Tag: Sazerac

Sazerac April

Sazerac April 2023

Sage Gardener

We were, in fact, eating some freshly-picked, beautiful, blue-green Lacinato kale, aka dinosaur kale. My dining partners were impressed, but what they didn’t know, and soon learned, was how runty our plants were. “You should have ordered the Walking Stick kale,” says my wife, Anne, grabbing our dog-eared copy of the Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds catalogue. There, pictured in the kale section, was a gray-whiskered gardener atop a teetering ladder, plucking kale from a 20-foot-high stalk.

It’s that time of year when brown grass gets browner every day while multicolor splashes of brilliant Pippin’s Golden Honey peppers, Kyoto Red carrots and kaleidoscopic Glass Gem popping corn jump right off the catalogue pages into our imagination. “I planted Glass Gem popcorn and the ears were the size of your thumb,” one dinner guest says. And we’re off, all of us digging up dirt on seeds that have let us down by only sprouting disappointment: the oh-so-challenging ramp and garlic seeds; the Dutchman’s pipe seeds, terribly expensive and requiring three months of refrigeration and six months’ germination — before dying; the Amazing Grey Poppies that did anything but amaze; caper seeds; miner’s lettuce and even pine nut seeds. “How much of it is our trying to grow something that’s never meant to thrive in our soil and climate?” another dinner guest wonders. “Probably, but I feel so betrayed when I compare my plants to the ones in the catalogue. Worse yet, I feel like such a bad gardener,” Anne admits. “Does that mean you decided not to buy the package of 1,500-Year-Old Cave Beans?” I wonder. “They’re already in the mail,” Anne says.

— David Claude Bailey

Window to the Past

Photograph © Carol W. Martin/Greensboro History Museum Collection

“Gimme all your eggs and nobody gets hurt.”

How I Saved Jesus

There are countless stories of wayward souls saved by Jesus Christ. But did I ever tell you the story of how this irredeemable sinner rescued Jesus?

Cinematographer Philip Dann retrieved this magnificent depiction of one of the stations of the cross from a construction dumpster. There were originally 14 of these detailed monuments — this one being the ninth station, divinely depicting Christ’s suffering at the hands of Roman soldiers.

Dating back to the 1930s, it weighed about 60 pounds and was sculpted in painted plaster mounted on a solid wood backing. Sadly, only three of the stations survived. It seems an old church along the Carolina coast that was modernizing and renovating felt these magnificent dioramas were too old fashioned — so they just chucked them, most reduced to rubble. Can you imagine?!?

Philip pulled the three less severely damaged sculptures out of their ignominious resting place and gave them a brief cameo in a 2012 motion picture I performed in, Lake of Fire.

On the last day of filming I was asked to take those three sculptures home since they had no place to reside. Of course, I said no. I mean, these things were huge and would dominate any space, plunging a room’s Feng Shui into total turmoil!

After a moment of reflection I realized I couldn’t let something so unique and symbolic end up on Storage Wars. Or worse in some frat house, converted into a beer bong. So I rescued the most dramatic depiction, which now sits in my Time Tunnel-esque hallway, serving as a nifty conversation starter.

— Billy “Mr. Sanctimonious” Ingram

Just One Thing

Steisha Pintado, The Fruit of Goodness, 2019. Acrylic and fabric on paper, 32”x32”. Courtesy of the artist. © Steisha Pintado, 2019.

Artist Steisha Pintado, whose work can be seen as part of the Weatherspoon Art Museum’s 2023 UNCG MFA Thesis Exhibition, recalls her childhood as one of “isolation, guilt and fear.” After years of feeling as if her life was “predetermined and designed around being a Jehovah’s Witness,” Pintando left the church and now explores her narrative through her interdisciplinary work, including drawing, painting, puppetry and animation. The Fruit of Goodness, a multimedia acrylic-and-fabric on paper, is about Pintado’s coming to terms with realizing that the paradise that was promised to her as a child is fictional. The colors in this particular piece were informed by childhood nostalgia and amplified by films such as Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and The Wizard of Oz in which the palettes are “sickeningly sweet” while sinister forces lurk underneath. Now using her voice and art as expression, Pintado says, “I make this work for myself, for others who have also had these experiences and to create a public awareness around these issues.” The MFA exhibit opens April 22. Info: weatherspoonart.org/exhibition-2023-mfa.

