Tag: Pleasures of Life Dept.

Pleasures of Life

PLEASURES OF LIFE

A Falconer Goes Home

And discovers what, exactly, is in a name

By Woody Faulkner

I can scarcely believe that I am here, standing on my ancestral ground with a majestic gold eagle on my arm.

Her massive talons grip my gloved arm. A bit heavy at 7 pounds, her feathered, muscular torso, noble head and sharp talons are all on display as if to say, “Watch yourself!” Out of all the raptors used in falconry, the eagle is the largest. Emitting loud squawks, she lets me know that I need to pay strict attention to her. She is 50 years old, which is very old for an eagle. In the wild, they live to a max of around 35 years. On this gorgeous golden girl’s upcoming birthday, Barry, our Scottish falconer, is going to present her with a whole rabbit “. . . in pless of eh berrrrth-dey kehk!”

I long imagined re-enacting the regal hunting sport that gave my family its surname, Falconer/Faulkner. So, in July, John, my spouse, and I set out for Edinburgh ( or “Edinbruh,” as the Scots say), Scotland and Dalhousie Castle, where Falconry Scotland’s Ultimate Experience is located. Barry and son Jackson introduce us to numerous birds of prey on site, including owls, hawks, falcons, eagles, a raven and a crow. We even meet the sister of the owl known for playing Hedwig, of Harry Potter fame! Taking turns with other guests, we “fly” the owls and hawks. Duke is a large owl so named because he swaggers like John Wayne when he walks. Bojangles is a hawk who wears a bell, and Lizzie is a small, white, talkative owl. Each flies from a perch at the falconer’s signal to our arm, lured by fresh chunks of chicken. Just before each one of these birds lights upon my left arm, its broad wings open widely, it tucks its tail down, while its talons thrust forward to grasp its perch. Then it gracefully folds its wings. I can barely feel little Lizzie landing, but Duke and Bojangles land with a goodly thud that makes my arm dip a bit. Their close proximity to me doesn’t invoke fear, rather admiration and oneness with the bird. The leather gauntlet provides protection from the otherwise deadly talons. After eating the raw chicken greedily, the bird sits patiently on my arm waiting for a command from Barry. Finally, we get to hold a bird of our choice. My pick? The large golden eagle.

Growing up in rural Vance County, N.C., surrounded by other Faulkner families, I was vaguely aware that our surname derives from the Medieval practice of falconry, but my interest was piqued when I seriously began to research my family name. Finding a wealth of information about my 9th great-grandfather and his family’s arrival in 1665 at Hog Pen Neck, a British colony of Maryland, aboard the ship Agreement, I was able to trace our line of Faulkners as far back as 13th-century Scotland.

The first forebears of our name was Ranulphus of Lunkyir, who was appointed Scottish Falconer in 1211 by the third king of Scotland, William the Lion (1165-1214). Lunkyir then changed his name to Ranulphus le Falconer. And so it was that we found ourselves on an unusually sunny day in Scotland traveling north from Edinburgh into the foothill region in which Scottish Kings and their falconers hunted. Hiring a driver for the day, we set out to visit an ancestral seat of the Falconer/Keith clan called Inglismaldie Castle (a small estate on a large tract of land). No longer occupied, the house had been the seat of the Lairds of Halkerton (Hawk-town and the Falconer/Keiths) from 1636 to the 1960s.

Arriving at the castle, I walk up to the front door and boldly knock three times with the round iron knocker as if to say to the ghosts within, “Open up, a Faulkner is here.” Alas, no answer.

Gazing up at the crest above the door, its motto catches my attention, “Quae Amissa Salva,” (“What is lost, has been saved”). After some quick googling of the phrase, we ultimately discover that this refers to Clan Keith (our relatives by marriage) and the Scottish Crown Jewels they saved from Cromwell’s armies in 1652.

On the way back from Inglismaldie, we make several stops to take in the spectacular coastal scenery perfect for falconry. Arriving at the ruin of Arbroath Abbey, founded by William I in 1178 and dedicated to his friend Thomas Becket, we first explore the visitor center. There, I read that King William is buried among the ruins — an unexpected jackpot! Walking down what would have been the nave of the cathedral, leading to the high altar, there on the bare ground, I spy a large, red, flat stone: the tomb of William I! Here lies the monarch who granted a long line of Falconers their family name 900 years earlier!

Experiencing falconry in the land that gave me my name was immensely enjoyable and satiated my curiosity, leaving me full of gratitude. In Scotland, I found a safe — and sacred — place to explore what gave my family the wings to soar.

Pleasures of Life Dept.

PLEASURES OF LIFE DEPT.

The Checkout Counter

The sale — and whopper — of the century

Memoir by Kay Cheshire

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you have a box for this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2024 Department Pleasures of Life Dept.

Pleasures of Life Dept

PLEASURES OF LIFE DEPT.

Epiphanic Remembrances

Transported in moments of music making

By David C. Partington

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

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

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

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

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

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

2024 Department Pleasures of Life Dept.

Pleasures of Life Dept.

Blast from the Past

Or why chemistry sets are no longer fun

By David Claude Bailey

In October of 1957, my parents and their 11-year-old son — that would be me — walked out into our backyard to watch Sputnik-1 arch across the sky. And so began the Reidsville Rocket Boys Space Race.

