O.Henry Ending

Please, Don’t go

But Mama knew best

 

By Cynthia Adams

When a comedian once quipped that his mother was a one-way travel agent for guilt trips, I laughed. 

Hard. Too hard. And wiped helpless tears.

Our Southern Mama was just such a travel agent. We never parted without her entreaty, “Do you have to go now?”  It didn’t matter how long the visit — two hours or two weeks. It was her notion of expressing love.

Although . . . evidence to the contrary suggested this was born of habit. Even the carpet cleaner and pest control man got the same plea.

This refrain was a quirk, a true blind spot for our mother, much like the one in her trusted Lincoln Continental, which drove more like a Sherman tank after years of surviving Mama’s handling. You just didn’t know that utility post was about to catch you, then there it was, pinning you into the driver’s seat and smearing the side of the car with creosote. 

Hello light pole

She gave her own mother-in-law, Hallie, a tongue-lashing (behind her back of course — Mama was a Southern lady after all) for “hanging on hard just when you needed to go.” 

Poor Hallie was once accused of hanging onto the car door of Mom’s former land yacht, a Madea-worthy white sled with burgundy top and opera windows — just as Mama was heading home for her soap operas. (A grandchild long believed Mama was saying, “showstoppers.”) 

Mama never dragged our grandmother as she held to the Lincoln. Now that would have been a showstopper. For Mama, you see, was usually antsy, in a hurry, whenever it was time for her to make a departure.

Until the end, that is.

Her own leave-taking took so long I began to view her as capable of staying as long as she damned well pleased.

But the professionals knew otherwise. Mama had withered. And after 91 years and diminishing appetite, she was disappearing.

She received hospice care in her final months. My younger sister, who can be intractable, never understood hospice. Bless her heart, (Southern code for myopic) she just couldn’t grasp Mama would eventually leave us.

Could we blame her?

Weeks ago, Mama celebrated a birthday. We gathered for lunch and performed, like we had once done as children. 

I loved to make her laugh, so claiming I had discovered an ability to yodel, I cocked my arms like a baseball pitcher and operatically filled my lungs. Rivaling Florence Foster Jenkins, I unloosed a hideous yowl. 

Mama winced and grinned widely, so, I pretended this called for an encore.

She shook her head, saying “You won’t do,” which is another Southernism loosely meaning, “outstanding foolishness.”

I returned to Mama’s bedside with my hubby two days later, and we sat with her before her momentous departure. 

She gripped our hands with a surprising firmness. 

“Don’t go,” she asked.

The next morning, Mama slipped away.

Only a week afterward, I witnessed a lunar rainbow. It was a luminous, tremulous, indescribable vision. Earlier that day, my brother saw sun dogs — yet another beautiful celestial phenomenon.

Despite myself, I found myself whispering to the night sky. “Please. Don’t go.”  OH

Cynthia Adams is a contributing editor to O.Henry.

January Poem 2020

Musings on Fitness

Do I dare to eat a peach?

  – T.S. Eliot

Calculating carbs and calories,

logging laps in the pool, miles on the bike,

my walks in the woods.

Examining family photos,

genetic code for metabolism that screwed up

our capacity to eat ice cream with impunity.

Questioning the processing of wheat,

golden staff of life,

meant to sustain, not kill us.

Thinking about endless revolutions

on a stationary bike, or the treadmill,

going nowhere but into looser pants, if I’m lucky.

Thousands of folks doing the same, spinning

away, all over the nation. What if we spent

that same energy raking leaves for those

too old to scratch the dirt themselves?

Or building something — a giant calorie-burning

skyscraper, or tap-dancing or waltzing

to make ourselves smile?

Sometimes I am jealous, of my grandparents,

never thin, never fat, farmers

who ate eggs, bacon, and biscuits with molasses,

and never once logged their work in the fields.

I miss their apple pie, MaMa’s light yellow pound cake.

Most of all, I miss not fretting about it.

  Laura Lomax

Life’s Funny

Waves of Kindness

No man is an island — especially one who walks five dogs

 

By Maria Johnson

The first time I saw the canine wave, a bubbling tide of blonde fur about one foot high, it was rippling down a sidewalk near Lake Brandt Road and Lawndale Drive.

A powerfully built man in a windbreaker walked behind the swell. In one hand, he gripped a massive stick that looked like it could be used to greet or beat, depending on what the occasion called for.

From the other hand, a twist of leashes fanned out to his charges. How many? One, two, three, four . . . Wait, was that one or two dogs? EYES ON THE ROAD!

It took several more sightings — and the realization that it would be easier to count leashes than furry heads or tails, all roughly the same color — for me to be confident in the number of pups.

Five.

He was walking five dogs. Not a record number, by the standards of professional dog walkers, but enough to make for a memorable sight. Big guy, big stick, big team of little dogs.

Somehow the scenario balanced. It also suggested to me a gentle strength and confidence on the man’s part. Whereas a lot of tough-looking guys seem to enjoy marching around with equally threatening-looking dogs, there’s something touching to me about a strong guy with a delicate pup.

It takes a big man to walk a little dog.

Over time, I noticed something else: The man had a loyal audience in motion, the drivers who hailed him with a steady flurry of beeps and raised hands. From far away, the man lifted his walking stick to acknowledge his public so steadily he looked like he was waving away mosquitoes.