Unsolicited Advice

Unless your bunny is highfalutin, it’s likely that your yard will be filled with nothing but rabbit, um, pellets on Easter morning. We came up with some alternative solutions that the E.B. can stash in your gardens.

Painted rocks. Who doesn’t love a colorful stone, especially with a motivational “You rock” message? And Easter Rocks-travaganza has a nice little ring to it. Better yet, don’t paint them. Don’t even hide them. Tell the kids the bunny hid rocks and watch them go to town with nature’s bounty.

Socks. So that’s where all the missing socks are. You can even use that hopeful easter egg dyeing kit you bought in January to color them in spring pastels. They pair perfectly with Crocs.

Peeps. Trust us. No one wants those sugar-coated marshmallow fluffsters in their baskets. Don’t worry — none of God’s creatures are interested in munching on them either, so they’ll be safe. And you can likely find them for free. In your pantry, untouched from last year.

Sazerac March 2023

Sage Gardener

Lettuce pray — and praise — my favorite garden vegetable, Lactuca sativa (which Wiki says is a member of the aster family? Whatever). The “Latuca” part comes from “lactis,” the Latin word for milk, so-named because of the milky juice that gets all over you when you cut it. (“Sativa” means cultivated.) Lettuce juice, by the way, contains a trace amount of an alkaloid similar to that found in the opium poppy! Just imagine, Dorothy and her squad could have fallen asleep in a lettuce field. First cultivated for its medicinal properties, lettuce is depicted on Egyptian tombs; was propagated by the Greeks; and popularized in Rome by the Emperor Augustus’ physician. New Delhi TV’s news site insists that lettuce (along with other leafy greens) has belly-fat burning capabilities. What’s not to like about a vegetable anyone can grow, even on your patio? N.C. State says seeds can be planted from February through April, and that lettuce thrives at temps between 60 and 65 degrees. (It can germinate at 35.) The average high in Greensboro in March is 61, 70 in April. So what are you waiting for, especially with seedlings crowding every home-improvement store? Being Scots-Irish, I try to grow what’s expensive in the grocery stores. Checked the price of lettuce lately? Tired of salads? Check out Larousse Gastronomique, where you’ll find braised lettuce, chiffonade of lettuce, marinated, deep-fried lettuce and — wait for it — candied lettuce. And now, lettuce eat! — David Claude Bailey

Unsolicited Advice

March is the Goldilocks of months, not too hot and not too cold. We’ve put together a little easy-peasy to-do list for you so you can soak in the glorious weather without getting soaked in perspiration.

⃣ Plan an outdoor project. Now’s a great time to build that chicken coop you’ve been dreaming up. With the current price of eggs, that hen house will pay for itself in about three weeks.

⃣ Order mulch. Spend a morning shoveling, hauling and spreading only to see that the pile doesn’t seem to be shrinking — at all. Call the neighbor’s teenager to finish the job while you sip an afternoon cocktail.

⃣ Schedule a pedicure. We know what our feet look like after a long winter and it’s not pretty. While you’re at it, shave that big toe. C’mon, you know you do it.

⃣ Spring clean. Wipe down your baseboards,upper cabinets and ceiling fans. Move furniture and discover dust bunnies big enough to keep as pets. Heck, they don’t need to be fed or walked. Better than a Furby, if you ask us.

⃣ Take your workout outside. When was the last time you Prancercised?

⃣ March to your own beat. Do whatever it is that makes you bloom this month.

Star Gazing

Long before Hulu’s witty Only Murders in the Building comedic series starring Steve Martin hooked me, I had already scoped out his house in Beverly Hills. (For the record, it’s on Calle Juela Drive.)

Dammit. I cannot be his neighbor because he sold the house next door, one he also owned, in 2019.

Allow me a lottery fantasy: If I won, I might try to tempt the new owner to move and sell me a little chunk of 90210.