Admittedly, years earlier, all my friends and I had acquired chemistry sets manufactured by A.C. Gilbert, the man who invented the Erector Set. That was way before they removed all the fun stuff from the sets — saltpeter, sulfur, sodium ferrocyanide! and, I’m not kidding you, uranium dust. My friend, Jack, and I had been experimenting with gunpowder (a simple mixture of saltpeter, sulfur and charcoal) for months, as in lighting a trail of it to streak across the ground like in Western movies, perfect for scaring cats, dogs and sisters.

That was also back in the good ol’ days when boys could buy almost any chemical from their friendly local apothecary as well as dynamite fuses from the hardware store — not to mention dynamite itself if you were only old enough.

The firecrackers and smoke bombs we made with gunpowder were disappointing, but it did not take long for our inquiring minds to begin designing miniature rockets. We’d take one of those cardboard tubes fused on coat hangers to keep pants from having a crease in them, fill it with gunpowder and close one end. Once fins were added, it soared out of sight.

Half of the fun was thinking we were conducting our launches in secret, but surely our parents learned of our purchases from the owners of the hardware store and apothecary. I now suspect they thought they might be raising budding space engineers — or even astronauts. After all, on January 31, 1958, America successfully launched into orbit the cylindrical Explorer 1, 80 inches long compared to Russia’s pitiful “beach ball,” only 23 inches in diameter — which prompted more trips into the backyard.

My mom mailed some of the drawings covering my school notebooks to my uncle Bob, who was studying civil engineering at Georgia Tech. He amped them up into what looked like professional, technical blueprints. After I took them to school, I walked around for a few days convinced I was an aerospace genius.

The space race in Reidsville soon mirrored the Cold War. Jack’s cousin, Fred, spied on his older brother and another cousin to provide us with intel regarding their potentially more advanced technology. Erector Sets were cannibalized to build launch gantries; we discovered that match heads glued to flashbulb filaments could ignite a dynamite fuse from a safe distance.

Meanwhile, just as we were foolishly considering trying brass plumbing pipes in place of the clothes hanger tubes (never mind the danger of exploding shrapnel or the elementary physics principle that what goes up comes down), Jack and I connected with some outside support. Across town, Carl, whose parents were at least a generation younger and cooler than ours, had helped him assemble an extensive chemistry lab in the furnace closet of his family’s stylishly modern, flat-roofed house. The shelves were lined with bottles of chemicals imprinted with scientific-looking typefaces. Beakers, flasks and test tubes covered a counter on which sat an actual Bunsen burner. Carl demonstrated how, when you mixed zinc dust and sulfur, the result was a propellant several times more powerful than gunpowder.

And so, on a Saturday morning, four of us were closeted in his laboratory-furnace room, where he promised to show us his methodology. We started out with a bottle of zinc dust into which we mixed increasing amounts of sulfur. When the mixture was perfect, a sample of it, when introduced to the flame of the Bunsen burner, would burn with an intense and blinding white flash. Some advice: Do NOT use the eraser end of a pencil, which a member of our elite test unit (who will go unnamed) happened to have in his pocket, because erasers are flammable, as was the zinc-dust-and-sulfur. The ensuing explosion blew both double doors of the furnace room wide open and turned the glassware of Carl’s chemistry set into little bits of silica that we combed out of our hair for days afterwards. Why we all were not blinded, I’ll never know.

Somehow our enthusiasm for our rocket projects began to dim after that. Jack, in particular, seemed to lose interest. However, I recently learned that his father had effectively shut down our launch operations by bribing Jack with a used Hamilton “Tank” watch, in the style of the ones worn by WWI tank drivers. Although a history buff, Jack now feels that he sold out cheaply. He remembers that the watch’s style wasn’t 1950s hip. Plus, the dial’s Roman numerals left Jack, neither good at math nor foreign languages, guessing about what time it really was.

So, we did not, in fact, end up becoming astronauts or aerospace engineers, though Carl went on to become a highly popular high school science teacher. Jack, soaring to heights few of us could have imagined, is now one of the nation’s top immigration lawyers. I came closest to going into orbit by becoming an aerospace editor for Cocoa TODAY, covering the Space Shuttle. And although I’d like to say that our friend, the eraser-head igniter, became a Navy Seal demolition expert, in truth he avoided the military altogether and ended up building some of the most innovative houses in Chapel Hill.

Arms races may last forever, but not so for little boys. Secret propellants and proprietary fins “make way for other toys . . . one gray night it happened,” like Puff the Magic Dragon, our launches were no more — replaced by Boy Scouts and basketball. And once we learned what girls were for, our rockets ceased to roar. OH

David Claude Bailey raised daughters and, while he never taught them how to create explosions, did blow their minds with his extensive knowledge of Latin.

2024 Department Pleasures of Life Dept.

Pleasures of Life Dept.

The Kindness of Strangers

Found in unlikely places

By Ronald Winter

Note from the editor: This was our 2023 O.Henry Essay Contest winner.

I suppose I should tell you right away that this took place during a war, and wars are more likely to make the evening news for acts of inhumanity rather than human kindness.