He reminded me of Ralph Vaughn, who used to sit on his porch, near Lake Brandt Road and Kello Drive — in the very same area trod by the man with five dogs — and raise his hand every few seconds to the drivers who sounded a symphony of beeps as they passed his house.

Ralph died in 2006, but sometimes I still catch myself looking at his concrete porch, ready to see the cigar-chomping former Marine, ready to punch the center of my steering wheel and throw up my hand for a quick, “Hey.”

I’m sure I’m not the only driver who has transferred my beep-and-wave skills, honed by years of greeting Ralph, to the man with five dogs.

Sometimes, I ask myself why I bother with such a small gesture toward someone I really don’t know.

I suppose the answer is the need to connect.

We all like to be noticed, known, remembered even in the smallest ways — by the cashier who recognizes us and waves us over to her empty register; by the waiter who asks if we want the red curry with tofu, as usual; by the postal clerk who smiles at all of the packages going to our sons in New York.

These are the silky strands of belonging, the barely perceptible filaments that lift our hearts, bind us to a place and weave the shape of home.

The feeling sticks on both ends of the exchange.

Ralph Vaughn, a gruff-voiced teddy bear of a man, told me so. After open heart surgery, he took to his front porch to recuperate. The passing sparks of affection warmed him as much as much as his honking admirers.

“It seems like there’s one big family driving around out there,” Ralph said.

Mark Hunt would understand. He’s the man with the dogs.

Recently, his daughter, Cynthia-Mae Hunt, wrote a book, The Man Who Walks the Five Dogs.

In the book, Cynthia-Mae, whose family moved here from New Jersey, reveals that the dogs are shih zhus: Sir John and his mate Duchess Robyn and their three pups, Duke Turner, Prince George and Princess Charlotte, the last two named for eldest children of Britain’s Prince William and Kate Middleton.

Typically, Cynthia-Mae writes, her father walks the dogs three times a day, shooting for 10 miles overall.

She writes how surprised and happy he was when a passing driver stopped to give him an umbrella in a sudden downpour.

She tells about a woman who once ran out of a subdivision, chasing down her dad to hand him a wooden walking stick that she had carved so he could protect himself and his tsunami of Shih Tzus.

Cynthia-Mae, who studies neuroscience in college, writes that she admires her father, who has multiple sclerosis, for his dedication to healthy living.

And she thanks the people who, in fleeting seconds, throw her father the faintest tethers of attachment, which he gladly catches and tosses back.

“Greensboro is a special place because people here show acts of kindness without any incentive,” Cynthia-Mae recently told the hosts of a local TV morning show. “I hope it shows the world and the people of Greensboro how special of a place it is.”

Sometimes, those silky strands weigh more than you think.  OH

For more information, see the Facebook page for The Man Who Walks Five Dogs. Paperback and digital versions of the book are available on amazon.com.

Maria Johnson can be reached at ohenrymaria@gmail.com.

 

 

Illustrated by Grisel Montes for The Man Who Walks The Five Dogs

Wandering Billy

Tonys and Tigers, and Rhinos, Oh My!

A backward glance thrusts us forward into a new decade

 

By Billy Eye

“The past is always tense, the future perfect.” – Zadie Smith

With the start of a brand-new year, let’s take a merciless look back at some of our city’s “Memorable (And Farcically Forgettable) Milestones of 2019.”

You Snooze, You News

Maddie, a UNCG co-ed living off-campus, had come to believe over a period of weeks she had bats in her belfry or perhaps a restless spirit haunting her apartment. Shirts and pants were going missing, mysterious handprints began appearing on the bathroom wall, along with a vague rustling sound seemingly nearby, and yet with no one in sight. One Saturday afternoon, with more indistinct commotion accompanied by a stench emanating from her bedroom closet, Maddie cried out in hopeless frustration, “Who’s there?” An answer came, “Oh, my name is Drew!” Throwing open her closet door, to her horror she discovered that 30-year old transient Andrew Swofford had been residing in there, fully attired in the co-ed’s wardrobe right down to the socks and shoes, clutching a book bag filled with unwashed unmentionables. Talk about your tiny houses . . .

The Mr. Congeniality Award Goes To . . .

When Danny Rogers sprang from behind to defeat B.J. Barnes for Guilford County Sheriff, the guy who calls himself B.J. was less than congratulatory, characterizing Rogers’ approach to crime-fighting as something akin to “hug a thug,” as opposed to Barnes’ more straightforward, shoot-from-the-artificial-hip methodology. What followed was a slew of catty internet posts and faux-concern media trolling from the former sheriff. “I’m a little bit concerned about the security of my folks going into this particular thing,” Barnes mock-confessed to WFMY. Asked point-blank if he believed Rogers would make a good Sheriff, “No, I don’t,” the ousted lawman replied. “I wish him luck. But, to be honest with you, I don’t.” Now that Barnes has been elected mayor of Summerfield, maybe he’ll move on other targets.

Today’s Lesson: Save A Nickel A Day, 41 Years Later You’ll Have $750

In June an anonymous Greensboro Public Library patron returned an overdue book, Symbols of Magic Amulets and Talismans, that was due back in 1978. One wonders, before he dispatched that manual on how never to pick up girls, why this mystic-minded delinquent didn’t use the book to cast a spell over librarians before running up a pro-rata fine of over $750.