Or maybe not.

Because Mr. Martin already knows I’m starstruck.

Some years ago, I was in Manhattan meeting an architect friend, Katie, for a bite at a local deli.

After lunch, we stood outside remarking to one another about the astonishing, clear light. Bending over, I pointed out the sharp shadows on the sidewalk to Katie.

“Have you ever seen such?” I asked Katie, sensing something unusual.

Katie, too, was open-mouthed.

Suddenly, I was aware of a casually dressed man in a baseball cap who stopped to look at the sidewalk, joining our little huddle.

“You know there’s an eclipse today, right?” the stranger said in the unmistakable voice of one famously wild and crazy guy. My head snapped up. STEVE MARTIN!

We all fell silent.

My heart thrummed. He hurried away. I looked at Katie, and inexplicably said of the funny man in swift retreat, “Let’s follow him!”

We gave chase, like celebrity-crazed fools. When Martin picked up his pace, we did too. In fact, we were all soon practically running, weaving through throngs of people at lunch hour.

He escaped, walking up a few steps at a building, where he was rung inside.

It was an art gallery.

I was out of breath, telling Katie between gasps about his California home with few windows and strategically placed skylights, ensuring his art collection was protected. His collection includes Cindy Sherman, Roy Lichtenstein, Edward Hopper and Willem de Kooning. Add to that list Lucian Freud, Picasso — well, you get the idea.

Martin has been performing in the Triad since 1975, and tells a story about running into Kreskin, a famous mentalist, in the lobby of a Winston-Salem hotel. “Steve! What are you doing here?” Kreskin asked. “How are you doing? Are you performing?”

Martin remained silent, just like he had with me and Katie.

All he could think, Martin says, was, shouldn’t a mind reader already know?

— Cynthia Adams

Just One Thing

“A horse is a horse, of course, unless . . .” it is muscled with machinery parts, wrenches, shovels, light fixtures and golf clubs. Harnessed seven years ago by Jose Rafael Rodriguez, this iron horse is stabled at Artmongerz Gallery, perhaps Greensboro’s most eclectic art venue. A co-op style gallery, Artmongerz has been a fixture on South Elm for two decades. Rodriguez says he took up welding at an industrial overhead garage company 42 years ago after he left his native Venezuela. Also a prodigious abstract painter who does kinetic yard sculptures, Rodriguez always meant to go to art school but never quite made it. The cat he coupled together from silverware couldn’t care less. And the horse doesn’t seem to be saddled with it either. Let’s just say the neighs have it. Info: artmongerz.com.

Scene & Heard

We all know it’s what’s on the inside that counts, but who doesn’t love a pretty face? For 96 years, the Carolina Theatre’s classic Greek Revival facade has welcomed patrons, who enjoyed live music, classic movies, stand-up comedians and all sorts of live entertainment in an over-the-top interior bursting with Italian-Renaissance flourishes. Good looks must matter: She’s survived downtown decline in the ’60s, was saved from demolition in the ’70s and barely made it out alive from a fire in the ’80s. She’s one tough customer, but still standing with open arms to invite all who support the arts inside.

In 2018, the theatre’s Setting the Stage campaign was launched, focusing on improving both artists’ and audiences’ experience inside the building. The improvements were so fabulous that now her facade needs to match her resplendent interior. In the words of Cher Horowitz, “Let’s do a makeover.” Of course, we’re not Clueless and this kind of undertaking is not possible without community support. The Carolina Theatre’s cosmetic surgery is going to cost her lovers $600,000.

She may not be young anymore, but she’s “hip, so beautiful and she’s gonna be a supermodel” once again as she approaches her centenary. For more information on how you can help Set the Stage, see carolinatheatre.com/setting-the-stage.

2023 Department Sazerac

Sazerac February 2023

Scene & Heard

Wednesday Night Blues Jam at Ritchy’s Uptown Restaurant and Bar is fast becoming the place to be. Hosted by Shiela Klinefelter, an accomplished bass player and vocalist with Shiela’s Traveling Circus, and Chuck Cotton, it’s a great night of raucous melodies sure to get your feet moving.