It was November 1968 in Quang Tri, South Vietnam, a beautiful place that at the moment in question for many was lethal. The U.S. Marine Corps maintained an airstrip there that served as a staging point and northernmost helicopter base for operations in the Demilitarized Zone or the Laotian border, both of which were major infiltration routes for communist troops from North Vietnam.

I arrived there in May with the Marine helicopter squadron I had joined nearly two years earlier in Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. Since then, the tide had definitely been turned against the communists after the so-called “strong points” defenses envisioned by the former Secretary of Defense had been replaced by a highly mobile interdiction strategy, which required lots of helicopters flying thousands of missions.

But on Nov. 28, 1968, Thanksgiving Day, the action subsided as a mutually agreed upon, and mutually distrusted, ceasefire took place for 24 hours. I had been trained as a helicopter electronic/electrical technician, but also volunteered to fly as a door gunner. So each month I spent half of my time fixing helicopters and half flying in combat.

But on this day, our job was to simply deliver canisters of turkey, potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, gravy, desserts and beer to outposts and landing zones in our area. The aromas of those meals tantalized us all day as we visited landing zone after landing zone, giving the Marine infantry the first hot meal many had seen in weeks, if not months, making it the toughest duty I had seen in the more than 200 missions I had completed thus far.

By mid-afternoon we were done, and it was back to Quang Tri, where the Seabees had completed construction of a mess hall for us. We couldn’t wait to dive in to our own Thanksgiving dinners. After our post-flight duties, a group of us headed for the mess hall where, to our dismay, we found not a noisy jam-packed hall full of Marines scarfing down turkey dinners, but an empty building and, even more distressing, a barren chow line, devoid of anything but crumbs left from what obviously had been a sumptuous feast.

I think we went into a collective shock, which wasn’t helped when we approached the mess sergeant, a senior NCO, asking where the meals were for the flight crews. “Should have gotten here earlier,” was his caustic, wholly uninformed and certainly unsympathetic reply.

We drifted back to the squadron enlisted living area as dejected a group of Marines as could be imagined. It looked as though C-rations was going to be it for us — packaged meals that are unappetizing at best, even when heated, and not belonging in the same universe as a turkey dinner.

As I sat on my cot and pondered the ramifications of what we had just experienced, the door to my hooch burst open and in strode Billy Bazemore, another electrician and a relative newcomer to the squadron, who also had been flying that day and had just discovered that in his absence mail had been delivered, including packages from home. Billy, who had an incredibly ebullient personality, especially considering our current situation, triumphantly reached under his cot, pulling out package after package.

He displayed a large, precooked, canned turkey and more containers with potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce — yes it was the canned variety, but really, where were we going to cook up fresh cranberries in that environment? — and more.

At his invitation a half-dozen of us gathered around Billy’s cot, bringing our own contributions from hoarded C-rations — pound cake, peaches, fruit cocktail, even turkey loaf — and adding them to the growing feast. Then the hooch door opened again and in came another electrician, Tommy Lenz, carrying an armful of Lone Star beer in 12-ounce cans that had been arriving from his mother in small batches to escape detection. He had been secretly saving them for such an occasion. Where Billy was outgoing, Tommy was taciturn, tall and lean — a Texan. But he had a huge smile on his face that day!

And just when we thought we had it all, I discovered that I too had received a package. Upon opening it I found to our great joy a Sara Lee chocolate cake that, thanks to modern chemical preservatives, not only survived the 12,000-mile voyage from upstate New York intact, but arrived reasonably fresh!

Most of us didn’t know the benefactors, who realized that Thanksgiving in a war zone might be difficult and did something about it. But they rescued the day for us and I have never forgotten our appreciation for them.

I wish I could say that this story has a happy ending, but five months later, on April 22, 1969, Tommy and Billy were flying as gunners together near the DMZ when their helicopter was hit by a command-detonated mine as it settled into a landing zone. They both died.

A month later, with more than 300 missions under my belt, I left Vietnam, physically unscathed. But more than five decades later, I still remember that Thanksgiving with far more detail than any other holiday meal during my time in the service.

I have lived a good life, far away from the war, in both time and distance, but I haven’t forgotten the people who created a memorable day for a bunch of Marines they never knew. And every Thanksgiving I stop for a moment, by myself, with no fanfare, and quietly raise a glass to them, and to Billy Bazemore and Tommy Lenz, to say, “Thank you. Semper Fi!” OH

Ronald Winter is an author, www.RonaldWinterbooks.com. He is a decorated Marine Corps Vietnam veteran who spent nearly 20 years as a print journalist, earning numerous awards and a Pulitzer Prize nomination. He is a public speaker, competitive powerlifter and media relations specialist, living in Eden, N.C.

2024 Department Pleasures of Life Dept.

The Pleasures of Life Dept.

The Eras Experience

(Cassie’s Version)

By Cassie Bustamante

I pause on the pedestrian bridge to Nashville’s Nissan stadium, taking a moment to soak it all in. Together, we are a shimmering rainbow of colors and costumes, arching toward a privileged pot-of-gold: The Taylor Swift Eras Tour. Everywhere I turn, glitter make-up, sequined garments, T-shirts emblazoned with “Not a Lot Going on at the Moment.” I spy two floral-sheeted “ghosts” sporting hats and sunglasses. Even my daughter, Emmy, who lives in leggings and hoodies, is wearing a dress — the first in years. The outfits are almost as over-the-top as Comicon and I’m feeling a little underdressed in my long aqua dress.