Gate City Theater Nerds Conquer The Great White Way

Go ahead and call our fair city Greensboring but consider that in March of 2019, UNCG alumnus Deon’te Goodman joined the ensemble cast of Broadway’s hottest ticket, Hamilton. Another UNCG grad, Beth Leavel, was nominated that year for Best Performance by an Actress in a Leading Role in a Musical for The Prom, her third nomination. Leavel brought home a Tony Award in 2006 for her role as a “strutting, martini-swigging vamp” in The Drowsy Chaperone. Her portrait hangs at Sardi’s, ya’ll.

Meanwhile, Greensboro’s own Isaac Powell landed the role of Tony in the highly anticipated Broadway revival of West Side Story. As a middle-schooler, this dreamy-eyed romantic lead honed his acting chops in Community Theatre of Greensboro productions and years later portrayed Nikos in Barn Dinner Theater’s 2013 production of Legally Blonde.

Little House On The Pavement

Sitting unnoticed for decades, surrounded by the various fast food joints and big-box grocery stores that make up the retail corridor of West Market Street, was a farmhouse dating back to the 1930s, schoolteacher Rosemary Barker’s lifelong home. Her house fronted 4 acres, one of the most beautiful horticultural habitats in the state, with an impressive array of indigenous plant represented. Over time it became Greensboro’s own Grey Gardens where Barker and her sister spent the last couple of decades in a futile attempt to maintain this paradise lost. For the most part unattended, the azaleas and fruit trees continued blooming during the summer between Barker’s passing and the sale of the property in 2018. A lone pine tree from this botanical wonderland is all that remains, towering over the parking lot of our newest Biscuitville.

For Engaging In Public Heavy Petting . . .

Entertainer Jessica Mashburn launched the Guilford County Furr Frames Project in 2019, digital picture frames featuring shelter pets available for adoption, strategically positioned in businesses all around the county like the Carolina Theatre, Smith Street Diner, 1618 Midtown, Sticks & Stones, AMC Cinemas, and Potent Potables in Jamestown. These furry friends seem to enjoy having their pictures snapped in a photo booth that Jessica fashioned out of a portable kennel, complete with green screen backdrop to highlight just how adorable these critters are. By year’s end, thanks to this vivacious vocalist who performs with Evan Olson every Wednesday evening at Print Works Bistro, more than 200 cats and dogs found their forever homes. Furr Frames Project is on Instagram at theshelterpetsofguilfordcounty.

If Only Cordelia Kelly Could Bake Us A Cake . . .

WFMY turned 70 years old last year, which, coincidentally, is about the same age of their core demographic.

I’ll See Your History and Raise You One

In 2018, furniture executive Jason Harris and his wife, Jennifer, paid $2.4 million for Adamsleigh, an exquisite 11-bedroom, 17,000-square-foot, 90-year-old brick Tudor-style mansion, featuring panoramic views of the 12th, 14th and 15th holes of Sedgefield Country Club’s golf course. Besides the two swimming pools, distinctive features included stone fireplaces, a gazebo, plaster-molded ceilings, Ludowici tiled roof, and a sumptuous library adorned in hand-carved wood. Last year, the Harrises had Adamsleigh demolished, hauling away the remains like yesterday’s garbage.

We’re No. 1! (Which Explains A Lot)

Collating evidence from FBI crime statistics, CBS News declared Greensboro the 39th most dangerous city in America (neighboring High Point came in at No. 25). That CBS report didn’t indicate whether it was largely due to Lime Scooter wipeouts, contracting an STD (we’re high up on that list too), or folks tumbling drunkenly out of their vehicles. That last example isn’t so far-fetched, based on over 1 million data points. Greensboro topped QuoteWizard’s list of the “25 Drunkest Driving Cities in America.” And we thought this was before B.J. Barnes reduced crime by 65 percent!

Happiness Is Just A Thing Called Trader Joe’s (or Hey Joe, Where You Goin’ With That Plum In Your Hand?)

When Trader Joe’s at long last descended upon Greensboro, you’d think our alien masters had returned to Earth judging from the crush of humanity pouring through the doors on opening day. Last time Brassfield Shopping Center’s parking lot was this packed was decades ago, in the late ’80s when Fatal Attraction was playing at the Brassfield Cinema Ten and Eye screamed like a stuck pig when they pulled that toddler’s pet bunny out of a boiling pot.

Let Your Fingers Do The Walking Through The Mellow Pages

Citypost digital kiosks popped up around Hamburger Square this fall so that no matter where you are downtown you’re never more than a block or three away from one. Like a smartphone transported from Land of the Giants, these interactive Citizen Engagement Platforms assist visitors in locating events, scheduling public transit, searching for nearby restaurants, nightclubs and businesses, even providing free Wi-Fi while serving as a photo booth. About the only thing these information portals can’t help you find are your car keys.

Where The Wild Things Are / Were / Will Be

Construction got underway in 2019 on Greensboro Science Center’s Revolution Ridge, a major expansion to their wildlife menagerie, home with all the creature comforts for our first Malayan tiger, a male named Jaya. Concurrently, the zoo also added several new breeds of goats and chickens which, if I’m not mistaken, would make a Malayan tiger feel mighty welcome at dinnertime.

