and theme that might also appeal to other people is not easy,” says Privitera, “so the planning stage of any of my watercolors often takes more time than applying the many layers of paint themselves.” So, what was Privitera looking for in a winner? Someone who, like her, “takes their time creating unique and well-balanced compositions.” As for her selection, you’ll just have to head over to TAG to see the piece she thought brushed with greatness. The exhibit ends Oct. 31. Info: tagart.org/exhibits/watercolor-society-of-north-carolina-exhibition.

Unsolicited Advice

With the holidays just a couple months away, and the cooler, shorter days creeping in, October is the ideal time to begin a new crafty hobby — one that results in homemade gifts for everyone on your gift-giving list.

Cross Stitch: Start with the basic “X” and grow from there. Soon, you’ll be whipping out adorable pieces with charming sayings like our personal fav: “What doesn’t kill you gives you a set of unhealthy coping mechanisms and a dark sense of humor.” Bonus, you can tell your dentist you do, in fact, floss every day.

Canning: How about them apples? Turn ‘em into jam, jelly or applesauce. FYI, stock up. Because no matter what Baby Boom had you believe, 2,537 apples = 3 jars of applesauce (approximately). Apples not your jam? Try pickled beets or pumpkin butter. Yes, you can.

Candle Making: Hit up your local thrift shops for unique vintage glass vessels. Fill ‘em with soy wax and your own custom scent. Hints of bourbon, leather and cuban cigar? We call that one “Grandpa’s recliner.”

Witchcraft: Heck, it is October, after all.

Life’s Funny

LIFE'S FUNNY

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Cloak & Wagger

Halloween costumes have gone to the dogs . . . and cats . . . and hamsters . . . and ferrets . . . and bearded dragons

By Maria Johnson

Two years ago, Millie was a ladybug for Halloween.

She wore a smart red-and-black velour jacket, cinched at the waist, with a shawl collar that pooled elegantly around her neck.

OK, it wasn’t really a shawl collar. It was a ladybug hood with antennae that Millie, a petite hound, kept shaking off because she can’t stand things on her ears.

The point is, red is Millie’s color, and she was quite fetching when I took her to the annual dog-o-ween parade in my mom’s townhouse community, which is not officially a retirement village, but is, shall we say, very silver.

As a result, small dogs are plentiful. So one Sunday afternoon before Halloween, residents gussy up their pups and take a lap around the neighborhood, stopping at homes where the few non-dog-owners sit outside with treats.

The dogs gobble as they go. They remind me of the chunky trick-or-treater who once came to my childhood home.

“Where’s your bag?” my dad asked as he doled out candy bars.

“Right here,” the kid said, slapping his belly with both hands.

Unlike the belly slapper, who snarfed his Baby Ruth as he walked away, the dogs at dog-o-ween usually inhale their first treats on the spot then stare down the giver, implying that a second, third or  — why not? — fourth treat is customary.

Sometimes, the furry beggars get downright aggressive, snouting their way into a bag of Beggin’ Strips that’s held too close.

If a small human tried this with, say, a bag of fun-size Snickers, he would end up in a doorbell video on social media the next morning with the plea, “DOES ANYONE KNOW THIS CHILD?”

For dogs, though, people respond with a grace reserved for four-legged animals.

“Ha-ha-ha,” they say. “You scamp!”

This kind of cheerful generosity is more in line with the origins of dressing up at Halloween, which some historians trace back to the 19th-century Scottish practice of “guising,” or putting on costumes and performing in exchange for food and drink.

Over in Germany, they played a similar game, “Belsnickeling,” which called for children to don masks and costumes at Christmastime. If no one guessed their true identities, the tykes were rewarded with food.

Going back even further in time, the ancient Celts — who lived across what’s now Great Britain — observed an autumn festival called Samhain (pronounced SAH-win).

These pagan partygoers dressed as ghouls to blend in with the mischievous ghosts they believed roamed the earth during harvest time, when the veil between living and dead was the thinnest.

The locals lit bonfires and left food, drink, crops and other offerings to appease the spirits.

