State of Mind

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Our Unique Beauty

The greening of home

By Tommy Tomlinson

Illustration by Gary Palmer

This year my wife and I drove to Michigan for summer vacation. (July is way cooler up there than down here.) One day we were cruising on a highway somewhere south of Mackinaw City, headed for the Upper Peninsula. We rolled through mile after mile of farmland and trees. There was no way to count every shade of green.

In some ways it felt familiar. I’ve been down similar roads all over North Carolina. But it wasn’t . . . quite . . . right, like a picture that had been run through the copier one too many times. The shades of green up there weren’t the shades of green back home. My GPS — not the one on the screen, the one in my gut — told me I was somewhere else. I would’ve known that even if I had just awakened from a Rip Van Winkle nap.

It got me to thinking: What makes a landscape distinctive? And in particular, what makes North Carolina’s landscape distinctive? What are the clues that tell us where we are?

I’m not really thinking about pride of place, although maybe that’s part of it. I grew up in Georgia, down on the coast. When we go back to visit, and we cross the Savannah River coming down from South Carolina, I look over at Alix and say: Ahhhh. We’re in God’s country.

(Sometimes I say it if I’m the only one in the car.)

But the North Carolina marsh is different than the Georgia marsh — and the South Carolina marsh, for that matter. North Carolina marshes, to me, feel smaller and more scattered. They play peek-a-boo with you as you drive down toward the coast. They even smell different. Every marsh has a salty funk — it comes from dead plants and animals decaying in the mud and washed by the tides. North Carolina’s marshes smell a little cleaner somehow. Maybe it just feels that way to me because I grew up near pulp mills in Georgia. Millworkers like to say it’s the smell of money. I guess that’s possible, if money smelled like rotten eggs.

North Carolina beach sand is its own thing, too. The sand on the Outer Banks is what I think of as sandbox sand — tan and clean. Georgia sand is grayer and a little muddier. Florida Gulf Coast sand, down around Panama City, is sugar-white and crunches under your feet. I would not bet money on this, but part of me thinks that if you put me on one of those beaches blindfolded, my toes would be able to figure out where I was.

(FYI, the Michigan beaches were nicer than I expected . . . they reminded me of North Carolina’s. Lots of rocks in the water, though.)

Coming off the coast, the natural feature I think about most in North Carolina is the longleaf pine forest. The strands we have in the Sandhills and down toward Wilmington are the northern edge of the longleaf habitat (it stretches south and west in scattered spots all the way to Texas).

Most of the woods we see from the highway are dark and thick. A longleaf pine forest feels like a planned community. The trees are spaced wide, giving one another room to grow. The wiregrass underneath is a tasteful carpet. That orderly design depends on fire to come through every so often — a spring cleaning of sorts. When the natural cycles line up, what’s left is astonishing.

Years ago, a guide walked me a mile or so into a longleaf pine forest down in the southeast corner of the state. We were looking for Venus flytraps. You might know that a little circle down there — maybe a 75-mile radius from Wilmington — is the only place on earth where Venus flytraps grow naturally in the wild. We got to a tiny pond — no more than a big puddle, really — where clumps of flytraps grew a few yards off the bank. Not too dry, not too wet. If all you know of flytraps is Little Shop of Horrors, you might walk right past one without ever seeing it. They’re small and close to the ground. In the wild, most of the traps are no bigger than dimes.

You might also know that the tiny pond I described was probably a Carolina bay — one of thousands of shallow depressions strung along the East Coast all the way up to Delaware and New Jersey. Most of them are ovals aligned northwest to southeast. There are many scientific theories about how they came to be; the most intriguing theory is that they’re the result of a long-ago meteorite shower.

Of course, those are the scientific theories.

But when you’re standing next to one, surrounded by Venus flytraps, inside a longleaf pine forest that looks like it was designed by an interior decorator . . . your mind does start to wonder if North Carolina is some sort of Del Webb development for future retiring aliens.