On the subject of exotic wildlife, work began last fall restoring the Rhinoceros Club to its former 1990s’ glory, polishing and faithfully refurbishing as many of the original fixtures as can be saved, including those ornately carved hardwood booths and that anachronistically antiquated overhead mechanical fan system. Look for the new Rhino this spring.  OH

My column last month, because of an earth-shattering act of editorial malfeasance, was credited to “writer” Billy Ingram. No one regrets this error more than Eye.

True South

All Peopled Out

Introverts of the world unite — separately

 

By Susan S. Kelly

Not long ago I said to some pals, “Heavens, tell me about Duncan. I heard he had four shunts put in.”

“Where have you been?” someone replied with incredulity.

“You know I don’t go out,” was my lame, weak, but honest answer.

Well, there’s the rub. At the core, I’m an introvert. Pause, for clamor claiming otherwise. But as my children like to say in millennial shorthand: “Truth.”

I do not fit the old-school definition of introvert: retiring, withdrawn, uncomfortable in social situations. “She’s just shy” was the old expression — or, as my mother excuses people, “She’s just insecure.” I am not shy. I veer toward that other old expression: “She’s as strong as train smoke.”

Nowadays, anybody with a penny’s worth of psychiatry or Myers-Briggs familiarity knows that “introvert” means someone who gets their energy from being alone, and that extroverts get their energy from being with other people. The old definition of introvert is no longer relevant, has gone the way of Greta Garbo’s famous utterance, “I vant to be alone.”

Take my sister. She so needs to be with people that she can hardly go to the bathroom by herself. In her 20s, she developed polyps on her vocal cords, and had to communicate with a pad and pencil for weeks. When I join her on the beach, unfold my chair, sit down and take out my book, she says, “Oh no you don’t.” She wants to talk. When her children came home from boarding school, she always said, “Let’s have a cookout!” Meaning, invite people over! Yay! “Let’s have a cookout!” has become an oft used, eyeroll mantra in our households now.

We lived in Larchmont, New York, when I was a small child, and my mother says she could put me in a stroller, go to the city and spend all day — shopping, eating, going to museums — without a peep from me. On the other hand, she claims that she’d put my sister down for a nap, open the door an hour later, and the room looked like a bomb had gone off. This could be attributed to undiagnosed ADHD, but I suspect my sister was just rebelling at being left alone. I guarantee you she has never played a hand of solitaire.

Looking back, my childhood strategy of asking a playmate, “When do you have to go home?” instead of, “When are you going home?” was just another way of getting back to my self-entertaining self. Back to playing with Steiff stuffed animals, alone; back to singing along with musicals, alone. Back to reading, alone. All my early, handwritten stories with plotless plots about someone running away to live in the woods and eat squirrels were another symptom. The introvert indicators were all there — I just hadn’t realized it. (There was that one day when I called three or four people to see if they could come play, and when I called the fourth, I opened with, “Can you come over? I’ve called everyone else.” Could be that the fact that I had to call four people to come play and no one could — or would — was an indication of something, too. Hmm. At any rate, my mother made me call the friend back and apologize.)

During a trip, any trip — Europe, the beach, a long weekend somewhere — I unfailingly have a moment when I’m desperate to go home. “I want to be home,” I’ll say to my sister.

“Yep,” she replies, nonplussed. “Been waiting for that.”

“I want to be home,” I’ll say to my husband, who’s lying in bed, reading
a guidebook.

“I know,” he mildly answers, and turns a page.

Once, when all my children were small, my husband asked, “Just how much time do you need alone every day?”

“Two hours,” I said.

“That’s too much,” he said.

Still, he knows me well. “What’s the matter?” he’ll ask me of a Sunday morning, “All cuted out?” This is shorthand for my extrovert quota having been depleted. Also, a hangover.

My husband is the reason, as a matter of fact, I know about the Myers-Briggs introvert definition in the first place. When he was senior warden at our church, all the officers and spouses were (gently) required to take the test. Trust me, I’d never have done it on my own. I ventured, once, into a Sunday school class, well aware that we might have to “break into small groups” — an introvert’s nightmare — but nevertheless interested in the topic. The minister caught sight of me (at the back of the room) and called out, “What are you doing here?”

I never went back. This, as opposed to my friend whose wife claims that the main reason he goes to church is that he’s such an extrovert he can’t miss a party.

Existential question: If I post on Instagram, does that negate being an introvert?

Often, introverts are mistaken for aloof snobs. They are not aloof snobs. They’re just all peopled out. I’m an expert at the so-called “Irish exit,” when you leave a gathering without telling anyone you’re going. To all those hosts and hostesses of parties past, I apologize. I had a wonderful time and appreciate having been invited. A friend of my mother’s eventually sold her beach cottage because she couldn’t bear to be away from her yard. Oh, sure. Right. A fellow introvert told me that she hates having her hair cut because she can’t stand all the chatter. So she goes to no-name salons and shows the operator a card she made that reads, “I am a deaf mute. Please take an inch off the bottom.” A friend on the board of Outward Bound offered me an Outward Bound trip at no cost. “You’re the perfect person,” he said. I suggested he find another adventurer for his freebie. Whatever I don’t know about myself by now, I don’t want to know, and I certainly don’t want to find out through shudder-inducing group collaboration and cooperation.

My worst introvert nightmare was the summer Friday I made plans to go see When Harry Met Sally on its opening day. By myself, of course. There, I sit in the quiet darkness, waiting for the movie, eating my popcorn, contentedly alone and anticipating, and . . . three dozen members of the neighborhood swim team troop in. Talking, laughing, jostling, scrabbling to see who sits beside whom . . . nightmare.

