Short Stories

Mountain Man

And no, we don’t mean Grizzly Adams, but acclaimed photographer Jeff Botz, whose panoramas of the Himalayan Mountains will be on view for the month of November starting on the 2nd, at Ambleside Gallery (528 South Elm Street). “I do not consider myself a documentary photographer, nor are these photos travelogue,” says Botz, who considers his work “visual poetry” that captures the wonder of being in so stunning a natural environment. Hence the show’s name, Vessels of Wonder, a concept Botz further emphasizes by pairing the photos with meditations on mountains and spirituality, from John Denver’s folk-rock classic “Rocky Mountain High” to verse by Persian poet Rumi. The fusion of images and words — not to mention the thousands who have flocked to Botz’s past exhibits in Charlotte and Hickory — are all clear indications of an artist at his peak. Info: amblesidearts.com.

 

Feet Accompli

At 28, it has, quite literally grown by leaps and bounds. The NC Dance Festival brings together professional modern dance choreographers from across the state to share their creative visions. Showcasing a wide variety of dance movement, performances range from contemplative to playful. For, er, kicks, check out the innovation in action at 8 p.m. on November 9 at Greensboro Project Space (219 West Lewis Street) and November 10 at Van Dyke Performance Space (200 North Davie Street). For information and tickets: (336) 373-2727 or danceproject.org/festival.

 

Waist Not Wanted

Food season is officially upon us, but avoid gorging yourself and bingeing on junk food — and packing on the pounds — with a little education from Greensboro Children Museum’s Adult Cooking Classes. Kicking off the series on November 3, Chef Anders Benton of GIA demonstrates how to prepare his seasonal favorites (which students get to sample in a multicourse meal). On November 5, you can learn all about mindful eating (think: butternut squash, cherries and quinoa), make your own granola on November 10 and vegan desserts on the 15th. If all of this sounds a little too healthy, just enroll your kids in the Tween, Teen and Kid Cooking Classes on the 9th, 16th and 17th, respectively. The topics? Pies, pie-decorating and fruit pies. Sweet! To register: gcmuseum.com.

 

Go for Baroque

Though originally written for an Easter mass, Handel’s Messiah has, over time, become a staple of the Christmas season. After all, the entire first part of the choral work is about the birth of Christ, making it a fitting component of December church services. Additionally, there was an abundance of sacred music for Easter, but not so much for Christmas. Curiously, Handel wrote the work at a time when he was underappreciated; London audiences had yawned at his previous season’s works, so the composer worked feverishly in the late summer of 1741, writing from morning till night, before The Messiah’s debut the following spring in Dublin. The layered, exuberant choral piece wowed audiences and forever sealed Handel’s reputation as one of the greats. Hear for yourself as Jay Lambeth conducts Greensboro Oratorio Singers, featuring soloists Caroline Crupi, soprano; Emily Schuering, Mezzo; Jacob Wright, Tenor and Daniel Crupi, Bass in the company’s 65th performance of The Messiah. As a part of the Music Center’s OPUS series, the concert, starting at 7 p.m. on November 27 at the Carolina Theatre, is free and open to the public — something truly worth rejoicing. Info:
gsomusiccenter.org.

 

Oh, Beautiful!

Greensboro Beautiful, to be precise. The nonprofit dedicated to keeping the Gate City gleaming is capping off its 50th anniversary with an exhibition of works by local artist and “North Carolina’s painter” Bill Mangum. To raise money for Greensboro Beautiful, Mangum was commissioned to paint the city’s four public gardens (Gateway, Tanger, the Arboretum and Bog Garden), but as he engaged in the project, the number of paintings grew to 50. Charming vignettes — a solitary bench amid a profusion of pink azaleas, an iris in full bloom, the remains of a tree trunk in fall — began to fill the artist’s studio. See all 50 of them in the exhibition, which runs from November 7–17 at the Art Shop (3900 West Market Street), and appreciate not only the green in Greensboro, but its entire palette of vivid color, as well. Info: greensborobeautiful.org.

 

View to a Kiln

Need some extra plates, mugs and vases for your Thanksgiving table or to give as gifts? Then head to Curry Wilkinson Pottery (5029 South NC Highway 49, Burlington) on November 17, 18, 24 and 25 for the opening of the wood-fired kiln, which was completed this past summer. Enjoy light refreshments in a rustic farm setting as you peruse the salt-glazed, slip-trailed earthenware that has become a signature] style for Wilkinson, a former apprentice of Randleman’s Thomas Sand — and another vessel of a time-honored North Carolina art. Info: currywilkinsonpottery.com.

 

 

Out on a Limb

“I think that I shall never see/A poem as lovely as a tree,” wrote journalist and poet Joyce Kilmer. We’d wager Doug Goldman, a botanist for the U.S.D.A., would heartily agree. As chronicled in these pages earlier this year, Goldman has devoted his energies to cataloguing and preserving the wide variety of trees and shrubs in Greenhill Cemetery, many of them planted by the Gate City’s “Johnny Appleseed,” Bill Craft. Learn more about the array of roots and branches swathed in glorious fall colors on November 10 and 11, on a Green Hill Botanical Tour with Goldman as your guide. Tours begin at 1 p.m. at the Wharton Street gate. To reserve, send an email to: friendsofgreenhillcemetery.org.

Simple Life

The King of Everyman

By Jim Dodson

Novemberís arrival never fails to put me in a grateful mood, even before the far-flung clan assembles around a Thanksgiving table worthy of a king.

Speaking of kings, in the spirit of giving thanks for the people who have touched our lives, past and present, here’s a grateful little ditty I wrote in the hours after my boyhood sports hero — and quite possibly yours, given his strong connections to this state — passed away.

Around five o’clock on a Sunday afternoon, Sept. 25, my wife, Wendy, and I were watching a late afternoon football game when I suddenly felt overcome by a chill and went upstairs to lie down for an hour before friends arrived for supper.

I’m rarely sick and assumed this peculiar spell was simply brought on by fatigue from working since four in the morning on a golf book I’ve been writing for almost two years, a personal tale called the Range Bucket List.

The first chapter and the last are about my friend, collaborator and boyhood hero Arnold Palmer.

The prologue explains that he was the first name on what I called my Things to Do in Golf List around 1966 after falling hard for my father’s game and reading somewhere that Arnold Palmer started out in golf by keeping a similar list of things he intended to do. Many decades later, while interviewing him early one morning in his workshop in Latrobe, I confirmed this fact with the King of Golf.

The final chapter details an emotional visit I made to see Arnold at home in Latrobe in late summer, about a month before his 87th birthday. I knew he wasn’t doing particularly well. When I walked into his pretty, rustic house sitting on quiet Legends Drive in the unincorporated Village of Youngstown on the outskirts of Latrobe, I found the King of Golf watching an episode of “Gunsmoke,” the No. 1 American TV show about the time Arnold Palmer ruled the world of golf.