Shiela’s been heading up jams on Wednesday nights for over 30 years, beginning with her former band, The Ladies Auxiliary. “The one at Ritchy’s started in the winter of 2021, about a year-and-a-half ago,” she tells me.

The opportunity is open to any musician who wants to play the blues, whether professional or still learning. “We provide backline,” Shiela says. “So they just show up with a guitar or their drum sticks, sign up, and I’ll put them up in groups. Each group plays four songs so we get a lot of great music that way.” They are occasionally joined by Shiela’s husband, Robert Klinefelter, aka “Big Bump” of Big Bump and the Stun Gunz, one of the Triad’s longest-running boogie bands.

In the heart of Hamburger Square on the most happening corner downtown, Ritchy’s is located above Longshank’s, which is above Shortshank’s, around the block from Little Brother Brewing on McGee Street at South Elm. — Billy Ingram

Window to the Past

Photograph © Carol W. Martin/Greensboro History Museum Collection

Taking your honey on a diner or drive-in date has been a sweet idea for over 60 years. Thanks to the Greensboro History Museum for this snapshot of the past, taken at Honey’s in 1963.

Unsolicited Advice

Those of us who are proud members of the bleak midwinter — meaning February — birthday club believe our month gets a really bad rap. Yes, the geniuses at the National Weather Service say it’s typically the coldest and snowiest month. But it’s also the shortest of the year — and its days grow noticeably lighter.

Besides, for all you shivering ninnies who whine that Old Man Winter just won’t go away, there’s so much to take your mind off the weather. If history is your thing, February brings us Black History Month and Presidents Day, celebrating the birthdays of Honest Abe and Old George (assuming they are still in fashion), not to mention the Chinese New Year and the happiest day for florists and chocolate fanatics everywhere, St. Valentine’s Day.

If religion is your thing, February 2 is quite special both here and abroad. In addition to being your humble scribe’s birthday (Home Depot gift cards most welcome), many cultural historians believe Candlemas Day — celebrated across the U.K. and much of Europe to commemorate the day Jesus was presented to the Temple — is the inspiration for our own bizarre belief in the forecasting abilities of a sleepy rodent named Phil: If Candlemas be fair and bright / Winter will have another flight / But if it be dark with clouds and rain / Winter is gone, and will not come again.

Once upon a time, back in jolly old 713 BC, the Romans added January and February, a time previously known simply as “Winter,” to their calendar, designating February as the last month of the year. Three hundred years later, however, in order to give Christmas a proper home based on a celebration of their Sun God, Sol Invictus, Roman Christians invented December and rudely pushed January and February into the next year.

However this most misspelled month came into being, those of us who dearly love the bleak midwinter with its still and frosted mornings would like to advise you simpering winter haters to just relax and remember Mother Nature cherishes her rest just below the surface of the frozen garden.

If all else fails, take a nice warm bath with the last of the holiday wine and scented candles. The word February, after all, comes from the Latin word Februa — meaning to “cleanse.”

In the meantime, with a little luck this month, we’ll be out making angels in the snow. — Jim Dodson

Just One Thing

“Conversations with my mother, grandmother and aunts have always inspired me to base my artworks on Southern expressions and idioms,” says Beverly Y. Smith, whose quilt is featured in the Center for Visual Artists’ Woven into Our Fabrics exhibit. Smith says her work may be sparked by a childhood memory. Often, during its creation, she says, she sometimes encounters an unexpected epiphany. Mixing media such as machine-stitched fabric, embroidery, paint and transferred images, the epiphany portrayed in Plant a Seed strongly suggests a rich family tradition of books, both cherished and shared. “For this exhibition, we wanted to show the diversity and range of 10 North Carolina textile artists working in traditional and nontraditional ways,” says Devon Knight, the center’s art and community coordinator. “Textiles have a unique way of weaving themselves into the fiber of our being, while providing a thread between our past, present and future.” Info: mycvagreensboro.org.