What is it that draws a record-breaking crowd of over 210,000 people to one stadium for a weekend of concerts? While I can’t speak for the rest of ’em, this 45-year-old has been a card-carrying Swiftie since the 2008 release of her second album, Fearless. The track that caught my ear? “You Belong with Me,” which speaks to anyone who’s ever been an awkward teen — my hand is up! — sidelined in the friendzone: “She’s cheer captain and I’m on the bleachers/dreaming about the day when you wake up and find/that what you’re looking for has been here the whole time.” Dressed in marching band attire, Swift played that as the opening song on the Fearless Tour. I know because I was there.

For those of you who are Swift-deprived, Taylor is somehow able to turn her joy and anguish into a mix of catchy tunes that are totally relatable, everything from her mother’s battle with cancer to being taken advantage of by an older man. (I’m looking at you, John Mayer.) She’s not afraid to admit to a carnal desire for revenge that most of us pretend doesn’t exist. After listening to an entire album, we’re left feeling like she’s one of us. And that someone out there understands our pain and knows how to celebrate life’s joy with us.

Emmy’s entire childhood has been set to a soundtrack of Taylor Swift, and, as she’s grown into a teen, the songs have become more than just snappy singalongs. During the great stay-at-home of 2020, while my two teens were hiding from their parents and toddler brother behind closed doors, Swift was busy writing two albums worth of songs. Every day felt like the same challenge on repeat, but the releases of Folklore and Evermore drew Emmy out of her room and gave us something to share. Our kitchen Alexa was mighty tired of Taylor that year.

In fact, Emmy’s love for Swift has — dare I say? — outgrown my own, her bedroom a twinkling shrine. So, when a 2023 tour is announced, my husband, Chris, and I decide that an Eras experience will be Emmy’s Christmas and birthday gift. After chatting with friends — Chandra, Erienne, Jessika and her daughter, Vivienne — we all set our sights on Nashville for Swift’s first tour since 2018.

Almost six months later, after lucking out during Ticketmaster’s Swiftgate, the moment is finally near. We enter the stadium and add our LED concert wristband to our arms, already stacked with friendship bracelets we’d made that morning. (Most Eras concertgoers — inspired by the lyrics, “So make the friendship bracelets, take this moment and taste it” — craft beaded bracelets to exchange.)

Everywhere we turn, we see strangers exchanging smiles and bracelets. I take note of boyfriends wearing “Karma” shirts (“Karma is my boyfriend”), fathers sporting pink button-downs that match their daughters’ dresses and friends in matching sequined ensembles. On this night, one thing is clear: We are all unified, in this together. And that’s no easy feat after a few tumultuous years in America. I look at my own little crew, each of us representing different eras, and tears spring to my eyes. I choke them back before Emmy — who rarely cries and teases me for my constant waterworks — notices.

We continue our search for our second tier seats. After struggling to figure out how to reach our level, we decide to ask a stadium attendant for help, a fortuitous encounter that changes everything.

Erienne approaches a young, Black attendant with warm brown eyes. The attendant, let’s just call her Janie, notices the friendship bracelets piled on Erienne’s arm. She smiles shyly and says, “Those are some nice bracelets you have.”

Erienne kindly removes a green beaded strand that reads “Ivy” and hands it to Janie, asking if she’s a fan.

Janie lights up at the gesture. “Well, I wasn’t before last night [the first of the Nashville shows]. But now, I think I am becoming a Swiftie — that’s what it’s called, right?” she asks. “I listened to her music for two hours last night on my way home and, man, she’s talented.”

After a few minutes of us filling Janie in on all the must-know Swiftie info, she directs us to the escalator that will take us to the second level. But then she glances at us sheepishly, walks a few steps down the hall, away from her coworker, nodding for us to follow. “You know, the front few rows of this section are usually empty,” she says. “If y’all come back here around the time the show starts, I can probably get you into those seats.” (We can only assume they’re typically reserved for potential celebrities or special guests.)

Our mouths drop. Front row stadium seats? As in, just behind the floor seats? Quick-thinking Chandra pulls out her phone and exchanges numbers with Janie. We thank her and I give her one more bracelet: a sunny yellow beaded loop with “Happiness” spelled out.

We make our way to our ticketed seats to catch the opening acts, Gayle and Phoebe Bridgers. Just after their sets conclude, Chandra texts Janie, who gives us the thumbs up emoji, signaling that we are good to go. Back in Janie’s section, she breaks our crew of six into two, placing half of us in row A, the other half in row B.

I sit in the front row, Emmy between me and Chandra. Erienne, Jessika and Vivienne pile in just behind us. We all exchange glances of disbelief. Emmy’s face is happier than I’ve ever seen, her blue eyes, one of which is outlined in a pink glitter Lover heart, wide with excitement. Already sweating from the sunshine and body heat of thousands of fans, my palms begin to perspire. I wonder if I am the only one fearing a tap-tap-tap on the shoulder followed by “This isn’t your seat!”

But then a montage of melodies from each era, intermingled with “It’s been a long time coming,” envelopes us. Showtime! Seven background dancers, each trailing a lavender-and-pink parachute, slowly saunter down the length of the catwalk. They come together, parachutes collapsing on top of one another. And when the chutes open back up, there she stands in a gold-and-silver sparkling bodysuit, the first chords of “Miss Americana” barely audible as 70,000 Swifties rejoice.