He greeted me warmly without getting up. A walker was standing nearby. His wife Kit brought me a cold drink. He turned down the sound and we had a nice time catching up, almost but not quite like many we’ve enjoyed over the past two decades. Arnold’s once seemingly invincible blacksmith body had finally given out, yet his mind and spirit were strong. He insisted on joining Doc Giffin, his longtime assistant, Kit and me for an early supper that evening across the vale at Latrobe Country Club.

The trip was like a homecoming for me — and something I feared would be a farewell.

For two full years, from early 1997 to late 1999, I had the privilege of serving as Arnold Palmer’s collaborator on his autobiography, A Golfer’s Life. I was deeply honored to have been chosen by Arnold and wife Winnie for the project, and touched that he insisted that my name share the cover and title page of the work. I always called the book his book. He always called the book our book.

Not long after we began working on it — both being unusually early risers who often chatted in his home workshop before official business hours — Winnie was diagnosed with a form of ovarian cancer. Arnie, which is what he insisted I call him though I never could quite make myself do so, withdrew from his busy public life so we could get the book completed and published before time took its toll, narrowing the horizon of what was supposed to be a three year project to just under two.

We brought the book out in time to celebrate Arnold’s 70th birthday in September 1999 and the opening of a beautiful, restored red barn that Winnie had always loved just off the 14th fairway at the same club where Arnold grew up under the firm watch of his demanding papa, Deacon Palmer, whom Arnold simply called “Pap.”

Rather than a conventional autobiography of facts and figures and tournament highlights, my objective with Arnold’s book was to create an unusually warm and intimate reminiscence or memoir that read as if Arnold and his fans were simply sharing a drink after a day of golf, and he was quietly relating the 15 or so key moments of his life, revealing how these moments shaped the most influential golfer in history and arguably America’s greatest sportsman.

Both Winnie’s barn and Arnold’s book were a hit. The book was on the bestseller list for almost half a year. The handsome red barn stands in quiet tribute to them both. Winnie passed away less than two months after that special evening Arnold turned 70.

After lying down and lightly dozing for an hour, I heard our guests arriving and got up to go downstairs. The cold and queasiness had passed and I felt much better —  only to find my wife waiting at the bottom of the steps holding out my mobile phone with a very sad look on her face.

A nice person named Molly from NBC News in New York was on the other end, wanting to know if I could confirm a report that Arnold Palmer had passed away.

We spoke for an hour as my incoming call alert continued to light up from news organizations around the world. By midnight I’d spoken with reporters from all the major networks, several cable news organizations, CNN International, a pair of wire services, the Canadian Broadcasting System and Australia’s leading sports call-in show — all of it testament to the drawing power of Arnold Daniel Palmer.

The conversations about his incomparable life and times and seismic impact on popular culture and the world of sports went well into the early morning hours.

Was the chill and queasiness a coincidence, or something more sympathetic in nature?

That’s impossible to say. This much is certainly true: As Winnie commented early in our collaboration, Arnold and I enjoyed unusually strong chemistry and an uncommon connection that is instinctively felt and shared by his millions of adoring fans — and was still apparent in late summer when I visited with him at home.

The morning after our dinner at the club, I also visited with Doc Giffin and Arnold’s amazing staff at Arnold Palmer Enterprises and even saw his younger brother Jerry when he popped in to say hello.

Finally the boss showed up for work around 10 o’clock, trailed by a couple of cheerful young therapists from the local hospital who were planning to do a stretching and exercise session at the Palmers’ home gym aimed at restoring Arnold’s ability to swing a golf club again.

As he signed books and the usual stack of photos and personal artifacts from fans that are always waiting for his immaculate signature every morning of his life, we chatted about various family matters and other things large and small. With Doc and his therapists we even watched a recently colorized CD release of the historic 1960 Masters, where Arnold closed from two shots back to claim his second green jacket, setting off a national frenzy in the process.

At one point as we watched him teeing off on the 72nd hole of the tournament, needing a clutch birdie to secure the win, Arnold declared excitedly — “There, girls! There’s my golf swing!”

The therapy girls were standing directly behind the King of Golf. They were beaming, part of a new generation that never had the pleasure of experiencing the game’s most compelling star in his prime.

Arnold’s eyes were alive with pure joy. There were tears pooling in them.

And even bigger tears pooling in mine.

Doc Giffin, a legend in his own right, just smiled from a few feet away.

A little while later, I did something I’d meant to do for many years.

I handed him my first hardbound copy of A Golfer’s Life and asked him to autograph it.

He accepted the book but gave me what I fondly call The Look — a cross between the scowl of a disapproving schoolmaster and a slightly constipated eagle, one way he loves to needle his friends.

I watched as he took his own sweet time writing something on the title page.

He handed me back the book and said, “Don’t open this until you’re safely home.”

Facing a 9-hour drive home to North Carolina, I somehow managed to wait until I reached my driveway just as the summer day was expiring, at which point I opened the book. He could have written it to 100 million people around the world, all of whom share the same kind of connection with the King of Everyman.

“Dear Jim,” he simply wrote. “Thanks for all your wonderful works. You are the greatest friend I could have — Arnold”

That’s when my waterworks really let loose.

Over the days and week to come, we’ll all be reminded of Arnold Palmer’s extraordinary impact on golf and American life in general, and the mammoth-hearted legacy he leaves behind, especially in Pinehurst, where his father brought him as a teen to experience the “higher game,” Wilmington, where he won his seventh PGA Tournament, and Greensboro, where he had so many friends but always came up just short of winning the Greater Greensboro Open.

Still, Arnold’s 62 PGA Tour wins, 90 tournament victories worldwide and seven major championships only partially defined the life of a man from the rural heartland of western Pennsylvania who almost single-handedly pioneered the concept of modern sports marketing, created a business model that turned into an empire stretching from golf tees to sweet tea, and grew to be golf’s most visible and charismatic force, its greatest philanthropist and most beloved ambassador.

During his half-century reign, and largely because of him, in my view and that of many fellow historians, golf enjoyed the largest and longest sustained period of growth in history, a remarkable period that included the formal creation of no less than six professional tours, witnessed television’s incomparable impact, saw the rebirth of the Ryder Cup and revival of European golf, the rise of international stars, and nothing less than a scientific revolution in the realms of instruction, equipment technology and golf course design — all of which Arnold played some kind of role.

How much of this cultural Renaissance was due to this kind, genuine, fun-loving and passionately competitive family man who grew up showing off for the ladies of Latrobe Country Club and earning nickels from them by knocking their tee shots safely over a creek on his papa’s golf course?

Impossible to fully quantify, I suppose. Though I would be inclined to say just about everything.