You could draw a couple of conclusions from these traditions.

One: There wasn’t a whole heck of lot going on in Western Europe back in the day.

Two: People are happy to play dress-up if there’s an immediate payoff, such as food, drink or not getting swept off to the netherworld.

The same reward system goes for dogs. Because Millie associates wearing a Halloween costume with getting food, she doesn’t seem to mind being dolled up.

Last year, she wore a simple jester’s collar, partly because of the ear sensitivity issue and partly because I didn’t make enough time to shop for a proper costume. This year, I started early.

There are so many choices.

For several years, pet owners were limited to dog costumes and only a smattering of cat costumes, which makes sense. Dogs will work for food, even if it means wearing a wonky costume. Cats, not so much.

If I see you on Halloween, bloodied and dressed in tatters, I will not assume that you’re headed to a party dressed as a zombie. I will assume you tried to dress your cat as a Minion.

Nevertheless, the selection of get-ups for cats and dogs has mushroomed to hundreds, enough to break into subcategories. One pet supply website has costume tabs for “Trending” (stegosaurus, happy cow, granny); “TV and movie” (Buzz Lightyear, R2D2, Cookie Monster): “Funny” (snail, werewolf, hula girl, skunk); and “Career” (mail carrier, UPS driver, chef).

Many are so-called front-walking costumes featuring pants that make a dog’s front legs look like human legs, along with stuffed arms that stick out and hold a prop.

So if you squint your eyes and pretend you don’t see the other 95 percent of your neighbor’s Bichon frisé, you could believe that a 1-foot-tall UPS driver in dire need of facial waxing is delivering a tiny package to your door.

Believable, given the current hiring situation.

On the other hand, it’s highly unlikely that this delivery “person” would be focused on anything other than ripping open the box and gnawing off its own arms.

If your dog is small enough, you might try a variation of the front-walking costume: the no-walking costume.

I give you the winner of last year’s Fort Greene Park dog costume contest in Brooklyn, N.Y., a chihuahua mix that rode in a pet carrier draped with a small pale suit and white button-down shirt. It helped that the dog, which lent only its head to the ensemble, bore an uncanny resemblance to Talking Heads singer David Byrne.

The crowd roared its approval.

Basically, no creature is safe from human merriment. These days, websites offer costumes for multiple species. The fashionable guinea pig or ferret might show up for Halloween — though God knows where — dressed as a bumblebee, butterfly or leprechaun.

A bearded dragon, meanwhile, could turn out as a small lobster, a cowboy, a unicorn or, cruelly, a cricket.

I’m not sure who thought that one up. Probably the same sadist who decided it would be funny to make a dog costume with stuffed squirrels frolicking on the back, while the dog wears an acorn cap.

Ha-ha-ha, said no dog, ever.

Thank goodness, none of the front-walking costumes are in play for Millie, though I truly wish she would tolerate a wig with a red bandana, long braided pigtails and guitar-holding arms.

Then she could be Millie Nelson.

After much consideration, though, I’ve ordered her a tennis dress. Like her mama, she’s obsessed with chasing tennis balls, and after all, who wouldn’t want to be recognized as the great Millie Jean King?. 

Sazerac

SAZERAC

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Sage Gardener

My introduction to kimchi was via M*A*S*H, when Frank Burns boasts about catching some Korean peasants burying a land mine — which turns out to be a vat of kimchi. Upon excavation, Hawkeye takes his own dig at Burns, saying “You’ve struck coleslaw!”

Actually, it’s rather surprising that the usually wellinformed M*A*S*H writers should mention slaw. Fermented and aged (traditionally underground to control the temperature) for a month or more, kimchi doesn’t vaguely resemble coleslaw. Think of a nostril-bending flavor bomb made with fermented cabbage, spiked with chilies, ginger and garlic.

My next encounter with kimchi was on the end of a fork in Cocoa, Florida, where I was writing about the space shuttle’s efforts to escape Earth’s gravity. An editor who had hitchhiked across Asia served it with warm sake one night — love at first bite. I was soon fermenting my own, filling the house with a thick aroma. Another reporter and I would get up at daybreak and catch a mess of mullet, which my wife, Anne, would fry and serve with grits and kimchi. The reporter and I still say it’s the best breakfast we ever had.