Once again, I look to my right at Emmy, wanting to capture this moment of her pure joy in my mind, and I am shocked by what I see. Tears — real tears — stream down her cheeks. At that, my own eyes water once again.

The next three-and-a-half hours rush by, all five senses swimming in an experiential tide. Around the stadium, as Swift performs a total of 44 songs — a number that’s almost unheard of in a single-artist concert — our LED bracelets light up in sync, flashing blue, pink, red, purple, yellow or green, depending on the song playing. It’s like a stadium wave as colors seem to magically flow from one section to another in the dark. At one point, during “Bad Blood,” blazing streams of fire shoot forth to the beat around the stage floor, the faces of Swifties around me glowing reddish-orange. Tissue-paper pieces of confetti fall not once, but twice, a kaleidoscope of color swirling in the air as Emmy reaches her hand out, collecting bits to take home as souvenirs. Of course, Swift also pares it down for her mellow Folklore and Evermore eras, a moss-covered piano and raw wood cabin lending a woodsy and mystical vibe.

Just before her surprise songs — she plays two, never repeated, at each concert — Swift emerges in a long, ruffled, emerald-green gown. As she speaks, she notices that her dress sleeve is not on properly, a green ruffle dangling under her armpit rather than gracing her shoulder. She awkwardly maneuvers, trying to get her arm into the hole, but gives up. Shrugging, she laughs it off, saying, “Just pretend you didn’t see that. It’s fine.” And just a few moments later, when she messes up the lyrics on surprise song No. 2, “Out of the Woods,” she giggles and asks the audience to join her in a repeat of the bridge. On stage, in front of all those fans, she’s still that awkward teen she once was and we all fall in love with her a little bit more.

After the show, we make a very slow trek back over the footbridge into downtown Nashville. As tired as everyone is, someone in front of us starts singing “Love Story” and soon the tune travels through the chorus of strangers — strangers who came together for one night, swapping bracelets, stories and costume compliments.

The contagious joy of the concert crowd lingers in my mind as Emmy and I drive home from the Raleigh-Durham Airport. “You know, Emmy, every single person I talked to in that stadium was kind,” I say, my tired eyes focused on the highway in front of me. “That really says a lot about the person Taylor Swift is to have cultivated such a friendly, caring community.”

Emmy nods in agreement. I may have — OK, I have had — many failures as a mother, but I did something right in introducing her to Taylor Swift’s music all those years ago. Not only has it brought the two of us together during some of the hardest times, but it’s helped us find common ground with friends and virtual strangers alike. We continue along, headlights shining in the dark, as I hear Swift’s voice in the back of my mind: Long live all the magic we made. OH

2023 Department Pleasures of Life Dept.

The Pleasures of Life Dept.

Do it Anyway

A lesson from the wildest walk of my life

By Sarah Ross Thompson

Last fall, I embarked on a trip to the Galician region of northwestern Spain to hike part of the Camino de Santiago, a route that pilgrims have taken since medieval times as a spiritual trial. Some people say that the trail begins at your own front door — and ends, if you’re lucky, at the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela. It was quite intimidating to set out on my own, but after the pandemic, I was determined to do something that was just for me.

After the pandemic, I, like so many people, find myself changed in ways that I struggle to articulate. I love my home, my husband and my two young children, Owen and Ellie, but the monotony and isolation of those years had taken a toll. As the world began moving forward again, I felt lost and incomplete.

I needed to do something to shake off the malaise, empty my pockets of the loss and frustration that I had been carrying around like pandemic souvenirs. I missed who I used to be and craved feeling excited, inspired and energized. So, I hurled myself into an experience that I realized would be exhausting, uncomfortable, a little chaotic and definitely risky, but I hoped, in the end, I would find my way to myself (whoever she was now).

Generously and incredibly, my husband, John, and extended family worked out the logistics of caring for the kids. I booked my flight with airline miles that had been collecting dust for years, packed my backpack and a pair of trail sneakers, and flew across the ocean. And then, I took that first step. And hundreds of thousands more to discover a truth that has since been whispering in my ear and guiding me as I move into the next chapter of my life: Fear can be your friend.

Before I even set foot on a plane bound for Spain, there were countless times that I seriously considered cancelling. Traveling alone to Europe (where I had never been) to spend a week walking through rural countryside was so vastly different from how I had spent the previous two years — at home with only my family of four — that I almost wrote it off as too out of reach or too challenging. And I worried about how my family would deal with their daily routine during my absence. Would my 1-year-old daughter forget me, I irrationally wondered. My biggest hesitation, though, was the nagging thought that I was being selfish in choosing to do something just for myself. As mothers, we often deny for ourselves what we encourage in others.

Close friends gifted me a journal with an inscription that read, “You are setting an example for Owen, but especially for Ellie.” That’s when I knew I had to go. I wanted to show my daughter — and, I suppose, myself — that a woman’s wants and needs are valid, no matter what phase of life she finds herself in or what roles she holds. So off I went.