I realize, at this point, that we have wandered far afield. This started out being about what makes North Carolina’s natural splendor distinctive, and ended up being about what might make us the next Area 51.

Let’s just leave it here for now: Our beauty is unique. If you’ve lived in North Carolina long, you can smell it and feel it and taste it. It doesn’t mean we’re better than everybody else — although if you want to claim that, go ahead. It just means that there are some things our bodies just know. And when we’re in North Carolina, we’re someplace special.

I hope the human race is not the only one to have figured this out. 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.

Simple Life

Simple Life

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Sweet September Lessons

From freshman tomfoolery

By Jim Dodson

Illustration by Gerry O’Neill

During the years we lived on the coast of Maine, I was always amused by the visible relief and joy locals expressed over the arrival of September.

Every year like clockwork, it marks the departure of summer tourists in Maine when tens of thousands of vacationers pack up and head home to the lower 48, leaving Maine bank accounts flush and pockets of local merchants brimming with cash.

With Labor Day weekend done and dusted, the annual sight of the Maine Turnpike backed up for 25 miles — folks “from away” creeping through the southbound tolls in vehicles loaded down with suitcases, bicycles and kayaks —  is a sign of liberation to many Mainers.

Within days of the annual exodus, the price of the average shore dinner drops by at least 30%, town traffic returns to its sleepy pace, and locals begin to venture out from their hiding places to shop and greet neighbors and friends they haven’t seen since Memorial Day.

Up on our forested hill west of town, I had my own way of welcoming September. Afternoons were visibly shorter and the abundant wildlife around us — like their counterparts in town — became much more visible and active. A herd of white-tailed deer and a lady porcupine that terrified our dogs never failed to waddle into my garden, finishing off my daylilies, hosta plants and ostrich ferns. And almost every time I walked down our long, gravel lane to pick up the mail, a gorgeous ring-necked pheasant or a congregation of wild turkeys would cross my path, unconcerned by my presence in our peaceable September kingdom.

Down here in North Carolina, the autumnal equinox that arrives around September 22 is a far more subtle affair, as white bucks and seersucker are put away even before the intense heat of summer begins to fade. Swimming pools close for the year, and the young ones — to mom’s delight — go back to school while the older kids trek off to college.

Last September, a former university suite-mate passing through town invited me for coffee. His grandson was headed off to college. With a smile, he reminded me of my chaotic start as a freshman at East Carolina in 1971. It briefly became something of a freshman dorm legend.

My folks dropped me off at my College Hill dorm with a window fan, my bicycle and 50 bucks for the student dining program. The first thing I did was hop on my bike and follow a winding country road to New Bern, mesmerized by the flat green landscape of eastern North Carolina. I had no idea that it was a 40-mile trip each way, however, and it wore me out like an old shoe. As a result, I slept through the first day of mandatory freshman orientation.

A few days later, I foolishly allowed new friends in the dorm to convince me to try out for the school’s club football team. There was a rumor that incoming football coach Sonny Randle was looking to find a handful of walk-ons to use as practice squad dummies. In a galaxy long ago and far away (junior high days), I’d been the starting cornerback on a city-league championship team. Foolish sports dreams die hard.

Not 10 minutes into tryouts, I stepped on a rubber kicking tee and tore the cartilage in my right knee. One of Randle’s highly regarded recruits on an adjacent practice field helped me hobble to the fieldhouse. His name was Danny Kepley. The coaches were already taking notice of him. We chatted a bit and he wished me well.

I returned to school on crutches after Labor Day, just in time to commit my third stupid act that faraway September. A pair of friends from back home and I met a trio of cute girls at Greenville’s (in)famous Elbow Room that Friday night, and they invited us to a party down the road in Little Washington. Freshman couldn’t have cars at school in those days, but these girls had a new VW Bug because they were sophomores. 