Since pickling vegetables is an ideal method of extending their lifespan, kimchi making in Korea dates back to well before the Christian Era. But forget the chilies. Chili peppers, native to the Americas, didn’t make it to Korea until the 1600s.

Most of the kimchi available in America is made from Napa cabbage and scallions, sometimes with added fish sauce. Authentic Korean kimchi often contains salted shrimp or croaker — or other finny prey, including anchovies and salted cod gills.

I’ve found that kimchi tends to appeal to people who relish the strongest of flavors. A friend who obsessively made beer for a while, transitioned to kimchi, observing that he became “fascinated by the alchemy of salt turning bland vegetables into hot, sour yumminess.” Plus, he hoped it “would nurture my gut and cure what age and various vices had inflicted on me.” Like other fermented foods, kimchi’s teeming bacteria is purportedly good for your intestinal microbiome. But people eat kimchi because they love how it triggers endorphins, generally appealing to the same people who fall in love with tonguenumbing hot sauces, hopcrazy IPA’s, mind-bending mescals and peaty, smoky Isla scotch.

Making kimchi is as easy as making sauerkraut and there are a plethora of recipes on the internet. As the days grow colder, consider starting a batch, especially if you have cabbage in your garden. There’s something magical about having a batch of kimchi bubbling away in a dark room, getting a little more sour with each passing day, a little hotter and a little more redolent. Get started now and it will make a great gift under the tree — festively green and red — and mask that annoying evergreen scent.

— David Claude Bailey

Letters

To Cassie Bustamante in response to her June 2024 column, “Curb Alert”

As I sit here in my yard chair relaxing after a morning of delayed yard work, I am enjoying the June edition of O.Henry magazine.

Your article brings back memories. Christmas 2003, my son received his first car as a present. It was a 1998 Jeep Cherokee.

The thought being, it would help in having another driver, helping with errands, stopping his mother and I being his chauffeur. Wrong!

However, that’s not the story at hand.

I remember that Christmas Day going out for a drive with my son Nick at the helm. He decided that a ride on the highway I-40 would be a good idea to test out his new ride.

I have never been so scared sh&$less in my entire life. All I could do was pray and hope to get home in one piece.

Finally he pulled into the driveway and, forgetting to put the Jeep in park, he hit the rear bumper of my wife’s Mercury.

We did have a happy ending though. The Mercury was a tank, no visible damage to either vehicle.

Reading your article brought back this now humorous incident to mind.

Our kids, no matter what they do, leave us with memories. Hopefully, good ones.

— David Ruden

The Passed Baton

“You Should Be Dancing,” the Greensboro Symphony Orchestra has decided — and with a new Aussie conductor as your dance master. Christopher Dragon will take the baton on September 14 to lead the symphony in a POPS Concert featuring The Australian Bee Gees Show, a tribute to the legendary group, at the Tanger Center. Bellbottoms optional.

During its last season, dubbed “Season of the Seven,” seven candidates auditioned — each having an opportunity to lead the symphony. Dragon won out. Hailing from Perth, Australia, Christopher Dragon began his career in his home country with the West Australia Symphony Orchestra. Since then, he’s led the Colorado Symphony as well as the Wyoming Symphony, and worked with orchestras the world over. Plus, not to name drop — but, just for you music aficionados, we’re going to — he’s collaborated with the likes of Cynthia Erivo, Joshua Bell, the Wu-Tang Clan and Cypress Hill. And he’s stoked to bring his flair to the Gate City while creating “unforgettable symphonic experiences to inspire the next generation of music lovers.”

But wait — there’s more! While there can only be one conductor on the podium at a time, sometimes there’s room for two at the top. Chelsea Tipton, fellow “Season of the Seven” candidate, has been named principal guest conductor. A native of Greensboro, Tipton currently serves as music director of the Symphony of Southeast Texas and principal pops conductor of the New Haven Symphony Orchestra. “Returning to my hometown in this capacity is a dream come true,” he says.