After several flights and a bus ride, I am dropped off in the city center of Sarria, about 70 long miles away from Santiago de Compostela. Armed with nothing but a backpack and guidebook, the plan is to walk that distance over five days through a region of Spain where most people did not speak English. Did I mention the only Spanish I know is from a couple of college courses close to 20 years ago? As I exit the bus and find myself alone, that nagging feeling that I can’t do it begins following me like my shadow. What had I been thinking?

Shifting into survival mode, my first step is to find my way to my lodging using a printed map, not the GPS technology that I used in the states even on the most routine and constantly traveled routes. And yet, taking longer than I thought it would and climbing several unanticipated hills, I arrive sweaty and thirsty at the door of the inn — in a state of absolute exhilaration.

Here I am, in Spain on an absolutely gorgeous, sunny day, having completed the first, albeit small, leg of my journey.

Next challenge: attempting to converse with my very gracious and understanding host, Monica, completely in Spanish. Do I follow even half of what she says? Not even close. But the interaction ends with a key in my hand.

The next morning at breakfast, I walk right into the first fully immersive foreign language experience of my life. Laughter fills the room, plates and silverware clang together, coffee has been brewed. In between bites of fresh tomato slathered across crusty bread, fellow pilgrims chatter away — in Spanish, of course. I can’t understand a word. That shadow is back but before I get a chance to sneak away and discretely hide in my room, Monica catches my eye. “Come, come,” she says, while pointing to an empty seat. I smile at the group and give what I can only imagine is the most American “hola” ever spoken. Much to my relief, everyone smiles and replies “Buenos dias.” That, I can understand. This is the first of many kindnesses on the part of strangers I encounter on the trip.

Full of warm bread, coffee and gratitude, I load up my pack, find the trailhead and as the miles mount up, my trepidation and fear melt away and the joy of accomplishment and its sister, self confidence, come to the fore. One step at a time over the course of five beautiful, exhausting days, I trekked 70 miles, surprising myself by weeping as I reach the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, where I spend time in quiet contemplation before celebrating with a shower and wine.

“Feel the fear,” is the advice of psychologist Susan Jeffers, “and do it anyway.”

I did. And I see you. I am you. Take the trip, write the essay, have the conversation. Your soul will thank you. OH

Sarah Ross Thompson lives in Greensboro with her husband, John, and her children, Owen and Ellie. A psychologist by training, she finds getting lost in the woods and writing little stories to be two of the greatest therapies.

2023 Department Pleasures of Life Dept.

The Pleasures of Life Dept.

What Me, an Air Marshal?

Or am I over-qualified?

By Cynthia Adams

It happens that the United States government needs writers monitoring America’s airway. We are uniquely qualified.

How do I know this?

Because no less than Corey Rzucidlo of the Federal Air Marshal Service messaged me. Via LinkedIn.

“Your background is impressive,” he writes, “and I encourage you to learn more about the Federal Air Marshal (FAM) role. No law enforcement experience is required. We provide excellent federal benefits, extensive training and extraordinary opportunities for growth.”

Corey’s message was welcome news, the Balm of Gilead, at a time of professional insecurities.

The fact that the Feds want to enlist me follows on the heels of a bank meeting where my advisor, John, reviewed IRAs, SEPs and other “instruments” I’ve, um, underfunded. The graph of my investments plunged lower than a Kardashian’s neckline.

“You mean, you write as a full-time job?” John asked pointedly.

I practiced effective silence.

John recalibrated. “I mean, how cool is that?”

He probably didn’t mean cool.

But back to the new U.S. Marshal opportunity.

Finally, someone noticed the toolkit we writers uniquely possess. Wondering which quality tipped the scales, I conducted a thorough self-analysis. “Self,” I asked, “what did a Federal Air Marshal recruiter see in you that compelled him to reach out?”

Was it punning? Or cunning?

Had he read my take-off on Grace and Frankie? Or did Mama Buys a Horse get flagged during transportation searches?

Whatever had attracted it, there was Corey’s unmistakable interest. Other qualifications were self-evident:

True, I’ve flown on airplanes. Hither and yon. Excepting the Poles, South America, the Middle East, Asia and Russia.

True, I make scrupulous note of fellow passengers and assess each as they board, with special focus upon footwear and accessories.

It is also true: A writer’s imagination could help anticipate thorny in-flight situations. Plus, having heard confidences during countless interviews, discretion is my middle name.

While Air Marshals might possibly be given pause by a recruit of my physical size — rather petite — and demographic, think of the cover it affords!

Why, middle-aged women are practically invisible! Agents of chaos and such would never be suspicious of me.

Should push come to shove, I could probably be tucked into an overhead bin.

But I also know when to shut down nonsense. As for recent incidents when passengers punched flight attendants? Not on my watch, I assure you! Or, say, a passenger attempts to wrench open the emergency door? No way, Jose!

Another strength: admission of failures.

On 9/10/2001, I absentmindedly packed a vintage cake knife into my carryon — en route to a South African wedding.

It is also true that I accidentally returned from London with a forgotten apple in my pocket. The darling beagle tracking me upon my stateside arrival was not friendly simply because he recognized a dog lover when he saw one. Nope, he simply smelled a smuggler with furtive fruit.

Surely, such oversights shouldn’t be dealbreakers.