Golf is the most personal game of all, a solitary walk through the beautiful vagaries of nature. And Arnold Palmer was the most personal superstar in the history of any sport, a true blue son of small town America, the kid next door who grew up to become a living legend, a homegrown monarch for the Everyman in each of us, a King with a common touch.

His charm and hearty laugh and extraordinary undying love of the ancient game he was meant by Providence to elevate like nobody before him will surely live on as long as people young and old tee up the ball and give chase to the game.

His beautiful memorial service at Saint Vincent’s Basilica in Latrobe on Oct. 2 brought out the golf world in force along with hundreds of ordinary folks — the foot soldiers of Arnie’s fabled Army — who in some cases drove all night just to stand and pay homage to their hero on a gorgeous Indian summer afternoon, holding signs that read “Long Live the King of Golf” and “Thank You, Arnie!”

Outside, immediately following the service, as a Scottish bagpiper played “Amazing Grace,” Arnold’s longtime co-pilot Pete Luster made a pair of low passes over the spires of the Basilica in Arnold’s beloved Citation 10 with its signature N1AP registration number, turning sharply toward heaven and flying almost straight up until the airplane was a mere glint in the blue autumn sky.

The woman standing beside me in the silent crowd actually took my arm to steady herself and burst out crying. I hugged her and she kissed me on the cheek like we were old friends saying goodbye.

I’d never seen her in my life but we were friends, as everyone is in Arnie’s Army.  OH

Contact editor Jim Dodson at jim@thepilot.com.

Gate City Journal

The Den Mother of Tate Street

How Amelia and Robert Leung fed cared for a generation
of street people at the legendary Hong Kong House

By Grant Britt

For nearly thirty years, Amelia Leung and her husband, Robert, operated the Hong Kong House on Tate Street, feeding and mothering a generation of seekers, wanderers, mystics, musicians, craftsmen and those just looking for a good meal at an affordable price. In the process, they created a refuge for young folks trying on an artistic lifestyle and a zone for comforting the body and soul.

Amelia Leung’s odyssey started in her adopted hometown of Hong Kong, when, at age 13, she met Robert. The couple began conducting their relationship by long distance when Robert left to study in Manchester, England and Amelia went to nursing school in London. Upon graduation, she joined Robert in Canada where he had moved to better his English and his chances of emigrating to the United States. Robert’s grandfather Peter had settled in Greensboro, opening the Lotus restaurant around 1930 and wanted Robert to work with him. Amelia married Robert in Reno, Nevada in 1969, then came to Greensboro.

“I was working in the Lotus restaurant downtown, and trying to get my license in N.C. as a nurse,” Amelia Leung says. Just as Robert was graduating from N.C. A&T with a degree in electrical engineering, Amelia finished her coursework in nursing. Their going into the restaurant business involved a bit of happenstance, a drive-by, if you will. “We were traveling through, saw the Apple Cellar selling the place in ’69. At that time, they weren’t getting along with hippies and what was going on so they tried to pull out,” she says. “We bought the place.”

But the business was slow to take hold. “In the beginning, we did not know what we were doing,” she admits. At first, they tried serving traditional Chinese-American fare, chow mein, chop suey, but, says Amelia, “there were a lot of sandwich shops like Friday’s and pizza. I saw I had to make some changes in my menu, more sandwiches.” But with a little culinary flair: “I did stuff to hamburger to make it kinda different.” She also offered items no one else carried.”

That experimentation, along with her family recipes and willingness to listen to menu suggestions from staff and customers was what made the HKH a success. Local bassist and sound man Bobby Kelly, (Tornado, Sentinel Boys, Terraplane, Blues Word Order) worked upstairs at Keith Roscoe’s Guitar Shop. He quickly became an enthusiastic patron from the get-go. He even had two items named for him. “It can now be told,” Kelly says, “that I am Green Bob. And Brown Bob.” Kelly was jazzed about Amelia’s wok chicken sandwich but favored one revision. Kelly says, tired of sandwiches and bread, “I decided I would turn it into brown stroganoff . . . So she started making brown rice around that same time. I said, ‘Why don’t you just plop that on toppa some brown rice and instead of sour cream, give me a little cottage cheese on the side.’ Let’s see how that works. And BAM! It was born.”

Kelly says others pitched in. “Ken Hoover, I think, invented the Guitar Shop burger, something he scarfed down every day and it became a menu item.” Kelly’s wife, Jesse, also added to the menu: “There was some little greasy joint that served pineapple cheeseburgers from where Jesse was living in Richmond, and she got Amelia or Becky to make a couple of those.” They were an instant hit, he says.

The HKH menu and demeanor underwent a change a few years later when Amelia went to buy a sandwich from Friday’s, and the counter girl asked if there might be a job for her friend, then sent Aliza Gotlieb over and Amelia put her to work in the kitchen. “She said she’d like to open a coffeehouse downstairs,’’ Amelia remembers. “I said OK, we have the space, see what happens, go in 50-50. She and Larry Jacobs came out, started down there.”

That venture became the Nightshade Cafe, which served vegetarian fare and became a hangout for scores of local and national bands. “Eventually Aliza brings in some local musicians,” Amelia says. “I remember Billy Hobbs was first one to play live music down here.” A small stage was set up and Amelia provided supper. “Sometimes pass the hat, pick up some money that way.”

It got to be quite a scene. “If you were playing the Nightshade, or Aliza’s, whatever it was at the time, you got a meal out of it, too,” Kelly says. ”You could come upstairs after setting up or hanging out and there’d be Bob Margolin in one booth, and REM in another booth. Everybody knew it as a good, cheap honest place to chow.”

And for musicians who were struggling, Amelia was a lifesaver. Saxophonist Jimmy Carpenter, who played with Little Alfred Band, Alkaphonics, Jimmy Thackery and the Drivers, Walter “Wolfman” Washington, Mike Zito and the Wheel, recalls how, after working for a local pest control company, “I got laid off right before Christmas, and I didn’t work again till April, and Amelia let me run a tab, basically saved my ass that winter,” he says. “If you took the garbage out, kind of a big job ’cause it was down in the back, down that hill, had to drag those big-ass cans up the alley up that hill on the street, she’d give you a meal for doing that,” he says. Me and Bruce Piephoff used to race down there to see who’d get it. It was kinda the center of my universe for lots of years, really.”

Amelia was the den mother to a bunch of Tate street denizens, musicians and such. “She was my Chinese mother, no doubt about it,” Kelly says. “You’d have the Pine Valley Boys Club upstairs in my apartment everyday,” he recalls, referring to the daily viewing of the soap opera All My Children at his digs everybody called the Corner Store Apartments above Snavely’s drugstore. “We were armed with suction cup dart rifles, and whenever Palmer Cortlandt (actor James Mitchell’s long-running baddie on the series) came on the screen, my TV would be covered with rubber darts.” Hijinks aside, the HKH was his lifeline. “Back in the days when I was poor, and I ate one meal a day, I lived off that,” says Kelly.