On the way to Little Washington, our “dates” demanded beer. So, we purchased a couple six-packs and wound up at a gorgeous house overlooking the Pamlico River. My date’s name was Trisha. Suspiciously, her parents, who owned the home, were away. As my buddies and their dates wandered off to other parts of the house, Trisha and I settled on the couch, my sore leg propped up, to watch the Miss America Pageant. Suddenly, Trisha’s annoying little brother appeared, announcing, “Trisha, Jerry is outside. And he’s really mad!”

Jerry turned out to be Trisha’s boyfriend. She hadn’t lied. She was indeed a sophomore — in high school. Jerry had brought along half a dozen beer-buzzed pals to defend his girlfriend’s blemished honor. Having realized our horrible mistake, I hobbled out on crutches, hoping to smooth things over. The negotiations did not go well and took a worrying turn when Jerry snapped the antenna of Trisha’s VW Bug and waved it at me. At that point, my college buddies appeared and Trisha burst into tears, wailing that her daddy was going to murder her when he got home.    

Mercifully, a police car rolled up. When the officer learned that we were just a trio of stupid college freshmen, he ordered us into his car, probably saving us from getting murdered.

He drove us to the edge of town and put us out. It was a nice September night and only 23 miles back to campus. We walked for several hours until the sun began to come up. Somewhere after sunrise, a drunk in a weaving Cadillac picked us up and dropped us at the bottom of College Hill. I got back to my dorm as my new roommate was heading out for breakfast. He wondered where I’d been all night.

“Learning I’m not a good party guy,” I said. A few days later, I swore off beer, joined the school newspaper and soon became The Fountainhead’s columnist and features editor.

Forty years later, on another memorable September Southern evening, I was about to give a fundraising speech at Wayne Community College in Goldsboro, when my host said, “There’s a guy who wants to say hello to you.”

It was Danny Kepley. During his playing years at ECU, Danny became an All-American linebacker known for crushing tackles, earning the nickname “Captain Crunch.” Drafted by the Dallas Cowboys, Danny chose to join the Edmonton Eskimos of the Canadian Football League and went on to lead them to six Grey Cup championships as MVP of the league.

I asked him if he remembered helping a foolish fellow freshman off the practice field way back when.

“I think so,” he replied, pointing out that his memory was a bit foggy from a career of issuing crushing hits. “What I remember most is your stories in the school paper. I liked them. And now, you are a famous sportswriter about golf.”

And then Captain Crunch added with a smile, “So, we both did kinda OK, I guess.”

“Yes, we did,” I agreed.  OH

Jim Dodson is founding editor of O.Henry.

Omnivorous Reader

Omnivorous Reader

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Seeing Spirits

And the decisions that haunt us

Jim Moriarty

Let’s dispense with the easy part. “Gram calls photographs paper ghosts. She says they’re the only ghosts everyone can see.” So says Willamena Wester — Wills to her friends — the central character of Sarah Addison Allen’s new novel, Paper Ghosts. The real apparitions show up later.

Gram is Alice Wester, the dowager of Hen Town. Nothing escapes Alice’s ability to know it or divine it in some quasi-mystical way. “Rewind,” the first of the novel’s three parts, takes place in 1976. Wills is a teenager, and her posse is known as The Feathers, named for their teased-to-the-max hairstyle. “By the time the bell rang, Wills had managed to get Dorothy’s feathers back in place, though she’d used so much hair spray that Dorothy was now combustible,” writes Allen.

We meet Andy Smooth, the head of a traveling musical group, and Jack Vaughn, the band’s youngest member and the person Wills falls desperately in love with. “He was quoting Shakespeare again, while dancing to a song no one could hear under an umbrella when there wasn’t a storm, with his hand to her waist as if it was meant to be there.” Ratted out by one of The Feathers — with a Polaroid, of course, of the young clandestine couple — Gram is determined to keep Willamena in Hen Town and tries to buy off young Jack, who accepts the money as a get-out-of-town stake, then tries to convince Wills to go with him.