Sage Gardener

Let others search for what may turn out to be America’s most unwelcome Valentine’s Day gifts (according to one survey) — heart-shaped boxes of chocolates (22 percent say please don’t), flowers (28 percent!) and furry handcuffs (34 percent). Nope, not me. And I’m going to let you in on a very dirty little secret. The Sage Gardener’s partner in grime really digs receiving seeds and plants on February 14th. This year, for instance, I’m focusing on stinking lilies, members of the aromatic allium family, such as Bulgarian giant leeks, Walla Walla sweet onions and Dutch yellow shallots. Imagine the pleasure of spending more than half a century with someone who loves raw onions on top of pinto beans, 40-clove garlic chicken and scallion pancakes as much as I do. And on the off-chance you don’t have access to the internet, “Like oysters, chocolate and hot peppers, the allium is a secret aphrodisiac.” That, revealed in a no less authoritative source than Well+Good’s YouTube series, “You Vs. Food.” So buy now, plant now, and reap, ahem, the benefits of alliums in the spring, summer and fall. NCSU says it’s prime time to get most of them into the ground. My green-thumbed fairy already has leeks bedded down. Me? I’ve planted a platoon of Egyptian walking onions, which are reproductive wonders, multiplying underground while also producing what my neighbor called “bubbies,” botanically referred to as topsets or bulbils, proliferating at the top of the stalk where flowers and seeds would normally be. Let’s face it. What plants could be sexier than alliums? Suggestions welcomed. — David Claude Bailey

2023 Department Sazerac

Sazerac January 2023

Unsolicited Advice

Prettier, thinner, smarter, tidier, wealthier — you-name-it-er — it’s what we resolve to be in ’23. Or not. We know you’ve got goals for the new year and we’re here to help. We took our editing pen to standard resolutions and improved them. You’re welcome.

Wake up an hour ~~earlier~~ later. Get the sleep you need. Walk into work once you roll outta bed, head held high. Your boss should understand. Just make sure you’ve shaken last night’s cracker crumbs out of your hair first.

Create a ~~savings~~ Tinder account. Who cares how much money you have if you don’t have love? J.Lo ain’t lyin’ — “Love don’t cost a thing.”

Drink more ~~water~~ cocktails. 2023 is the year of the party animal.

Spend ~~more~~ less time with the extended family. Look around you. These people are the source of your gray hair and wrinkles, and likely the reason you’re in therapy.

Exercise more. Welp, we don’t need to edit this one. We only have to exercise once to achieve this goal and then we can put it away until 2024.

Read more ~~books~~ tabloids. You wanna feel better about yourself? The trick is scoping out celebrities’ most embarrassing beach photos. Instant ego boost.

Organize your ~~house~~ CD collection. You may have to rip apart your house first to find it — and your old Sony stereo/CD player. The ‛90s are back in a big way and we can’t think of a more productive use of time.

Spend less ~~money~~ time worrying about what other people think. You do you.

Volunteer your ~~time~~ opinion. Doesn’t everyone like unsolicited advice?

There. We fixed it.

Hazy Destiny

Though the greatest warrior to fight in the Trojan war, Hector did not have much to smile about in Homer’s Iliad. For starters, his brother, Paris, stole the most beautiful woman in the world, Helen, from her husband, Menelaus, and started the Trojan war. In no time, Menelaus, along with his big bro, king of men Agamemnon, wily Odysseus and swift-footed Achilles came to Troy to reclaim Helen and Greek honor. Ten years, six months and twelve days later, 676,000 Trojans, by some accounts, had been killed. Hector was one of them, slain by Achilles, who ripped off the warrior’s armor and dragged his naked body behind his chariot around the walls of Troy three times, all while Hector’s father, Priam, and Hector’s wife, Andromache, watched. Achilles then took the body back to his tent so other Achaeans could amuse themselves by mutilating his corpse. Ultimately Priam sneaked into the Greek camp disguised as a beggar and pleaded for his son’s body, which Achilles reluctantly gave him. So why, oh why, does Hector smile on the superb and well-balanced can of Asheboro’s Four Saints’ Hazy Cosmic Punch Double IPA? Maybe because of its 8.1 percent ABV? — David Claude Bailey