Many local musicians worked there as well. “It was a cool place man,” Carpenter recalls. ”During their late-night period when they were trying to cater to the bar crowd, Dakota Joe (Dunn, Bullets Of Blue) was the cook, wife Melanie was waitress. Becky (Raker, Tornado chanteuse) was there all the time. She was the day cook, started making a fish sandwich with shrimp on top. Mike Spainhour (Swingin’ Lobsters) was the utility guy, did all kinds of stuff.”

“In those days, lunch was a dollar,” Amelia says, “fish and chips or fried rice.” Aliza introduced her to a macrobiotic menu. “I went to cooking classes, learned principles, combined with my own cooking experience, started serving macrobiotic food, homemade yogurt.”

The downstairs space hosted a who’s who of rock, blues and folkie heavyweights-to-be. “The Indigo Girls got their start there, John Hammond, Bob Margolin, Evan Johns (and the H Bombs) Tinsley Ellis, Glenn Phillips played down there every time they came through,
Col. Bruce Hampton and the Hampton Grease Band shot a scene for a movie down there, did a video for a horror film,” Kelly remembers. “Eugene Chadbourne played down there, Bruce Piephoff, all sorts of wildness.”

He recalls one Grease Band performance involving impromptu redecorating. “Every song, they’d take a piece of furniture out of the audience, till by the end of the night, every piece of furniture, every table and chair in the basement was onstage.” It might have been a practical move, as the cellar was flooded every time it rained. “I remember people playing music and all the people sitting in the cafe and water is on the floor, and they just sit there and listen to the music,” Amelia chuckles.

The music moved some in mysterious ways. “One time the Alkaphonics [Carpenter, David Moore, Bill Howell, Mark and Scott Jenison] were playing across the street at Fridays,” Kelly reminisces. “And the Sentinel boys [Kelly, Dennis Worley, Scott Manring, David Licht, Bruce Swaim] were playing the Nightshade, and we both took a break together at exactly the same time, went over and switched clubs, playing about five songs, then raced across the street and finished the set at our original clubs.”

Over the years, the HKH continued to change and prosper. “By mixing the cultures, running a little of East/West together, everything fit into a category not like any other restaurant,” Amelia says.

She and Robert kept it going until 1999. “My sister said, ‘Better get out while you’re still alive,’ so I decided to close up the shop and retired, took care of my grandchildren,” Amelia says. “I had raised three of my own children, a bunch of my family’s adult children, eleven of them altogether.”

The business has moved on, but the memories and the recipes remain, thanks to Nightshade doorperson and long time HKH patron Karen McClamrock, whose Hong Kong House Cookbook preserves many of Amelia’s best loved dishes. Look back, dig in and enjoy.

Holiday, or any special day HKH recipe

It was a labor of love that only took six years to complete. Like many other fans of HKH’s menu, Karen McClamrock wanted the comfort food she had become used to as a patron of Amelia Leung’s cuisine for almost two decades. But getting the goods proved to be a bit of a chore. Like most good cooks who have been using family recipes for years, Amelia had nothing written down, assembling the dishes without measuring anything. “She would say, you just put in this and this. I said, ‘How much of this? Give me a measurement,’” McClamrock says. But the two finally got it done. The Hong Kong House Cookbook has many faves from over the years including pineapple, lentil and guitar shop burgers as well as the wok chicken that was the base for the Green Bob (exchanging broccoli for rice) and Brown Bob. McClamrock says Amelia’s mother, Lily’s recipe for soy chicken is a perfect holiday dish, easy to make and tasty too.

Lilyís Soy Chicken

Ingredients: 

1 tablespoon of oil

3 or 4 spring onions (white part only)

2-4 cloves of garlic, crushed

Fresh ginger, grated, about a 3-4-inch-long piece of ginger root, more or less to suit your taste. (Amelia says use lots of ginger, McClamrock advises.)

1 1/4 cup soy sauce

1 cup rice (Lily’s  secret is to use 1/2 cup rice wine and 1/2 cup of Johnny Walker Red)

1/2 cup water

1/2 cup brown or white sugar

1 teaspoon black pepper

1 teaspoon wonton soup powder (optional)

2-3 star anise (optional)

4 or more chicken thighs, breasts or any chicken pieces you like

Instructions:

Place large frying pan on the stove and heat oil over medium-high heat. Add onion, garlic and ginger and sauté for about 30 seconds. Do not burn!

Add soy sauce and rice wine to the pan, bring to a boil. Add the water and sugar. Add chicken and cover. Cook over medium heat for 10 minutes. Remove lid and turn chicken over. Cover pan and cook another 10 minutes or until done. Chicken should be tender and pull easily from the bone.  There will be a nice sauce in the pan when you are finished.

Serve alone or with rice and spoon some sauce over the rice. Mom Lily liked to use chicken thighs instead of breasts for more flavor. You can substitute wings, or use pork or beef as well.  OH

Grant Britt cooked in Restaurants in Key West, Florida for nearly a decade before returning to town to write about music for local regional and national publications.

Life’s Funny

All Things in
Moderation . . .

. . . Southern Style

By Maria Johnson

After watching the debates this election season, there’s one thing I know.

In future debates, we need to throw out the network moderators and bring in a Southern mother.

Better yet, a Southern grandmother.

I’m talking about the kind of woman I’ve known and admired all of my life.

The kind who takes no guff and holds your feet to the fire.

The kind who has a firm grip on reality, her Bible and her cast-iron skillet.

The kind who — for all of her foibles — could reel in the candidates when they start trampling each other, and stop them cold when they try to walk all over her.

Here’s the kind of debate I wish I’d seen:

Southern Grandmother Moderator: Hello? Hello? Is this microphone on? It is? Well, all righty then. Hello, America. I’m your moderator, Mrs. R.L. Thompson of 324 Water Street, Landis, North Carolina, 28088. The candidates in tonight’s debate have agreed to follow the rules. My rules. This is my auditorium. I don’t care what other people do in their auditoriums. They can carry on and do whatever they want. But in my auditorium, we will show respect, and anyone who doesn’t will be asked to leave. Do y’all understand me? (Looks over her reading glasses at candidates HRC & DJT).

HRC & DJT: . . . (dead air) . . .

SGM: I said, do y’all understand me?

HRC & DJT: Yes.

SGM: Yes what?

HRC & DJT: Yes . . . ma’am?

SGM: Hmph. Those manners need some work. Too much time in
New York City, if you ask me. But we’ll talk about that later. OK. Here’s the first question. My bank is paying me nothing on my CDs, but Wall Street bankers are living high on the hog. Why is that? Senator Clinton, you go first.

HRC: Well, blahblahblah financial reform blahblahblah The Fed. . .