Unsolicited Advice

Did you know that September is National Italian Cheese Month? Grate-est news ever grazie! We support any observance that involves feasting on that melt-in-your-mouth (or on your sandwich) delight, any way you slice it. But preferably with carbs and wine, per favore. Stock up on Lactaid and get ready to dazzle your palate with some of our magnifico varieties!

Gorgonzola: Sounds like an evil character from a 1980s cartoon featuring little blue creatures, but is actually the Italian answer to blue — or, shall we say bleu — cheese. Crumbles easily, just like us.

Mozzarella: Quite possibly the most popular pizza topping due to its meltability. Frankly, we’d eat it as a topper to the cardboard circle frozen pizza comes on in its ooey-gooeiest state. By the way, mozzarella is not related to Cinderella, who is actually French.

Parmigiano-Reggiano: Two first names? Must be from Southern Italy.

Mascarpone: Any cheese that can masca-rade as dessert is a winner in our books. If pizza pie isn’t your thing, how ‘bout a pumpkin-mascarpone pie?

Ricotta: Rick oughta make us his famous lasagne soon. And tell him to use the good stuff — none of that cottage cheese.

Provolone: Between two slices of crusty Italian bread slathered with butter, this one makes a delicious and simple grilled cheese. Ready, set, ciao!

O.Henry Ending

O.HENRY ENDING

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Southern Idioms Live On

You can’t understand us, we know it, but we just can’t help it

By Cynthia Adams

Personally, I’m tickled that YouTubers — such as former art teacher Landon Bryant — can make a living doing pure T nothing. (There’s a Southernism for you, Landon.) That is, nothing but talking, then explaining whatever was said.

This native son breaks down such terms as “mash” (as in the brake, button, alarm or gas pedal) versus “press.” He explains “liked to” (as in “liked to die” or “liked to have gone to meet my Maker”) to those beyond his hometown, Laurel, Mississippi — population 17,000.

Southerners have our own linguistic mashup. For example, I married a ferner, Southern for anybody who isn’t a native. Technically, a ferner could be from, say, Yonkers.

A primer: Yes’m is a contraction for “Yes Ma’am”

Bob wahr is just “barbed wire.”

Tin cints is just a dime. Except when “putting your tin cints worth in,” meaning offering your opinion. (Tin cints is about what most opinions are worth.)

There are directional Southernisms, too. “Over yonder” and “right cheer,” for example. In this context, cheer means here.

In another context, cheer means a seat.

“Why dontcha take a cheer?” doesn’t mean you are being offered a chair as a party favor. It means sit a spell.

Slang also perplexes. Nabs. Not the verb, as in “help me nab the bank robber.” Originally, short for a Nabisco snack, anybody who knows Sheetz from Shinola knows we’re talking about Toast Chee, a homegrown Lance snack.

Perversely, Southernisms aren’t always shorthand but sometimes longer. A form of linguistic face saving. Example: “I might coulda done things your way, but it warn’t up to me.” (A roundabout admission of messing up while passing the buck.)

Oftentimes, just more colorful. My grandmother was driven to distraction — meaning infuriated — by a neighbor who was “careless with the truth.” She declared he’d rather “climb a roof to tell a lie than stand on the ground and tell the truth.” Such deceit nearly caused a “conniption fit.” A conniption fit exceeds being driven to distraction.

Euphemisms exacerbate and blunt truths: A chronic screw up is “a day late and a dollar short,” or “a brick short of a load.”

Southerners especially evade mortality, finding death unnatural. “Elmer died” seems callow. Softening the blow: “Elmer went to his reward.” “Was called home.” “Met his Maker.” Or, “Elmer passed.” Just try to find a Southern obituary containing the word “died.” If you do, show me.

“Who’s laid out at the funeral parlor?” translates thusly: “Whose death requires paying our respects?” (An open casket not only invites but demands it. Custom dictates praise: to wit, “I can’t believe he/she looks so natural.”)