On the other hand, as I was all by myself waiting for another movie to begin, a little old lady shuffled in, took a seat, and proceeded to unwrap carrot sticks from a baggie as her movie snack. Was this an omen for a future nightmare? Because it’s common knowledge that whatever you are — punctual, talkative, forgetful — gets more pronounced with age.

I deliberately quit writing novels to go out and be with people again. Because I’m not an irredeemable recluse. Essentially I’m a high-functioning hermit with intermittent FOMO.

Let’s have a cookout!  OH

Susan S. Kelly is a blithe spirit, author of several novels, and a proud grandmother.

Doodad

Where Have You Been, Emmylou?

Emmylou Harris returns to her roots

 

Above all else, Bill Kennedy knew a good promotional opportunity when he saw one. Already a seasoned concert promoter and venue operator, by 1976 he had become a fan of rapidly rising country-folk-bluegrass star Emmylou Harris. A fledgling sports and entertainment complex, Piedmont Sports Arena, had recently opened on Wendover Avenue, and Kennedy and the owner agreed to book the singer that April.

She would have likely drawn well anyway, but Kennedy had an additional dual hook. For one, the concert date was close to Harris’ 29th birthday on April 2; for another, she had a local tie-in, having attended UNCG in 1965–67 on a drama scholarship. Kennedy approached the Greensboro Chamber of Commerce about declaring it “Emmylou Harris Day” and billed the show as a “welcome back” party.

The concert lived up to its billing, drawing a couple of thousand delirious fans. Not even a group of Moonies, protesting outside because the venue served alcohol, could dampen the evening.

During her stint at UNCG, Harris had racked up stage roles in Shakespeare’s The Tempest and a children’s theater production of The Dancing Donkey. She also performed in a group called The Emerald City with UNC grad Mike Williams, when she wasn’t singing solo at her regular gig: a small club on Tate Street called the Red Door. The pay was $10 a night plus all the beer you could drink.

She would transfer to Boston University, choosing music over theater. Ultimately she wound up in the Greenwich Village coffeehouse circuit and soon afterward the burgeoning Washington, D.C., bluegrass scene, where fate and Gram Parsons, who discovered her singing in a Georgetown club, intervened.

Forty-three years on, with 25 albums and 13 Grammy awards to her credit, Harris has not since performed in Greensboro. But January 24 will serve as another welcome back when the singer takes the stage at UNCG’s Memorial Hall (formerly Aycock Auditorium) as part of the University Concert and Lecture Series — across the street and ten million miles from the Red Door.

(Full disclosure — Bill Kennedy and the author were co-founders of ESP Magazine in 1988. When Kennedy died in May 2016, the author wrote his obituary for the News & Record and officiated at his funeral.) — Ogi Overman

Birdwatch

Keep Your Eye on the Sparrows

Dark-eyed Juncos return to these parts in cold weather

 

By Susan Campbell

“The snowbirds are back!” No, not the thin-blooded retirees — you won’t see them until spring. But you will see the little black-and-white, sparrowlike birds that appear under feeders when the mercury dips here in central North Carolina. They can be found in flocks, several dozen strong in places. And, in spite of what you might think, they are far from dependent on birdseed in winter.

Dark-eyed juncos are a diverse and widely distributed species, with six populations recognized across the United States, Canada and Mexico. Some have white wing bars, others sport reddish backs, and the birds in the high elevations of the Rockies are recognized by the extensive pinkish feathering on their flanks. Our eastern birds are known as “slate-colored juncos” for their dark-brown to gray feathering. As with most migrant songbirds, their migratory behavior is based on food availability, not weather. Flocks will fly southward, stopping where they find abundant grasses and forbs. They will continue  traveling once the food plants have been stripped of seed.

Dark-eyed juncos can be found throughout North America at different times of the year. During the breeding season, juncos are found at high elevation across the boreal forests nesting in thick evergreens. Our familiar slate-colored variety breeds as close as the high elevations of the Appalachians. You can find them easily around Blowing Rock and Boone year round. Watch for male juncos advertising their territories up high in fir or spruce trees. They will utter sharp chips and may string together a series of rapid call notes that sounds like the noise emitted by a “phaser” of Star Trek fame.

In winter, flocks congregate in open and brushy habitats. Juncos are distinguished from other sparrows by their clean markings: dark heads with small, pale, conical bills, pale bellies and white outer tail feathers. Females have a browner wash and less of a demarcation between belly and breast than males. They hop around and feed on small seeds close to ground level. Some individuals can be quite tame once they become familiar with a specific place and particular people. Juncos do communicate frequently, using sharp trills to keep the flock together. They will not hesitate to dive for deep cover when alarmed.

So the next time you come upon a flock along the roadside or notice juncos under your feeder, take a close look. These little birds will only be with us a few months, until day length begins to increase and they head back to the boreal forests from whence they came.  OH

Susan would love to hear from you.  Send wildlife sightings and photos to susan@ncaves.com.