SGM: Well, that’s a whole lot of nuthin’. Your time is up. Mr. Trump, what about you?

HRC: Wait a minute . . .

SGM: No, you wait a minute. Go on, Mr. Trump.

DJT: When I’m President, interest rates are going to be so amazing blahblahblah the best, blahblahblah very, very good.

SGM: OK, I’ve heard enough. You have a pretty healthy opinion of yourself, don’t you?

DJT: You know why? Because I’m a winner, and . . .

SGM: Proverbs 16:18, Mr. Trump.

DJT: What?

SGM: Proverbs 16:18. Pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall. So just hush and think on that a while.

DJT: But I . . .

SGM: What did I just say?

DJT: Huh?

SGM: WHAT DID I JUST SAY?

DJT: You said . . .

SGM: I said HUSH, and that’s what I mean. Don’t make me say it again. Now, where was I? Y’all gonna worry me to death. Where’d those questions go? Oh, here they are. OK, Mr. Trump this one is for you. I understand that you said some ugly things about a young lady who won the Miss Universe pageant. Is that true?

DJT: She got fat, if that’s what you mean. She ate like a pig, and . . .

SGM: Apologize.

DJT: What the . . . ?

SGM: You go over to her house right now and apologize, and don’t come back here until you have. Run on, now. You have time. I’m fixin’ to talk to Senator Clinton a while (Turns to HRC): Honey, what were you thinking, keeping that computer in your basement?

HRC: Well, if you’re speaking about my private email server . . .

SGM: I’m not talking about the man in the moon’s . . .

HRC: Well, I was authorized to do that, and nothing was classified. . .

SGM: I see. Well, the head man at the FBI said some of those emails were classified. So which one of y’all is lying?

HRC: I’ve said that I made a mistake, and . . .

SGM: Mmmhmm. That’s what I thought. Y’all spend too much time on these computers anyway. Whole world’s looking down at a screen. Ruining their eyes, ruining their posture. I swanny. Now, let’s talk about him (Jabs thumb at Bill Clinton sitting in the front row.) Why do you want to stay with an ol’ tomcat like that? (Turning to Melania Trump). What’re you laughin’ at, Miss Tall? How much longer do you think your man is hanging around?

HRC: This is totally irrelevant. My husband is not running for office. We’ve had our difficulties, but he . . .

SGM: I wouldn’t give you two cents for him. (DJT reappears) Well, look who’s back. Did you tell her you were sorry?

DJT: (Rolls his eyes) Yeah, sure.

SGM: Look at me when I’m talking to you.

DJT: (Looking at her) Yeah, sure, I apologized. I walked over to her fat house, and knocked on her fat door, and when her fat mother came to the door, I said, “I’m sorry for calling your fat daughter fat.” OK? OK?

SGM: Cut me a switch.

DJT: What does that mean?

SGM: It means, I don’t care how old you are, I’m gonna wear you out like someone should have done a long time ago. (To HRC) Wipe that smirk off your face, Miss Priss. Go to your green room and don’t come out ’til I call you. And stay off that computer, you hear me?

HRC: Yes ma’am.

SGM: Lord have mercy. Y’all are the sorriest lot I’ve ever seen.  OH

Maria Johnson held her nose and voted early. She hopes you did the same.

Birdwatch

TV Dinner

Turkey vultures are
the ultimate scavengers
By Susan Campbell

There! By the edge of the road: It’s a big, dark bird. It looks sort of like it a wild turkey. But is it? Its head and face are red. It has a pale, hooked bill and a feathery neck. But the tail is the tip-off — it’s short. Definitely not the right look for a turkey — but perfect for a turkey vulture! (Feel free to call it a buzzard — or a “TV” by those in the know.)

The confusion is understandable since wild turkeyts have made quite a comeback in Piedmont North Carolina. In fact, turkey vultures and turkeys can occasionally be seen sitting near one another in farm fields where they both can find food or just take advantage of the warmth of the dark ground on cool mornings.

However, turkey vultures are far more likely to be seen soaring overhead or perhaps perched high in a dead tree or cell tower. These birds have an unmistakable appearance in the air, forming a deep V-shape as they soar through the air, sometimes for literally hours on end. They’re easy to spot with their very large wingspans. At the very end of their wings look for their distinctive finger-like primary feathers. The tail serves as a rudder, allowing the bird to navigate effortlessly as it is lifted and transported by thermals and other currents high above the ground.

It is from this lofty vantage that turkey vultures travel in search of their next meal. Although their vision is poor, their sense of smell is keen. They can detect the aroma of a dead animal a mile or more away. They soar in circles, moving across the landscape with wings outstretched, sniffing all the while until a familiar odor catches their attention.

Turkey vultures are most likely to feed on dead mammals but they will not hesitate to eat the remains of a variety of foods including other birds, reptiles and even fish. They prefer freshly dead foods but may have to wait to get through the thick hide of larger animals if there is no wound or soft tissue allowing access. Toothed scavengers such as coyotes may literally need to provide that opportunity. Once vultures can get to flesh, they are quick to devour their food. Without plumage on their heads, there are no feathers to become soiled as they reach into larger carcasses for the morsels deep inside.

Our summering turkey vultures perform elaborate courtship flights in early spring.  One will lead the other through a series of twists, turns and flaps as they pair up. As unattractive as vultures seem to us, they are good parents. Nests are well-hidden in hollow stumps or piles of debris, in old hawk or heron nests or even abandoned buildings. They seek out cooler spots that are well away from human activity in order to protect their blind, naked and defenseless young.

Vulture populations are increasing across North Carolina — probably due to human activity. Roadways create feeding opportunities year-round. Landfills also present easy feeding opportunities as well, believe it or not. During the winter months turkey vultures from the north migrate south, often concentrating in one area. Their large roosts can be problematic. A hundred or more large birds pouring into a stand of mature pines or loitering on a water tower does not go unnoticed.

But most people take turkey vultures for granted or don’t even notice them. In reality, they are unparalleled scavengers — especially given the increase in roadways and the inevitable roadkill that has resulted.  OH

Susan would love to receive your wildlife sightings and photographs at
susan@ncaves.com.

Poem November 2016

BIRD FEEDER

I never said

we weren’t sunk in glittering nature,

until we are able to become something else.

— Mary Oliver

Perches pique a matter of strategic

challenges, this chess game of

poached positions and rotating

flurries of chromatic energy,

as if the flash and dash of feathers

in flight was more about the dance

and not the flush of necessity’s plight . . .

as if we ourselves were not also

in restless rush, breathing out

the flux and plottings of our small

and uncertain profundities.