Thanks to “extreme embalming,” socialite Mickey Easterling presided unnaturally over a New Orleans wake, cocktail and ciggie in hand. Mourners “held up” well.

In the South, our favorite sons and daughters linger longer, thanks to TV. Singer Jimmy Dean, DOD 2010, still pitches sausage that is just as smoky as his voice.

Memphian Leslie Jordan’s YouTube soliloquies considered all things Southern from sweet tea to mullets. Jordan died in 2022, yet his videos? Never.

Dearly departed Julia Reed (2020) gaily mined Southern speak and culture. My friend, John, and I delight over Reed’s bon mots.

Over a stack of her books — But Mama Always Put Vodka in her Sangria on top — we recently raised a glass. We took her passing hard.

That death? Well, it liked to have killed us.

Almanac

ALMANAC

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September

By Ashley Walshe

September rouses you from the gentle spell of summer.

One day, between the blackberry harvest and the mighty swell of crickets, the charm took hold. Languid and blissful, you sprawled beneath the dappled shade, eyes heavy, honeysuckle on your tongue.

Rest now, summer cooed. It’s much too hot to fuss.

And, just like that, you were under. Swaddled in sticky-sweetness. Wanting for nothing. Enchanted by the lazy lull of summer.

Until now.

Something has shifted. It’s a feeling, both subtle and seismic. At once, you’re wide awake.

The air is crisper, cooler, lighter. Colors are more vibrant. Even the birds have changed their tune.

Wake up, a skein of geese clamors overhead. There’s little time to waste!

Their frequency is a code. An ancient language. A precious remembering.

Everything will change.

The light. The trees. The pulse of the season.

Look to the maple tree, the honeybee, the frenzied gray squirrel. Life is racing toward some dark unknown. Put your ear to the warm earth and listen.

This is the threshold, the quickening, the no-going-back. The final kiss of summer.

And so, you feast with all your senses. You savor the fragrance of ginger lilies, the taste of wild muscadines, the spirit of goldenrod at magic hour. You kiss summer back.

A single leaf descends with a singing wind.

Stay open to the beauty of this moment. Stay open to the knowing that everything will change.

Harvest Moon Magic

Your eyes aren’t playing tricks. When the full harvest moon rises on the evening of Tuesday, Sept. 17, it will appear larger and brighter because it is, in fact, as close to Earth as it can be. What makes this supermoon even more spectacular is the partial lunar eclipse that will reach maximum coverage around 10:44 p.m. While only a small portion of the moon’s surface will be obscured by Earth’s shadow, this partial eclipse marks the beginning of an eclipse season. An annular solar eclipse will occur on Oct. 2. Although its “ring of fire” won’t be visible from North America, don’t be surprised if you feel its powerful energetic effects.

Seeing Stars

Look! The asters are blooming. Derived from the Latin astrum, meaning star, September’s birth flower transforms the late summer landscape with jubilant constellations of white, pink, blue or purple blossoms. Often mistaken for daisies, the aster is actually related to the sunflower. (Study its bright yellow center, composed of tiny florets, and see for yourself.)

According to one Greek myth, asters sprouted from the tears of a virgin goddess named Astraea, who wished for more stars in the sky. Instead, the brilliant “stars” began spilling across the quiet earth, as they’ve done every autumn since. Magic for the eyes. Magnets for the late-season butterflies.

Simple Life

12 DAYS OF CHRISTMAS

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Worrying and Watering

For love of gardens and democracies

By Jim Dodson

A neighbor who walks by my house each evening like clockwork sees me sitting under the trees with a pitcher of ice water and walks over to say hello.

I invite Roger to take a seat and have a cold drink.

“It’s tough to keep moving in this heat,” he explains, sitting down. “It’s something, isn’t it? But your garden looks great.

How do you keep it so nice and green?”

“A lot of worrying and watering,” I say. “Sometimes you have to make tough choices.”

In one of the hottest and driest summers in memory, I’d decided to let my yard turn brown in favor of keeping flowering shrubs and young trees watered and green. As the late famous British landscape designer named Mirabel Osler once said to me over her afternoon gin and tonic, landscape gardening is a ruthless business, especially in a drought. Grass will eventually return, but no such luck with a shriveled shrub or a dead young tree.