Drinking with Writers

The Long Road to Overnight Success

From poet to publisher, Emily Smith makes her mark with Lookout Books

 

By Wiley Cash     Photographs by Mallory Cash

I first met Emily Smith in September 2010 at the annual conference of the Southern Independent Booksellers’ Alliance in Charleston, South Carolina. She was there with a Spartanburg publisher called Hub City Books, which was releasing a poetry collection by Ron Rash. Emily had designed the collection’s cover. A year later, I saw Emily again, but this time I saw her photograph online: She was attending an awards dinner in New York City, where a book she had published was a finalist for the National Book Award in fiction. A lot had happened in the intervening year.

The book Emily had published was Binocular Vision: New and Selected Stories, by Edith Pearlman, a short story writer in her 70s who had long been a favorite of the literati, while never breaking through to a larger, critical audience. Pearlman’s book was the first to be released by Lookout Books, a publishing imprint housed in the Publishing Laboratory inside the University of North Carolina Wilmington’s creative writing department. Emily, along with editor emeritus Ben George, published Pearlman’s book as Lookout’s first release. The book would go on to be nominated for a number of prizes, and it would later win the National Book Critics Circle Award. It was quite the debut for a small press. Publishers Weekly called it a “knockout start,” and Ron Charles of The Washington Post praised Lookout’s release as “one of the most auspicious publishing launches in history.”

There are centuries-old publishing houses in New York City that would kill for a single season’s title to receive the acclaim that Binocular Vision received, but there are simply too many bottles and not enough lightning. Or perhaps there is only one Emily Smith, and her journey from advertising executive to publisher of acclaimed books is perhaps as rare as the aforementioned glass-encased lightning.

In early November, Emily took a break from promoting the most recent Lookout title, This Is My Body: A Memoir of Religious and Romantic Obsession, by Cameron Dezen Hammon, to sit down with me over coffee at Social Coffee and Supply Co. on Wrightsville Avenue in Wilmington. It was a cool fall morning, and Emily and I found seats by the bright windows just inside the front door. Our conversation turned toward the first time we met in Charleston back in the fall of 2010.

“I’d gotten to know the folks at Hub City because I was their inaugural writer-in-residence,” she says. “I went there as a poet, but part of the residency had me working 20 hours per week for the press.”

“What were you doing before that?” I ask.

“I’d been a graduate student at UNC Wilmington,” she says, “and I’d worked in the Publishing Laboratory here, which I now run.”

But her experience in design and marketing, as well as her ability to network and build relationships, predates her time as a graduate student in Wilmington and writer-in-residence in Spartanburg. After finishing her undergraduate degree at Davidson, Emily spent several years in advertising at J. Walter Thompson in Atlanta. “We worked with big clients,” she says. “Ford Motor Company, 20th Century Fox, Domino’s Pizza. But I burned out. I knew it wasn’t what I wanted to do.”

She left Atlanta and returned to Davidson, where she worked in the Advancement office, forging relationships with alumni and the community, and raising money for the university. But something was steering her toward writing, and she enrolled as a poetry student in the MFA program at UNC Wilmington. After finishing her degree and serving as the writer-in-residence at Hub City in Spartanburg, she returned to Wilmington as the interim director of the Publishing Laboratory in 2007.

In her role as interim director, Emily found a distributor to ensure that the Publishing Lab’s titles were sold beyond the campus and outside of Wilmington. When a national search began for the permanent director, Emily decided to apply. “I thought, it would be silly not to try for this after doing this job for a year,” she says. She got the job and forged a dynamic partnership with Ben George, who at the time served as editor of Ecotone, the university’s national literary magazine. The two joined forces to found Lookout Books, which they envisioned as a literary imprint dedicated to publishing women, debut writers, and overlooked work by established authors.

“Ben came to UNCW with a reputation as a meticulous, thoughtful editor,” Emily says. “And I knew the other side of the business. I had an advertising and marketing background. I knew the design part from working at Hub City. I knew how to work as a small press and handle distribution.”

After the success of Edith Pearlman’s Binocular Vision, Lookout Books quickly garnered national attention, and the press has consistently delivered critically acclaimed and award-winning books by both established and debut authors.

I ask Emily about the press’s current release, This Is My Body, by Cameron Dezen Hammon. “It’s the story of someone who grew up culturally Jewish and then converted to evangelical Christianity post-9/11,” she says. “9/11 was a time in which everyone and everything felt spiritual, and Cameron was caught up in it. She converted and moved with her musician boyfriend to Houston, where they performed music at an evangelical church.” The longer she stayed in the church the more she found herself caught up in a misogynistic culture that limited her to a gender role that defined both her faith and spiritual talents. “It’s a story of seeking something and discovering something else,” Emily says.

I cannot help but think about Emily doing the same, setting out on a search that took her from advertising executive in Atlanta to graduate student in Wilmington to writer-in-residence in Spartanburg and back to Wilmington, where she would publish titles that would make Lookout Books an overnight literary sensation.  OH

Wiley Cash lives in Wilmington with his wife and their two daughters. His latest novel, The Last Ballad, is available wherever books are sold.

The Omnivorous Reader

Fight the Good Fight and Keep the Faith

The political saga of a father and son

 

By D.G. Martin

Anyone who wants to master North Carolina political history must try to understand how Kerr Scott, elected North Carolina’s governor in 1948, could be both a liberal and a segregationist. Two books that can help are The Political Career of W. Kerr Scott: The Squire from Haw River, by retired University of Florida professor Julian Pleasants; and The Rise and Fall of the Branchhead Boys, by former News & Observer political reporter and columnist Rob Christensen.