— Connie Ralston

Accidental Astrologer

Ration the Passion

For Scorpios, it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that sting

By Astrid Stellanova

Scorpios are famously passionate, ambitious, intense and jealous. They will ask but they sure won’t tell. What they should know is that their best day is Tuesday, and to mirror their passion, they should don their best color — red. What you should know is this: They don’t always lay their cards flat out on the table, but they really don’t like it when the tables are turned. Cross a Scorpio and you will unleash the scorpion’s sting. And this: A Scorpio will never forget and may never forgive either.

Scorpios like to use their looks as a means of self-expression and will almost always make a big impression wherever they go and whatever they choose to do. They are as colorful as they are unique, too. Prince Charles is a Scorpio. So is Whoopi Goldberg. Ponder that, Star Children. Ad Astra — Astrid

Scorpio (October 23–November 21)

Friends are tempted to give you novelties on your birthday — things like pillows embroidered with “Drama Queen” or “If You Can’t Say Anything Good about Others, Sit by Me.” Much like the Dowager at Downton Abbey you can dish it out. You have a secret love of bling. Sugar, you also don’t like to admit your tastes are much more Vegas Strip than Park Avenue. This birthday, let go of any desire to be something or someone else and love your own fine self. You are an original, enigmatic and audacious in your ways — traits your friends rely on, Honey. When you blow out the candles on your cake — and there will be a blowout with cake — make a big wish. This just might be your year to win the whole dang shebang!

Sagittarius (November 22–December 21)

The fact is, Honey, you have become the Ernest T. Bass of relationships. You get mad at your beloved and your idea of resolution is to throw rocks at the window and howl like a hound dog during a King Moon. Time to start being the grown-up when it comes to love matters, my wild little Love Muffin. There is nothing or no one you cannot have once you stop trying to muscle your way to a solution.

Capricorn (December 22–January 19)

When everyone else was sitting down, you were just outstanding. Take a star turn and then take a seat. Sweet Thing, a strange turn of coincidence is about to make you glad you had such a fine sense of timing. It is more than goting to compensate for a rough patch you have just undergone. It’s (nearly) all over but the shouting, as Rick Bragg likes to say.

Aquarius (January 20–February 18)

Does Fifty Shades of Purple sound like the title of your memoir?  Well, you got all shook up over a loved one, and it sent your blood pressure through the roof. Lordamercy, nobody’s worth all that purple passion you’ve been spending. Spend some time in a meditation class instead, and promise yourself you are going to let that crazy-maker go. Then get a hobby for goodness sake — just not in surveillance or private-eye work. 

Pisces (February 19–March 20)

A life-changing experience has caused you to do some recent soul-searching. Now you are looking deep, trying to find a bigger purpose. You have extra special energy this month, Sugar Pie, and it is going to make you a magnet for special and inspiring experiences. If you have a metal detector, haul it out of the closet, as you are about to find something you believed lost for good.

Aries (March 21–April 19)

You spent your fall second-guessing everything you did and everything your closest friends did. Now, Honey, is a time to downshift and just bury some nuts for the winter ahead. Look on down the road and stop majoring in the minor stuff when you need to look at the major stuff. When you take stock, you have to admit you have been busy overdoing everything you ever thought worth doing at all — except for the nut thing. 

Taurus (April 20–May 20)

Learn something new. Take a friend for coffee. Befriend a stranger. But don’t drink and dial this month, because you are prone to talk too much and listen too little and then pray for rain when all your friendships dry up. The fine print bears reading, Sugar, before you sign that contract, too. Meantime, kiss a baby and indulge your love of sweet tea and a side of lemon pie. But don’t text or dial.

Gemini (May 21–June 20)

As much as you want to step into a situation and take control, try and hold your impulsive self back just a teensy bit. There has been mounting evidence that your involvement is not helpful. Meantime, you have got a big old mess to clean up on Aisle Nine. The mess is one you made; so don’t blame the first one you find to hang it on, Sweet Thing.

Cancer (June 21–July 22)

You are the Richard Petty of speedy karma, repeating a cycle over and over and over again on the roadway of life. Put a cop on anyone’s tail for 500 miles and they’ll get a ticket, too. Want to retire that title? This month gives you a long overdue chance to reevaluate things, Honey, and you are going to find the support you crave to break out. 

Leo (July 23–August 22)

When you step back and look in the mirror, as you secretly like to do, what do you see? Is it the same person everyone around you sees? Your secretive life is at the root of some pain you hold onto and carry around like a precious bag of gold. Trust someone and unburden yourself, Sugar. Self-truth won’t hurt one bit.

Virgo (August 23–September 22)

There’s a new sheriff in town you ain’t so sure you like. Get deputized, Sweet Pants, because you are going to have to deal with them no matter what. Meantime, you calculate your losses and pocket your winnings. You still are going to come out ahead, Darling. But pay attention to a lonely neighbor whose luck ain’t so great right now.

Libra (September 23–October 22)

There’s too many hands around the pottery wheel and it has you all befuddled. In a nice way, tell them to mind their own business, and don’t apologize. Meanwhile, you are the UP in somebody’s 7UP and don’t even know it. Sugar, you have more sex appeal than ought to be allowed throughout this whole dang star cycle.  OH

For years, Astrid Stellanova owned and operated Curl Up and Dye Beauty Salon in the boondocks of North Carolina until arthritic fingers and her popular astrological readings provoked a new career path.

Papadaddy

Same Old Game

Just new stuff

By Clyde Edgerton

Iím in the bleachers watching baseball practice. My youngest son, 11, has just started playing — this is his second practice ever — and so far, he likes it. After the first practice, we shopped for equipment, and I hear some of you already thinking: Why does Papadaddy always gripe about high prices?

The answer is this: I didn’t buy anything between 1994 and 2012, until I finally started shopping for my children’s sporting equipment.

But on the softer side — the nostalgic side — this baseball business is taking me back, in good ways, to over 60 years ago. “Yep,” I say to my son, “I started playing baseball when I was 9 years old.”

“What?” he says, “They had baseball back then?”

When I was 10 or 12, our coach worked at a local funeral home and drove a hearse to practice. I can see the hearse as it pulled onto the field near first base — long, shiny, and black. This is all true. My friends and I would open the swinging rear door and pull out a canvas bag of bats, a handbag of baseballs, and a large duffle bag with the catcher’s equipment and bases and the little plastic things held together with stretch bands that we fitted over our ears when batting. These flimsy head protectors became the norm in the late ’50s, as I recall. (Protective head gear was a consequence of mid-century political correctness.)

While we were shopping a few weeks ago, my son and I inspected batting helmets, baseball gloves — for fielding and batting — bats, baseballs and a protective cup. The protective cup comes with a pair of fancy black underwear to hold the cup in place. The reason my son is expected to buy his own equipment these days is because if, say, a funeral home bought a bag of, say, 20 baseball bats, then the funeral home could be out four grand. Easily. Check it out at your local sporting goods store.

In addition:

My son’s bat: metal. Ours: wooden.