“September brings relief, rain and second blooms,” I add. “I’m already in a September state of mind.”

He smiles and nods.

“Hey,” he says casually, “let me ask you something.”

I expect another question about the garden. Like the best time of the day to water your shrubs, or when it’s safe to fertilize or prune azaleas.

But it isn’t even close.

“I’m worried about America. People seem so angry these days. Why do you think Americans hate each other?”

The question takes me by surprise. I could give him a few thoughts on the subject: the woeful decline of fact-based journalism, an internet teeming with conspiracy peddlers, politicians who feed on polarization, the unholy marriage of politics and religion, and the sad absence of civility in everyday life.

Instead, I tell him a little story of rebirth.

In the spring of 1983, I telephoned my dad from the office of Vice President George Bush and told him that I no longer wanted to be a journalist. For almost seven years, I’d worked as a staff writer of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution Sunday Magazine, covering everything from presidential politics to murder and mayhem across the deep South. As a result of my work, I’d been offered my dream job in Washington, D.C., but found myself suddenly fed up with writing about crooks, con men and politicians. Bush, however, was an exception. We’d traveled extensively together during the 1980 campaign and had wonderful conversations about life, family and our shared love of everything from American history to golf. During our travels, Bush invited me to drop by his office anytime I happened to be in the nation’s capital. Unfortunately, he was traveling the day I turned down my dream job in Washington, but his secretary allowed me to use her phone. So, I called my dad and told him I planned to move to New England and learn to fly-fish.

“When was the last time you played golf?” he calmly asked.

“I think Jimmy Carter had just been elected.”

He suggested that I meet him in Raleigh the next morning.

So, I changed my flight and there he was, waiting with my dusty Haig Ultra golf clubs in his back seat. We drove to Pinehurst, played famed course No. 2 and finished on the Donald Ross porch, talking about my early midlife career crisis over a couple of beers. I’d just turned 30.

I told him that I “hated” making a living by writing about the sorrows of others, especially when it came to the increasingly shallow and mean-spirited world of politics.

“You may laugh, but here’s a thought,” the old man came back, sipping his beer. “Before you give up journalism, have you ever considered writing about things you love rather than things you don’t?”

Sadly, I did laugh. But he planted a seed in my head. A short time later, I resigned from my job in Atlanta and wound up on a trout river in Vermont, where I learned to fly-fish, started attending an old Episcopal Church and knocked the rust off my dormant golf game at an old nine-hole course where Rudyard Kipling played when he lived in the area.

I soon went to work for Yankee Magazine and spent the next decade writing about things I did love: American history, nature, boat builders, gardeners and artists — a host of dreamers and eccentrics who enriched life with their positive visions and talents.

I also got married and built my first garden on a forest hilltop near the Maine coast.

“I never looked back,” I tell Roger. “I’ve built five gardens since.”

Roger smiles.

“So, you’re telling me we all need to become gardeners?”

“Not a bad idea. Gardeners are some of the most generous people on Earth. We make good neighbors. Most of the country’s founders, by the way, were serious gardeners.”

I pour myself a little more ice water and tell him I’ve learned that gardens and democracies are a lot alike. “Both depend on the love and attention we give them. Especially in difficult times like these.”

Roger finishes his drink and stands up. “That’s something to think about. Here’s to September, cool weather and good neighbors,” he says. “Maybe by then even your grass will be green again.”

Pleasures of Life Dept

PLEASURES OF LIFE DEPT.

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Epiphanic Remembrances

Transported in moments of music making

By David C. Partington

The memory of my first epiphanic musical experience is as vivid to me today as it was in 1957. I was attending a community concert series recital by the German soprano Elizabeth Schwarzkopf at Cornell University’s Bailey Hall along with other students and faculty from Ithaca College. Toward the end of her performance of a cycle of Franz Schubert’s songs (lyrics by Wilhelm Müller), from her lips into my heart came the words, “Dein is mein Herz, und soll es ewig bleiben” (My heart is yours, and shall ever remain so). Suddenly, I was transported to a deep place. My spirit soared and remained there into the night. At the time, I realized I was the recipient of a gift from above.