Applicants to the Federal Air Marshal Service must be a U.S. citizen or nationalized. Check. You must have a favorable background investigation. Check. A polygraph exam must be completed in Washington, D.C., or Atlantic City in New Jersey, of all places.

Wait. Are polygraph experts in Washington and Atlantic City uniquely qualified to detect liars and cheaters?

Also, Federal Air Marshals must demonstrate “defensive tactics and physical control techniques.”

My husband is happy to be a reference.

Selective Service registration is required. Whaaa? Seems the age minimum is 21 and maximum 40.

But there are exceptions! Current or prior service in law enforcement is one.

Surely, my dedicated Community Watch service counts for something?

Meanwhile, I’m reading up on the art of concealment — who cares if it was about undereye darkness? — and cannot wait until John gets a load of my new opportunity.

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

2023 Department Pleasures of Life Dept.

Pleasures of Life

Hats Off to Hats

With a little help from the royal family

By Ruth Moose

I miss wearing, seeing, buying hats. Queen Elizabeth always wore the most elegant, most becoming, absolutely stunning hats. Hats that matched her outfits. Perfect hats. Of course, she did have at her command and fingertips the finest millinery in the land. And she did them proud. What are the chances a newly crowned King Charles III can do half as much for the humble hat?

My grandmother, a country preacher’s wife, owned two hats — one for summer, one for winter. Summer’s hat was a flat pancake of black straw with silk daisies. Winter’s hat was a black felt cloche with a feather or two. She would never have gone to church bareheaded.

Nor without her gloves.

The last time I wore a hat was to a funeral. I had, on a crazy whim, gotten some fairy hair for fun. It was a sort of passing fancy, and the funeral for my sister-in-law was totally unexpected. I could not go to a funeral sporting red and blue and green fairy hair. Since it was January, I dug my black felt cloche from the top closet shelf and very respectfully went to the funeral. I was the only one there wearing a hat.

My mother was not a hat person, so I must have gotten my “hats” gene from my grandmother.

My Great Aunt Denise sold hats in the Peebles department store in Norwood, North Carolina, the town where she lived. It must have been the smallest store in the Peebles chain, yet she sold the most hats.

Every December Peebles paid for Aunt Denise to take the train from Hamlet, North Carolina, to New York to buy for the store. They knew every woman in town depended on her to “know” the market.

When the women of Norwood came into Aunt Denise’s Peebles, they went directly upstairs to the mezzanine, where Ladies’ Ready to Wear had mannequins with no arms, nor legs, that sat on tables wearing hats in every color, shape and fabric. Wide hats, tall hats, hats with flowers and feathers. Spring hats were pink and yellow, fluffy as frosted cakes. Some had veils or netting. All had ribbons. Fall and winter hats were serious in grays, blacks and browns. Gray hats hugged the mannequins close. They were the colors of rain and fog. Black hats were dark as night, and the women in Norwood knew they had to have at least one for funerals. It might have a feather or a veil, but it had to be a solemn piece.

No salesperson, male or female, ever knew their Ready to Wear clientele better than Aunt Denise knew hers. “Mrs. Cohen, when I was in New York last week and saw this hat, I knew it was just for you. I said to the designer, ‘I know just the lady for that hat.’” And then she’d add, in a whisper, “I only bought one. You won’t see yourself coming and going in this town. No ma’am.” Then she’d hold that hat up like a prize trophy, and Mrs. Cohen would start to reach for it, but Aunt Denise would step back, still holding the hat aloft. “Here,” she’d say, “let me put it on for you.” Then she’d lift it lightly, lay it on like a crown. “There,” she’d say, “don’t you feel like a queen now!”

Do you suppose Charles will feel so good? OH

Ruth Moose taught creative writing at the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill for 15 years and tacked on 10 more at Central Carolina Community College.

2023 Department Pleasures of Life Dept.

The Pleasures of Life

Ode to a Daffodil

Acres of yellow blooms beckon the splendor of spring

By Lindsay Morris

In the evening Alice sat on her grandfather’s knee and listened to his stories of faraway places. When he had finished, Alice would say, “When I grow up, I, too, will go to faraway places, and when I grow old, I, too, will live beside the sea.”

That is all very well, little Alice,” said her grandfather, “but there is a third thing you must do.”

“What is that?” asked Alice.

“You must do something to make the world more beautiful,” said her grandfather.

“All right,” said Alice. But she did not know what that could be.

— Miss Rumphius by Barbara Cooney

I remember the morning as if it were yesterday. It was early, oh so very early. Much too early for my 8-year-old, growing body. With every ounce of my being, I silently commanded my spirit to ignore the telltale signs of the low beams of light seeping through my blinds. I ordered the gentle tugging on my shoulder to relegate its dictates to the deep recesses of my dreams. Within moments, the strong hands that tugged also separated me from the comfy sanctuary of flannel sheets that enveloped me and jarringly forced me to welcome the earliest moments of dawn.

And then the magic words were spoken: “It’s time.” Just as a hypnotist awakens his client from the edge of consciousness, I was completely awake and reminded of our task at hand. In a trance, I methodically enumerated my to-do list, putting on work boots, donning gardening gloves and grabbing whatever was accessible on the kitchen counter to fuel what I knew would be a long day ahead.