My son’s headgear: a hard plastic helmet. Ours: (early on) a cloth cap.

My son’s cleats: plastic or rubber. Ours: steel.

My son’s batting gloves: two. Ours: none.

My son’s “protection”: a plastic cup. Ours: underwear (most of us, I guess).

My son’s fielder’s glove: synthetic, stiff, and complicated. Ours: leather, limber, and plain.

My son’s infield surface: mostly grass. Ours: mostly dirt.

My son’s outfield surface: grass. Ours: mostly dirt.

My son’s pitching mound: raised. Ours: flat.

My son’s dugout: concrete behind a fence. Ours: a wooden bench, in the open — with splinters.

My son’s coach: loves the game. Ours: loved the game.

I’m so glad the game is the same. Three strikes, four balls, three outs. Secret signals and hidden ball tricks, balks, walks and home runs. Timing, speed and precision. It’s still best to step on the base with your inside foot, watch the third base coach as you approach second base, start with your glove on the ground to catch a grounder. And the playing field itself — it expands outward from home plate. Unlike football, basketball and other sports, boundaries exist on only two sides of a baseball field, not all four sides. Hit a home run and the ball could travel all the way around the Earth and roll up behind home plate and still be in fair territory.

After the second practice, we’re gathering up equipment to head home. My son says, “Dad, they make a backpack for gloves, helmet and all that. It has two sleeves for two bats. We could get one at Dick’s along with another bat.”

“If we get another bat, we’ll have to sell your bicycle, the trampoline and your bunk bed.”

“You mean . . . like a yard sale?”

“Sure. Good idea.”   OH

Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels, a memoir and a new work, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW.

Short Stories

Veganomics

Ya gotta eat your spinach, baby! And collards, beets, beans, potatoes, carrots and other good things that grow in the ground. Come out and celebrate ’em all at Triad VegFest (November 5–6). The two-day event is the brainchild of Maria Dormandy-Taylor, owner of Aracadia Lodge (a vegan event center) and Dharma Farm Animal Refuge in Archdale. Dormandy-Taylor is also the proprietor of the food company Lovin’ Spoonfuls (maker of Nuchi Sauce). VegFest celebrates the benefits of a plant-based diet with a symposium at UNCG, a reading and book signing by marathoner and author Charlie Engle (Running Man) at Scuppernong Books and a Holiday Market Fair of local, sustainable, plant-based foods and crafts at the Greensboro Farmers Curb Market. But don’t stop there: Keep grazing on greens all month, the perfect accompaniments to Thanksgiving Tofurky. Info:
triadvegfest.org.

Claystation

What is it that’s so satisfying about pottery? Perhaps because it’s both beautiful and utilitarian — and started out as a piece of Earth. At 10 a.m. on November 12th you’ll have the opportunity to admire such works at Potters of the Piedmont Pottery Festival at Leonard Recreation Center (6324 Ballinger Road, Greensboro). Started by Earthworks Gallery in 2002, the festival has expanded to include the works of fifty-some potters from across the Piedmont, Virginia and South Carolina. So come out and support them so they can make a kiln-in. Info: pottersofthepiedmont.com.

Fir Sure

Go fell it on the mountain! Fresh-cut, locally owned and grown Christmas trees brought down from higher altitudes in N.C. are coming to the Greensboro Farmers Curb Market (501 Yanceyville Street) from 7 a.m. to Noon on November 26th. Want a little more bough wow in your life? Grab some garlands and table decorations, get your Clark Griswold on with several strings of lights, and start decking those halls. Info: (336) 373-2402 or
gsofarmersmarket.org.

It Was Twenty Years
Ago Today . . .

Or, twenty years and change, that Jim Dodson’s Final Rounds landed in bookstores. It hardly needs an introduction in these parts, but for anyone who’s been asleep for two decades: The esteemed editor of this publication (who’s a Greensboro native) chronicled his trip to the links of England and Scotland with his dad, who learned how to play the royal and ancient game while serving as an airman during World War II. Golf provides the context for a work that is part memoir, part love letter to the Gate City and a paean to the bonds of paternal and filial love. Scaling The New York Times bestseller list, among others, the book has been translated into seven languages. All told, it has sold more than 600,000 copies, a testament to the power of its universal themes. But “final” hardly describes the journey of Final Rounds’ author. After reading the book, a fellow by the name of Arnold Palmer asked our man JD to pen his biography, A Golfer’s Life, just one of eleven of tomes in the Dodson canon. Look for yet one more from our editor, muse and fearless leader, The Range Bucket List, due out June 1, 2017.

Feathered Feast

Want to know how to eat like a bird? Then stock your backyard with nutritious fare, plenty of water and shelter, and watch your fine-feathered friends flock to the feeder.  On November 17th at 2 p.m. Barbara Haralson of Wild Birds Unlimited will offer helpful hints on how to attract various species at a talk hosted by Westridge Gardners Club (Greensboro Council of Garden Clubs, 4301-A Lawndale Drive). Woodpeckers, for instance, are partial to suet, while bluejays go for peanuts, and nuthatches, in spite of their name, are nuts for sunflower seeds. Now for some advice on how not to attract squirrels . . . Info: thegreensborocouncilofgardenclubs.com.

Texation

Everything’s bigger in Texas, the saying goes, and that includes the ten-gallon sound of the Texas Tenors, who achieved fame and fortune just six years after appearing on the TV show, America’s Got Talent. And talent abounds among the trio of Marcus Collins, John Hagen and JC Fisher, whose diverse stage experience allows for a broad repertoire that includes opera, pop and country tunes. Hear them sing holiday favorites, from “White Christmas” to “O, Holy Night,” as they did to sellout crowds in the Gate City two years ago at the Greensboro Symphony Orchestra’s Tanger Pop series — Back for the Holidays on November 19th at 8 p.m. (Westover Church, 505 Muirs Chapel Road). Tickets: (336) 335-5456, ext. 239.

Dibs!

Get your sharp elbows out — and credit cards, too — and head to First Choice on November 30th at 5:30 p.m. at Greenhill (200 North Davie Street). The prelude to Winter Show (December 4–January 13, 2017), First Choice allows you to buy an art credit in a $500, $1,000 or $2,500 increments, and apply it to the piece of art of your choice. What’ll it be? A sculpture? A painting? An abstract something or other? With more than 500 works available for purchase, you’ll be overwhelmed with — well — choice. Info: greenhillnc.org.

Sister Soldiers

Love, war, adventure, discrimination, the daily routine  . . . As a salute to Veteran’s Day (November 11th), Touring Theatre of North Carolina presents Star-Spangled Girls, (Triad Stage, 232 South Elm Street) a review commissioned in 2005 by the UNCG Veteran Historical Collection. Based on diaries, letters and oral histories of women who served in the Armed Forces during World War II — WACs, WAVES, Army nurses and Red Cross volunteers — the show punctuates its vignettes with rousing music from the period. Tickets: (336) 272-0160 or triadstage.org.