My first performance at a student recital at Ithaca College is another memory of singular importance. Joseph Tague, my piano teacher had assigned me Abram Khachaturian’s “Toccata.” I loved the piece. From the percussive strike of the first chord, the Toccata and I were one! I had the distinct feeling that it was not I who was playing the piano, but that the music was being channeled through me. When I finished, the audience erupted in applause and shouts, calling me back to the stage a total of five times! The next day several faculty members sought me out to congratulate me. The experience was clearly epiphanic for both me and the audience.

Powerful, inspirational and life-deepening moments characterize my season of life spent as a church and community musician in Winston-Salem from 1966–1975. In preparing the Winston-Salem Symphony Chorus for a performance of George Frederick Handel’s “Coronation Anthems” there was a moment never to be forgotten. Handel’s setting of this ancient story begins with a lengthy introduction that culminates in the explosive “Zadok the Priest and Nathan the Prophet anointed Solomon King!” I gave the downbeat, and our accompanist, Margaret Kolb, began playing the powerful prelude, working her way toward a perfect crescendo. I watched as the chorus listened to her electrifying rendition. As our cue approached to begin singing, we glanced at one another, sang a measure or two, and — one by one — stopped singing. We had been so transported by Margaret’s perfect performance that we could not continue. We were awe struck! And then, from both bewilderment and embarrassment, we broke into exuberant laughter as a form of emotional release. For all of us, this was an epiphany to be remembered. Years later when I would have serendipitous conversations with chorus members and mention that particular rehearsal, they would simply smile and say, “Oh, yes!”

On another occasion, I was preparing the Winston-Salem Symphony Chorus to sing in a performance of Arrigo Boito’s “Prologue to Mephistopheles.” The work requires the addition of a boys’ choir. For several weeks, I rehearsed the boys — an enthusiastic group — for the role they would be singing. During the concert, they were seated up on the balcony at Reynolds Auditorium and, when it was their turn to sing, they gave nothing short of a transcendent performance, one-of-a-kind. Perhaps, this was the first time they experienced being transported by the sheer power of their own voices. As I walked towards their backstage room to celebrate after the performance, one of the parents stopped me. “The boys really want to see you!” When I walked into the room, they mobbed me. I wondered if this was like to be a rock star! There was no doubt about it. Those boys had been electrified by having been visited by a transcendent spiritual experience.

On another occasion, I was conducting the Symphony Chorus in a performance of “Toward the Unknown Region” at a birthday celebration of English composer Ralph Vaughan Williams at Salem College. The piece begins somberly and then builds to a crescendo that never breaks until the end, with the words: “Till when the ties loosen.” Once again, as I looked to my singers, I could see it in their eyes, in their posture and on their countenances. As their conductor, I was no longer in charge. With those words: “O joy! O fruit of all! Them to fulfil O soul,” it felt as if the Hanes Auditorium, singers, audience and the room itself were transported into a world beyond our imagining! We were together in a glorious Epiphany!

Even when, as a pastor, I was no longer making music professionally, the wondrous moments continued. During my first season of ministry (1978–1982), we were living about 60 miles from Washington, D.C. Our family enjoyed frequent trips to the Smithsonian Institute, the Washington National Zoo and the Washington National Cathedral. On a chilly Sunday afternoon, surrounded by the old-world artisanship of the Neo-Gothic Cathedral, we witnessed Paul Callaway conduct a performance of Gustav Mahler’s “Symphony No. 8,” a first for me. There were multiple moments in that performance that held me captive, but one in particular literally pinned me to one of the cathedral’s huge pillars. Near the close of the symphony, everything came down to a hush as the chorus seemed to almost whisper: “Alles Vergängliche ist nur ein Gleichnis” (“All that is ephemeral is but a symbol”). This was a moment of being transported and held transfixed. I could not — and dared not — move. I was being held by mystery beyond my comprehending.