Sage Gardener

Creasy Greens

Three memories stand out from visiting my grandparents’ farm in Madison: biscuits from the warming box of Grandma’s wood stove (slathered with butter and her homemade blackberry jam); the chickens doing their best to get said biscuits away from me; and walking with Daddy down a winding road to pick Creasy greens. Call Creasies what you will: upland cress, mountain greens, winter cress, Barbarea verna — these tangy, pungent greens are much easier to grow than watercress and come up wild where cattle graze. Garden & Gun proclaims them “A Mountain Secret.” Don’t try telling that to my Piedmont North Carolinian father, whose mother would cook them as a spring tonic. “As a critical source of Vitamin C and other nutrients, Creasy greens have prevented scurvy for untold numbers of people through the years,” says the U.S. Experimental Farm Network. “Stories abound of people in life-threatening situations relying on this plant for vital nutrition, from shipwrecked sailors in Europe to enslaved African people in the U.S.” Anna Anders, owner of Anders Family Farms, grows watercress and Creasies hydroponically in Northwest Forsyth County. She sells them regularly at the Greensboro Farmers Curb Market. (They’re hard to find in grocery stores.) If you want some of hers, get there early: “They sell out really fast.” Anders says she supplies Creasy greens and watercress to area chefs, who mostly use them in salads for their distinctive, peppery bite. (No less than French President Emmanuel Macron and Joe Biden chowed down on some stewed watercress at a recent White House state dinner.) Me, I’ll be tangling my Creasy greens up with some smoked hog jowl for New Year’s Day, when I’ll be hopping my John with South Carolina field peas, a concession to my Lowcountry cookmate. — David Claude Bailey

Window to the Past

Photograph © Carol W. Martin/Greensboro History Museum Collection

Long before Elsa was begging Anna to build a snowman, the employees of Vick Chemical, then known as Richardson-Merrill, were happy to indulge. Thanks to the Greensboro History Museum for this frozen-in-time moment, circa 1967.

Just One Thing

“I have autism,” reads the artist’s statement of King Nobuyoshi Godwin. “I can see trees in my mind and talk with them.” The Angelfish is Having a Good Day Because It’s with the Nudibranch was painted in 2022 and is displayed in GreenHill’s Winter Show, which closes February 15. More than 100 artists who either reside in or have lasting ties to North Carolina are featured each year in the show. “King’s synesthesia and the unique sensibility he brings to his work has, in a relatively short period of time, resulted in an affirmed style,” says Edie Carpenter, the museum’s curator. “The artist combines planar forms in vivid colors — with overlays of repetitive mark-making.” To see more of the artist’s work and read about his artistic process, visit his website at kinggodwin.com. “King is well on his way to a successful career in the arts and has already been included in several museum exhibitions and a two-person exhibition with his mother,” says Carpenter, who adds that works by Godwin’s mother, Yuko Nogama Taylor, are also up in the Winter Show.

Info: greenhillnc.org.

2023 Department Sazerac

December Sazerac

Sage Gardener

“Wikipedia says commercial eggnog can have glucose, fructose, modified milk ingredients, carrageenan, guar gum and as little as one percent egg in it,” I holler to my wife, Anne, who is in the kitchen making chow chow. “What’s in yours?”

“Cream, eggs, sugar and too much nog after you get through with it,” says Anne, who was raised by Baptist teetotalers.

“Some North Carolinian in 1895 said you should use a half gallon of brandy in your eggnog,” I counter. “George Washington put one pint of brandy, a half pint of rye whiskey, a half pint of Jamaica rum and a quarter pint of sherry.”

“And his teeth fell out. Sherry sounds awful.”

“It would probably have been very sweet like cream sherry. George’s sounds just like yours. ‘Let set in a cool place for several days,’ he says. ‘Taste frequently.’”

“You got that covered. Would you come in here where I can hear you?” she shouts back.

“Only if you’ll make me some eggnog.”

“Too early and we don’t have bourbon or rum because you drank it all.”

Anne’s eggnog is legendary. Ask our editor, Jim Dodson, if you don’t believe me.