Opening the back door of my childhood home has always brought about visions of Wonderland or Terabithia, and that morning was no different, other than the sun shining much lower and more intensely through the dense trees that hedged our little world of Avalon Loop. You see, Avalon was a world my sisters and I firmly believed God created for our imaginations. The animals of the realm, while not visible, could certainly be heard talking among one another. From the swans’ snorts and the ducks’ cackles on the pond to the neighing of our horse, Ike, son of Tina, and the low whimpers and barks of our dogs, all were offering their morning greetings. But time with furry and feather friends would have to wait. It was as if they, too, had heard the summons, “It’s time,” as my father walked by with tools and bags in hand.

I followed his lead with confidence, knowing that he always had a plan prepared with precision and efficiency. I also knew there would be rules that I must follow, but that is how order thrives in the kingdom of Avalon. My father was a Renaissance Man, one who could dream, create and implement with scientific acumen — a rare man of beauty and science. As much as my young mind could conceive, I knew his goal was never to disrupt nature, but instead to curate it and if possible, unveil and highlight its beauty.

But that warm October morning, I feared our task that day may not reach completion as I observed the mound of bulbs at our feet. My father, a patient and determined man, seemed nonplussed and content to get started. According to my father, we had around one thousand bulbs to plant alongside the driveway and the north end of the pond. Listening closely, I absorbed with great care his meticulous instructions. He demonstrated how to push the spade into the soil just enough so that the bulb was covered but would still have room to adequately grow and absorb the earth’s nutrients. I worked alongside him, mirroring as closely as possible how he broke the earth. With his small spade, he calculated the distance, spaced and designated a home for each bulb. His plan was masterful, and it played out like a lyrical dance as we glided down the hillside.

The minutes quickly turned into hours. Only when the sun began to dim over the pond did it call out to the swans, ducks and geese, who echoed in unison to the fading sunlight. As I surveyed our work, a sense of pride filled my entire being. With a reassuring smile, my father glanced over at me, tired, but expectant. While my arms and limbs were heavy with fatigue, it could not rival the growing anticipation of what I knew the spring would reveal.

And spring could not come soon enough for my impatient spirit. I remember assessing the soil on a daily basis, practically pleading with it to offer any sign of life.

The winter of 1990 was a particularly cold one, and those first shoots of bright spring green seemed as though they would never appear. I imagined myself to be an evangelist, praying and wooing those tiny bulbs that we had so carefully sown to rise from the earth. I wasn’t even particularly sure what variety of flower they were because I had never asked my father. Instead, I hoped to be surprised by what would spring forth from the work of our hands. I wanted their beauty to be unveiled in their own timing. And it wasn’t long after their green shoots greeted the sun that I noticed a yellow tint to a few of them. However, as quickly as my synapses fired this message to my brain, my heart sank with great dismay.

Yellow: The color of sickness, the color of school buses and pencils. For me, it was more than just a color that clashed with my golden blond hair, impeding me from wearing anything in its hue, but it also made me anxious and uneasy about everything when it surrounded me. For some reason, yellow fully dilated my senses. You see, colors have always had a way with me. I have synesthesia, in which colors dictate my mood, my taste and my sense of well-being about the world. After all these months of anticipatory excitement, I was now utterly uncertain what this initial indication of yellow would reveal. However, just a few mornings later in February, I was awakened to an unseasonably warm and sunny day. Rushing outside, I expected to be greeted with sickness at the sight of so much yellow.

However, nothing could have prepared me for what my eyes encountered and the response that followed. If heaven could be so adorned with rays of golden and lemony yellows, and even yellows marked with golden orange halos, I would have thought that I was in the realms of glory. I willingly abdicated my senses and gazed upward to the sun and offered it gratitude for the beauty that it had nurtured and now reflected. Yellow no longer triggered painful anxieties to rush through my veins, but instead lovingly beckoned me to sit among it to just soak in its splendor.

And the splendor of our daffodils has grown exponentially over the years. More than 30 years later, their yellow blooms have become an intrinsic part of our family’s life, just as they have become the centerpiece around many occasions with family and friends. Not only are they the foremost indicator of spring’s arrival, but each year, without fail, they celebrate my March 1st birthday with grandeur. They have marked with great intentionality baptisms and homecomings.

Now, more than three decades later, not only has my memory of that day remained vividly intact, but with each passing year numerous events and moments with the daffodils have been added to the storehouse of my memories. You see, over the course of three decades, the daffodils have been divided and spread over and under and around our property. Easily covering five or more acres, adorning both entrances and even abounding in great numbers around the loop road surrounding our pond, their numbers now add up to more than 25,000 flowering blooms. The magic of that day has turned into a proliferation of beauty that not only welcomes but befriends all who enter the realm of Avalon each spring. Their beauty, and the work of our hands, has been a reminder of what planting and nurturing can create.

This is how Miss Alice Rumphius from Barbara Cooney’s beloved children’s book learned to make the world more beautiful by spreading her lupine seeds across her home and down by the sea. Similarly, my father, on that unseasonably warm October day, showed me with love and patience how beauty can be elicited and magnified in unexpected ways through the vision of a daffodil bloom. OH

Though living alongside the Mayo River in Rockingham County, Lindsay Morris is connected to Greensboro through the spirit of Howard Coble and her love of the local arts scene.

Department Pleasures of Life Dept.