“And I lie awake at night thinking about a beautiful girl I just met whose grandmother has made her believe that she can only exist here, that she will vanish like magic if she steps outside of this place, so she’s afraid to leave. And I can’t stay,” says Jack.

A tussle ensues in Gram’s “redbrick, federal-style home . . . three stories tall and imposing with more windows to see what was going on than any other house in town.” Jack tumbles down a flight of stairs — perhaps or perhaps not helped along by Gram — and dies. He’s buried in the basement but his ghost remains.

And so does Wills. We “Fast Forward” in part two, and Wills, who married (and outlived) the man she was supposed to marry before Jack came along, has remained in Wester House and, in almost every respect, morphed into her grandmother. Her nickname, to the living, has morphed, too, into Mim. At the door are her widower son, Tug (Terrance), and her granddaughter Bailey, who are moving in. “‘You’re a remarkable woman, Wills, but even you can’t open a door without turning the knob first,’ she heard Jack say from behind her.”

Tug gives Bailey the tour. “For the next half hour, the presence in the house followed them as Tug made sure Bailey knew every nook and cranny, most of it off-limits due to what he called the Wester Rules,” writes Allen. “The Wester Rules weren’t actually his rules. They were Mim’s. And they weren’t made up on the spot, either. They’d been around for a long time.” Those rules included no visitors, no music and a double-lock on the basement door.

Bailey, it turns out, can see Jack if Jack wants to be seen. “To her astonishment there was now a handsome young man standing next to the piano. He looked like someone from decades ago with his dark hair touching his shoulders and a shaggy mustache shaped like a horseshoe. His jeans had bell bottoms so long they touched the floor, and the snaps of his shirt were undone nearly to low-rise at this hips. There was a yellow rose pinned to the wide collar. He seemed so happy to see her that he didn’t know what to say. Or maybe he was just happy for her to finally see him.”

Mim becomes as protective of Bailey as her grandmother had been of her, a choice that leads to a different kind of disaster when Bailey is accosted, not by a true love like Jack, but by a thug of a man named Clutch, which calls for a different kind of accident altogether. Let’s just say, Clutch gets his — another mystery solved in the end. “I know I made you dependent on only me and your father for companionship, but I thought it was the one thing that would keep you safe until you could make your own decisions,” says Mim. “But what really happened was you grew up desperate to feel connection, which led you to Clutch. If I had just told you this story of the man I fell in love with, instead of imposing on you something you didn’t understand, things would have ended differently.”

Allen writes in the opening of her epilogue, “Once upon a time, there was a family of witches. But witches, it turns out, are sometimes only women who have been hurt, and are determined not to be again.” The toing and froing through the generations can get a bit confusing at times, but the trip is worth it. The great fiction writer Raymond Chandler once counseled others to try to put three things on every page that mean something to you as a writer. A sentence, a description, maybe just a word. The cumulative effect will be quality. Allen’s ability to turn a phrase is a fine example of it.

Of Jack: “It was such a vulnerable moment, his guard down, loneliness beaming through the cracks.”

Of Mrs. Orr, the housekeeper: “… taking every smudge on the furniture as a personal insult . . .”

On Jack: “It was Jack. Her beautiful Jack. He looked so out of place, a wildflower in a manicured garden.”

On Wester House: “This was an old house and the floorboards creaked like knee joints.”

On the neighborhood in Hen Town: “There was a curious element of the unseen, like if money could haunt you, it would haunt you here, where the air was as soft and cottony as a veil.”

When Mim leaves the house: “People immediately got on their phones and called their neighbors, tracking her movements across town the way they might have tracked a grizzly bear that wandered out of the woods.”

On Bailey: “Every time she colored her hair, she liked this moment best — looking in the mirror and seeing someone she didn’t recognize, hoping it was someone she finally wanted to be.”

And so on. They were among the many little treats that made Paper Ghosts a pleasure to read.  OH

Jim Moriarty is the editor of PineStraw. He can be reached at jjmpinestraw@gmail.com

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.