Anne separates a dozen eggs that have been pasteurized. She beats the yolks until they’re thick, adds two cups of sugar gradually, then in goes about a pint of bourbon. While that chills for about an hour, she takes the egg whites, which have warmed to room temperature and beats them until they’re stiff. Finally she folds it all together and adds a sprinkling of freshly ground nutmeg.

If you’re not already in the holiday spirit, the spirit will definitely be in you after I add a little rum to your cup. No sherry this year, but it sounds tempting. At my age, teeth are a precious commodity. — David Bailey

Just One Thing

If in the holiday rush, you only get to see one exhibit, we encourage you to drop by Weatherspoon Art Museum and catch artist Titus Kapahr’s Byzantine-inspired gilded portraits. They all feature men who shared his father’s name, Jerome, and had their mugshots taken on the way to prison. Painting on a panel covered in gold leaf, Kaphar then dipped the portraits into a tank of tar. “The contrast of the two materials is striking,” muses Emily Stanley, Weatherspoon’s curator and head of exhibits. “The gold bears associations with value and spiritual realms, while the tar is emphatically related to the ground and being trodden upon.” The portraits are part of Gilded: Contemporary Artists Explore Value and Worth, which will be up until April 8, 2023. “The artists in this exhibit turn to gilding as a means to reconsider our value systems,” Stanley says. “Gilding images of graffiti and sidewalks, cardboard boxes and architectural fragments, they ask us to see the beauty in what we often overlook and honor that which we so often throw away.” — David Bailey

Unrequited Love

Old Gold

I’d gone steady with a few boys by the time I reached high school. Triangular love notes sent sailing across math class, make-out sessions at parties, handholding strolls in the snow. But it wasn’t until I was in 10th grade at Page that love gobsmacked me. I was a sophomore; he was a senior. I learned to smoke Old Gold cigarettes and drink beer. Ball games, dances, parties at homes where parents were elsewhere. I loved this guy in the all-in way that teenage girls have. His name was encircled by a heart on every notebook and written over and over on sheets of lined paper. We talked on the phone for hours at night. I was sure we’d get married someday.

And then, out of the blue, in the middle of the hallway between classes, he told me we were finished.

Inconsolable, I started eating six or seven oranges a day. In the afternoons, I would break out in hives, literally overdosing from vitamin C. Weird way to mourn, right? But who can explain the actions of a lovelorn teenage girl?

I moved on eventually, a little savvier and a little less willing to give my whole heart away.

When we were in college, he contacted me and we set up a date. I walked out of the dorm wearing a powder blue double-knit pantsuit my mother had made. The door to a VW Bug opened, and he unfolded himself from the front seat sporting faded jeans, a Dead Head T-shirt and long hair. It wasn’t going to work out.

Years later, happily married with three daughters, I was in Greensboro to take care of my dad who was in the hospital. After a particularly difficult day, sick of hospital cafeteria food, I drove to a nearby fast-food restaurant to grab a bite to eat.

Standing in line, I saw him across the room. Grayer, a little more weight around the middle, but it was him. Old feelings from after the breakup, when I’d see him at school, arose in me — sweaty armpits and palms, heart beating like mad. I walked slowly across the restaurant, tapped his shoulder. When he turned, I croaked out his name.

He stared. Squinted his eyes. Had my gray-streaked hair and crow’s feet rendered me unrecognizable?

He shook his head as though to clear it.

“Maggie?” he said.

My face on fire, I looked away to catch my breath, stunned that he didn’t even remember my name.

“Mamie,” I said, and smiled.

He had always loved my smile. And I guess, in a way, I had always loved his arrogant nonchalance.

Mamie Potter is the accounting manager at Builders Unlimited, Inc., and a long-time volunteer and bookseller at Quail Ridge Books. She lives in Raleigh where she spends her free time reading, writing stories and taking FaceTime photographs of her three grandchildren.

We asked the Greensboro History Museum for a fun vintage holiday photo and they delivered. We’d have been good friends with the spirited Carrolls — and that name!

Scene & Heard

The city’s most beloved nightclub in the 1990s and early-2000s was undoubtedly The Rhinoceros Club, back when there were scant few reasons to venture downtown at night. Or during the day. for that matter.