Pleasants chronicles the exceptional life of Kerr Scott, who was governor from 1949 until 1953 and U.S. senator from 1954 until his death in 1958. 

Scott, a dairy farmer from Alamance County, won election as commissioner of agriculture in 1936. In 1948, after using that office as a launching pad, he resigned and mounted a campaign for governor. He beat the favored candidate of the conservative wing of the party in the Democratic primary, which in those days was tantamount to election.

Once in office, Scott pushed programs of road paving, public school improvement and expansion of government services. Hard-working and hard-headed, plain and direct spoken, he appointed women and African-Americans to government positions.

Future governors Terry Sanford and Jim Hunt were inspired by his success. Hunt said, “If not for Kerr Scott I would never have run for governor. My family viewed Scott as our political savior . . . He improved our roads, our schools, and our health care.”

Scott’s commitment to common people, fair treatment for African-Americans, skepticism and antagonism toward banks, utilities and big business, and a pro-labor platform earned him a liberal reputation that was praised in the national media. In 1949, he appointed Frank Porter Graham, the popular and liberal president of the University of North Carolina, to fill a vacant seat in U.S. Senate. When Graham lost to conservative Willis Smith in the next election, Scott resolved to run against Smith in 1954 to avenge Graham’s loss and reassert the power of the liberal wing of the party. When Smith died in office and Governor William Umstead appointed Alton Lennon, a conservative, to the seat, Scott ran against him in 1954 and won.

In the Senate, his liberalism did not extend to racial desegregation. He joined with other Southerners in Congress to fight against civil rights legislation. He signed the infamous 1956 Southern Manifesto, which urged resistance to the Supreme Court’s Brown v. Board of Education decision requiring the elimination of school segregation. 

Scott died in office in 1958, leaving open the question of whether he would have won re-election in 1960.

Missing from Pleasants’ excellent book is the story of the entire Scott family and its role in North Carolina political life. Christensen takes up that task. He follows the Alamance County farm family beginning with Kerr Scott’s grandfather, Henderson, and his father, “Farmer Bob.” Both were active in statewide farmers’ organizations.

Christensen’s important contribution to the Scott family saga is his account of the political career of Kerr’s son, Bob. Born in 1929, Bob grew up on Kerr’s dairy farm. Like his father, he became active in farm organizations and worked in political campaigns, including Terry Sanford’s 1960 successful race for governor. By 1964, at age 35, he was ready to mount a statewide campaign for lieutenant governor. But two senior Democrats, state Sen. John Jordan and House Speaker Clifton Blue, were already running. Christensen writes, “In some ways Scott had broken into the line.”

Nevertheless, with the help of powerful county political machines, he won a squeaker victory in a primary runoff over Blue. 

Bob Scott used his new office to run for the next one, giving hundreds of speeches each year, and he won the 1968 Democratic nomination over conservative Mel Broughton and African-American dentist Reginald Hawkins.

The results of the 1968 presidential contest in North Carolina marked what Christensen calls “the breakup of the Democratic Party.” Richard Nixon won; George Wallace was second; and Hubert Humphrey was third. Nevertheless, in the governor’s race, Scott faced and beat Republican Jim Gardner. 

Mountains of bitter controversies in the areas of race, labor, student unrest and higher education administration were to confront Bob Scott after he became governor of North Carolina in 1969. As governor, Scott followed his father’s tradition of inviting friends to “possum dinners” with the main possum course accompanied with “barbecued spareribs, black-eyed peas, collard greens, bean soup with pig tails, corn bread, and persimmon pudding.”

Christensen writes, “Scott may not have been the populist of his father, but he brought a common-man approach to Raleigh.”

But times had changed. College campuses were erupting. Black anger was spilling into the streets. Historian Martha Blondi wrote that 1969 marked the “high water mark of the black student movement.” Christensen writes, “During his first six months in office, Scott called out the National Guard nine times to deal with civil unrest.”

In March, he sent more than 100 highway patrolmen to Chapel Hill to break a food worker strike and force the reopening of the student cafeteria, overruling the actions of UNC’s president, William Friday, and the chancellor, Carlyle Sitterson. This action and similar strong measures against student-led disorders earned Scott praise by television commentator Jesse Helms and many others in the white community, “but he got different reviews from the black community.” 

Although he appointed the first black District and Superior Court judges, his pace of minority hiring and appointments was roundly criticized.

Increased desegregation of public schools resulted in more disruption. Speaking about the 1971–72 school year, Scott said, “Many schools were plagued by unrest, tension, hostility, fear, disturbances, disruptions, hooliganisms, violence and destruction.”

In response to disturbances relating to school desegregation in 1971, Scott sent highway patrolmen and National Guard troops to Wilmington. Conflict there led to arrests, trials and prison sentences for the group of protesters who became known as the Wilmington Ten.

Bob Scott’s stormy relations with President Friday continued as Scott “decided to undertake the reorganization of higher education as his political swansong.” His proposal to bring all 16 four-year institutions under one 32-person board was adopted by the legislature. Scott expected the new organization would eliminate or minimize Friday’s role. But Friday became president of the reorganized 16-campus system and led it until 1986.

Summing up Bob Scott’s time in office, Christensen writes that his legacy is “far murkier” than his father’s, in part because the state was “less rural, less poor, more Republican, and more torn by societal dissent, whether civil rights, Vietnam, or the counterculture.”