OGI SEZ

Ah, November, the month we’ve all been waiting for. Not just for the usual reasons of pumpkin pies, cooler weather and Thanksgiving, but for that thing that happens November 8. Personally, I just want it to be over so that the savage beast within can return to being soothed by music.

• November 11, High Point Theatre: Speaking of being soothed, there is no better mode of decompression than the melodic piano stylings of the legendary George Winston. Whether it’s New Age, ragtime, New Orleans R&B or his take on Vince Guaraldi’s jazzy Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack, he will cure what ails you.

• November 11, The Crown above the Carolina: After dropping out of UNC twelve years ago, Joe Pug hit the road, guitar and songbook in hand. He soon landed an opening slot for Steve Earle, got signed to a Nashville label, moved to Austin and recorded two more CDs. This will be his first stop after a tour of New Zealand and Australia.

• November 12, Blind Tiger: If you know the blues, you know famed guitarist Tab Benoit. But you may not know that the Baton Rouge native is also the Voice of the Wetlands, an active conservationist preserving Louisiana’s endangered coastal areas. Even more reason to love him.

• November 19, Cone Denim Entertainment Center: From child prodigy to Grammy-award winner, Jonny Lang has seen it all. He is a recovering alcoholic and converted Christian but can still burn up that Telecaster like hellhounds on his trail.

• November 26, Greensboro Coliseum: When it’s billed as the “King and Queen of Hearts Tour,” who else could it be but Maxwell and Mary J. Blige? Oh, yes, they are superb on their own, but put them together and a spellbinding night is guaranteed.

The Omnivorous Reader

Hillbilly Blues

Poor, white and not quite forgotten

By Stephen E. Smith

The presidential election is either over or is about to be, and, barring an unforeseen catastrophe, we ought to be breathing a collective sigh of relief. But in our hearts we know the truth: It ain’t over yet. The media, including the publishing industry, aren’t about to let us rest. We’ll no doubt be obliged to examine in excruciating detail the cause-and-effect relationships that inflicted this grievous wound on our national psyche.

Publishers, of course, get us coming and going. White Trash; The Making of Donald Trump; Hillary’s America; The Year of Voting Dangerously, etc. — Amazon lists at least 17 books that address the pre-election mêlée, enough reading to keep us bleary-eyed and brain-bruised until the next election cycle, and well beyond.

Of these many offerings, Hillbilly Elegy: A Memoir of a Family and Culture in Crisis, by J. D. Vance, has been the chief beneficiary of our need to grasp the incomprehensible. Published in late June, this Horatio Alger memoir shot to the top of The New York Times and Amazon.com best-sellers lists and stayed there. This was due in large part to promotion by the author and Amazon that fostered the belief that Hillbilly Elegy offers a profound insight into the rise of Donald Trump as a presidential candidate.

A quick read of Amazon’s “Editorial Reviews” is explanation enough: “What explains the appeal of Donald Trump? . . . J.D. Vance nails it” (Globe and Mail); “You cannot understand what’s happening now without first reading J.D. Vance . . . .” (The American Conservative), and so forth. Only The New York Times acknowledged a mild albeit flawed apprehension of fact: “Mr. Vance has inadvertently provided a civilized reference guide for an uncivilized election . . . ,” “inadvertently” being the operative word.

In February, Vance wrote an op-ed for USA Today headlined: “Trump Speaks for Those Bush Betrayed”: “. . . .what unites Trump’s voters,” Vance wrote, “is a sense of alienation from America’s wealthy and powerful.” In a print interview with Rod Dreher, senior editor at The American Conservative, Vance stated, “The simple answer is that these people — my people — are really struggling, and there hasn’t been a single political candidate who speaks to those struggles in a long time. Donald Trump at least tries.” Vance’s appearances on ABC, CNN and NPR only reinforced this perception, and by the time he arrived on the set of “Morning Joe,” Vance’s criticism was even more focused, asserting that Donald Trump is “just another opioid” to many Americans struggling with loss of jobs, broken families and drug addiction.

All of which begs the question: Does Hillbilly Elegy explain the rise of Donald Trump?

It doesn’t. No amount of tortured exegesis can conclude with a calculated degree of certainty that the anecdotal examples offered in Hillbilly Elegy lead to a statistical generalization regarding the wide-ranging support garnered by the Trump candidacy. Despite the claims of critics and the author, the book does not present, directly or indirectly, a viable explanation for the recent national unpleasantness — and the hype surrounding the publication of Hillbilly Elegy amounts to little more than a subtle form of literary bait and switch.

Misrepresentations aside, it’s safe to say that Vance has written an insightful and readable memoir that details the estrangement of a segment of America’s displaced white underclass. His personal story, which comprises most of the text, is straightforward: Poor boy from a broken, drug-befuddled family wants to make good and does. The sociological narrative is also immediately explicable: As “hillbillies” migrated from Kentucky and other Southern mountain states, they clustered in desultory communities around the factories that offered them work. But this relocation came at a price. The traditional culture that once rendered support and stability from birth to death was sacrificed to economic prosperity. When the high-paying jobs disappeared, neighborhoods of poor people were left behind, lacking the social networks that sustained them in their mountain communities.

To his credit, Vance’s message is one of personal responsibility. He has no patience with convenient excuses or the tendency to shift blame to the media, politicians, or the middle and upper classes. Succinctly stated, his advice is to pull up your pants, turn your hat around and make something of your life.

Hillbilly Elegy possesses the same appeal that propelled Rick Bragg’s 1999 All Over but the Shoutin’ onto the best-sellers list — it’s thoughtful, compelling in its grim detail, and ultimately faith-affirming. No red-blooded American can abandon the belief that any lucky, talented, hardworking schmo can become a success, but the wise reader will understand that Vance’s story is not an allegory for life; it’s merely the recounting of a series of random events arranged in such a way as to suggest meaning.

Readers should also bear in mind that better sociological studies have come and gone without notice. One is reminded of Linda Flowers’ 1990 Throwed Away, which detailed the economic exploitation of eastern North Carolina sharecroppers and tenant farmers.

As for articulating the emotional toll taken on those Kentucky mountain people who migrated north, poet Jim Wayne Miller summed up their sense of loss in five lines from his 1980 collection The Mountains Have Come Closer. The final stanza of the poem “Abandoned” reads:

Or else his life became the house

seen once in a coalcamp in Tennessee:

the second story blown off in a storm

so stairs led up into the air

and stopped.  OH

Stephen E. Smith is a retired professor and the author of seven books of poetry and prose. He’s the recipient of the Poetry Northwest Young Poet’s Prize, the Zoe Kincaid Brockman Prize for poetry, and four North Carolina Press awards.