Peeking into an open doorway, I discovered The Rhino will be making an electrifying comeback in its familiar location facing the Carolina Theatre on Greene Street. The surviving original fixtures like those charmingly antiquated, pulley operated ceiling fans and the ornately carved dark hardwood booths, window frames and bar are being meticulously restored. The plaster wall behind the bar was jackhammered to expose the brickwork and modern bathroom installation seem to be the only major cosmetic changes anticipated.

An edgy, hip, yuppie bar? So I’m told. I only recall being there once. From the stories I’ve heard, everyone of a certain age in Greensboro was at The Rhino when Bruce Springsteen strolled through the door on a January night in 1985 to catch a performance by up-and-coming Boston rockers The Del Fuegos.

Underway in 2019 before being paused, The Rhino’s ambitious, time-tunneling recovery effort is slated to be completed in early 2023. A legit nightclub for young upwards to congregate just steps away from a live performance venue (The Crown) and M’Coul’s might be just what downtown needs to ignite some sort of cohesive scene. Regardless, the new Rhino crowd will likely have to tolerate that old guy at the end of the bar insisting he was present when The Boss dropped by, telling some watered-down variation of the absolutely true story I just told you. I can definitely confirm its veracity because I wasn’t there. — Billy Ingram

German Dollhouse

A childhood treasure launches a newfound hobby

When my American father, who was in the U.S. Air Force, drowned in Alaska, my German mother took me back to her home country with her. I lived there happily and peacefully until I was 7 years old. Ultimately, my mother, working at a dental clinic, met a periodontist from the U.S. who became my stepfather. She brought to America as many of her German possessions as possible, including beautiful rugs, along with her delicate china and crystal. Also included, for me, was a priceless, handmade dollhouse, although a little beat up from the hours and hours my dolls and I spent enjoying it. I’m sure I must have played with it a little longer in our new home, but I eventually outgrew it and moved on to college, boys and working.

In the early ’80s though, I was briefly unemployed and discovered an interest in miniatures. I retrieved the dollhouse from a friend of my mother’s, whose daughters had also cherished it. I took it to a dollhouse and miniatures shop off Battleground in Greensboro. This little store is no longer there, but, at the time, it was a wonderful playground for an adult hobby. Exactly what an interest in miniatures means psychologically for an adult, I never wanted to know. It was just fun and I found camaraderie with other enthusiasts.

Inspired, I decided it was time my childhood companion got a major makeover. I stripped off patterned paper to reveal a beautiful, hand-painted roof! I removed parts of the façade, and cut a bay window and an attic window. I applied stucco to the exterior, had a small stained glass window made for the attic, and installed a bay window. Using a paintbrush I added shutters and columns, a chimney trimmed with copper and real stones at the entranceway.

In the interior, real wallpaper covers a small copper strip that allows for actual electric current to light the tiny lamps. Actual wood flooring is in the living room and bedroom, and tile in the kitchen. There are real, tiny photos on the walls, but the rest of the elaborate furnishings are too countless and fabulous to describe individually. But what a happy, productive hobby it’s been to bring this old dollhouse back to life.

Mainly, every time I look at the dollhouse, I remember the happy, peaceful, loving feelings at my grandmother’s house in Germany.

Kristin Howell is a Greensboro resident who spent some of her childhood in Germany

Calling All O.Henry Essayists

Several years ago, we introduced a personal essay contest that was a big hit with readers and creative writers of the Triad. It was called “My Life in a Thousand Words.”

The theme of this year’s “My Life in a Thousand Words” contest is The Year That Changed Everything.

Was it the unforgettable year you got married (or divorced), went to college (or dropped out), saw the light, kissed the blarney stone, joined the army, ran for president, met Mick Jagger, had a baby, ran away with the circus, spiritually awakened — or, like many of us, just survived?

Only you can tell the story.

Same modest guidelines apply: Deadline is December 24, 2022. Submit no more than 1,000 words in conventional printed form. Shameless bribes and free (expensive) gifts welcome. Flattery also works.

Send to: cassie@ohenrymag.com

2022 Department Sazerac