Both Terry Sanford and Jim Hunt acknowledged their connection to Kerr Scott. But Bob Scott never bonded with either of them. The breach with Hunt became a public battle when Bob Scott challenged the incumbent Gov. Hunt in the 1980 Democratic primary. Scott was angry because Hunt had not supported his ambition to be appointed president of the community college system. Scott lost the primary to Hunt by a humiliating 70–29 percent margin.

Ironically, in 1983, when the community college presidency opened up again, Bob Scott won the job and served with distinction until his retirement in 1995.

Bob Scott died in 2009 and was buried at the Hawfields Presbyterian Church near the graves of his father and grandfather. Kerr Scott’s tombstone reads, “I Have Fought a Good Fight . . . I Have Kept the Faith.” Bob’s reads, “He Also Fought a Good Fight and Kept the Faith.” OH

D.G. Martin hosts North Carolina Bookwatch Sunday at 11 a.m. and Tuesday at 5 p.m. on UNC-TV. The program also airs on the North Carolina Channel Tuesday at 8 p.m. To view prior programs go to http://video.unctv.org/show/nc-bookwatch/episodes/.

Scuppernong Bookshelf

Holidays Are Not Just for Children

Some Surprising Books for Adults

 

Compiled by Brian Lampkin

Book people can be difficult. They pretty much acquire the books they need with no regard for the impending holiday season, so you’re left with nothing literary to get them to show how much you care about their reading life. Below are a few holiday-related books that just might be off the radar of a well-read book lover. Or perhaps there’s a forgotten gem or two to reinspire an old love.

Rock Crystal, Adalbert Stifter (Author), Marianne Moore (Translator), Elizabeth Mayer (Translator), W. H. Auden (Introduction) (NY Review of Books, $12.95). Seemingly the simplest of stories — a passing anecdote of village life — Rock Crystal opens up into a tale of almost unendurable suspense. This jewel-like novella by the writer that Thomas Mann praised as “one of the most extraordinary, the most enigmatic, the most secretly daring and the most strangely gripping narrators in world literature” is among the most unusual, moving and memorable of Christmas stories.

Pretty Paper, by Willie Nelson with Dave Ritz (Blue Rider, $23). For over 50 years, Willie Nelson has wondered about the life story of the legless man who sold wrapping paper to customers on the street in front of a downtown department store in Fort Worth. This seller of “pretty paper” inspired Willie’s classic Christmas song, and now, with a leap of imagination, the singer/songwriter tells the tale of Tom Winthrop. I too thought this was a book on holiday-themed rolling papers.

Yuletide in Dixie: Slavery, Christmas, and Southern Memory, by Robert E. May (University of Virginia, $34.95). We don’t get to shut off our brains or ignore history just because it’s the holiday season. How did enslaved African Americans in the Old South really experience Christmas? Did Christmastime provide slaves with a lengthy and jubilant respite from labor and the whip, as is generally assumed, or is the story far more complex and troubling? In this provocative, revisionist and sometimes chilling account, Robert E. May chides the conventional wisdom for simplifying black perspectives, uncritically accepting Southern white literary tropes about the holiday, and overlooking evidence not only that countless Southern whites passed Christmases fearful that their slaves would revolt but also that slavery’s most punitive features persisted at holiday time.

Holidays On Ice, by David Sedaris (Back Bay, $12.99). Sedaris’ recent sold-out appearance at the Carolina Theatre reminds us all that he’s a much-loved institution in North Carolina. This 2010 update has six new pieces and is written especially for those left quite queasy about the syrupy emotions of the holiday season.

Hercule Poirot’s Christmas, by Agatha Christie (William Morrow, $29.99). Every year it’s impossible to find the right book for Aunt June or Uncle Beasley. But 2019, is different. They love English mysteries, they love the classics, they have even forgiven you for last year’s debacle of the gift of the adult coloring book. Who knew that they made “adult” coloring books? Agatha is never a misstep.

How to Spell Chanukah . . . and Other Holiday Dilemmas:18 Writers Celebrate 8 Nights of Lights, essays by Jonathan Tropper, Jennifer Gilmore, Steve Almond, Joanna Smith Rakoff, Adam Langer and others. (Algonquin, $13.95). Whether your Chanukahs were spent singing “I have a Little Dreidel” or playing the “Maoz Tzur” on the piano, whether your family tradition included a Christmas tree or a Chanukah bush, whether the fights among your siblings over who would light the menorah candles rivaled the battles of the Maccabees, or even if you haven’t a clue who the Maccabees were, this little book proves there are as many ways to celebrate Chanukah as there are ways to spell it.

You Better Not Cry: Stories for Christmas, by Augusten Burroughs (Picador, $16). At 8 years old, Augusten Burroughs profoundly misunderstood the meaning of Christmas. Now proving himself once more “a master of making tragedy funny” (The Miami Herald), he shows how the holidays can bring out the worst in us and sometimes, just sometimes, the very best. From the author described in USA Today as “one of the most compelling and screamingly funny voices of the new century,” comes a book about surviving the holiday we love to hate, and hate to love.

Sex Position Coloring Book: Playtime for Couples (Hollan Publishing, $15.95). Who knew indeed.   OH

Brian Lampkin is one of the proprietors of Scuppernong Books.