RIDGE LINESJANUARY 2018

ISSUE 7

Minnie Gallman

INTRODUCTION

CONTENTS

MINNIE GALLMAN - COVER PHOTO

Roy LindholmCaroline TaylorWilliam Hicks

Jason CarterBetsey WoodAnn Alderks

Aideen Weickert Sue Blaustein

Anne AdamsSherman Poultney

Les EwenJim Starling

Liza SiskCharles R. Merwarth

Fred SparlingCarleton Lee

Beverly Chapin

3 Steel Womb - book exerpt 6 Magic Forest - fiction 8 Jackie O meets Marlboro Man - memoir 11 Ballad of One Fist Joe - fiction 14 Bananas - memoir 16 Sailing Coach - mnemonic 17 A Side Trip - memoir 18 Adventures in Prompt Writing - memoir 20 An Artists Perception - art 22 Jude the Righteous - fiction 24 What Are Brothers for? - fiction 26 On the Road in Chatham County - local history 29 February - poem 30 Thanks for Choosing Delta - fiction 32 Harvard Reunion - memoir 34 The Pianist - fiction 37 Aunt Maddie - memoir38 CONTRIBUTING WRITERS AND EDITORS 40 SUBMISSION INSTRUCTION & EDITORIAL COMMITTEE

Journal Design - Les Ewen

Minnie Gallman’s extraordinary photograph graces the cover. Roy Lind-holm provides a terrifying excerpt from his new book. Anne Adams shares her beautiful paintings and describes her approach. People wonder what is on Big Hole Road; Jim Starling tells us. Carleton Lee portrays a dramatic ‘getting out of the rat race’ by his fictional pianist. Beverly Chapin’s memoir is written for her family but is interesting to us all. Yet again, Les Ewen’s colorful additions make this a beautiful issue. Please consider writing an article yourself or suggesting that a colleague do so. We can provide assistance with both the general approach and the prepar-ing of a submission. We can even offer to record your dictation and transcribe it. Details of format and deadlines are on the back page.

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An exerpt from Roy Lindhom’s new novel

STEEL WOMBS

2017 Lulu Publishing ServicesISBN: 978-1-4834-6624-9 (sc)

Copies in Lynn Savitzky Library &

McIntyres Books

Cal shielded his eyes against the bright sun and gazed at the ragged cliffs of black basalt rising straight out of the pounding surf. In the distance, spires of rock emerged from the ocean like ancient sentinels protect-ing Iceland from Atlantic storms. Cal loved this place but wished he could pronounce its name. “Somebody’s in trouble!” the girl from Califor-nia shouted. Cal turned and saw a woman with long black hair running toward them. She called, “Oh, please help us! Kathleen fell! She’ll die!” Cal got out of the van and followed her to the edge of the basalt cliff. He looked over at the waves that beat on the rock, filling the air with a chilly mist. Ten feet below them, a young girl huddled on a narrow ledge. Eleven or twelve, Cal guessed, and a miniature of her mother. A husky man with his right arm in a sling stood at the cliff’s edge. When he saw Cal, he extended his good hand.

“Dear God, help her! I’d be going down, but for this damned arm. Mary says I’d kill us both.” All the other members of the tour crowded around Cal. “I have an idea,” he said, but before he could finish, the tour leader ran up, waving nylon rope. “Hold on! Put this on. I did the best I could to make a harness. Crude, but it should work.” “Thanks. A lot better than going down with no safety lines.” “Here’s another piece of rope for the girl.” Cal took it and hollered, “I’m coming down now, so don’t move, Kathleen, okay?” “Not an inch.” Her answer was nearly lost in the noise of the waves crashing below. “Good girl, not an inch.” He put on the make-shift harness and eased down onto the cliff face. It was immediately clear it was going to be tricky. There were

Djúpalónsperlur or the Pearls of Djúpalón.

Rescue above Djúpalónssandur Beachby

Roy Lindholm

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more fractures in the basalt than he’d seen from the top. His first handhold threatened to dislodge an enor-mous rock. If that falls, she’s gone, and me with her, he thought. He leaned out for a better view of the rock face while working his way down as fast as he dared. When he reached her ledge, he bent down and squeezed the girl’s shoulder. “How are you doing?” She nodded. “You’ll be fine. I’m going to tie this rope around your waist. Hang on to it, and they’ll pull you up. Use your feet to push away from the rock.” He knotted the rope, tugged to test it, and waved to the group transfixed by the drama below them. He held his breath as she rose up the cliff to her parents’ waiting arms. As he began his own climb, the ledge broke; he slid down the rough face. He winced as the serrated rock sliced into his legs before the safety line stopped his fall with a jolt, leaving him hanging in mid-air. He froze; his heart pounded until he was able to draw a deep breath. “Keep the line taut,” he called. “Don’t try to pull me up; just let me climb.” He stretched to put his hand into a large crevice and pulled until his foot touched a solid ledge, continuing until several hands grabbed him. He collapsed onto the grass as the realization of just how lucky they had been swept over him. Kath-leen’s father pulled him up and wrapped him in a one-armed embrace. “I’m Sean O’Sullivan. I can never re-pay you for what you did.” He beamed as his wife began to sing an Irish blessing. “May the wind always be at your back, and may the sun shine warm on your face.” Kathleen stood by her mother and grinned at Cal. He wondered, was she embarrassed by the fuss she’d caused, or now that it was over, had she enjoyed the adventure? He knelt next to her. “You’re a lucky girl to have parents who love you so much.” “I know. What you did was brave.” “My Gaelic mountain goat, you were pretty courageous yourself. Very cool. No panic.” He brushed aside her ebony bangs. “How did you get yourself into that fix anyway?” Kathleen opened a small bag hanging around her neck and pulled out a glistening white crystal. “Zeolite. The one called chabazite, I think.” Cal took the crystal from her bruised hand. “It is,” he said and smiled. “I’m a geologist, so I can almost under-stand why you’d make a dangerous climb like that to collect crystals. But take it from me—pretty as they are,

they’re not worth the risk.” She reached out and put one in his hand. “Would you like one?” “Sure.” He admired the white crystal, dropped it into his shirt pocket. “Thanks. I’ll think of you when-ever I look at it.” Sean O’Sullivan reached out and stroked Kath-leen’s jet-black hair. “She wants to be a mineralogist. I’m not sure whether this will cure her or make her more determined.” “More determined, I’d bet.” “Yes.” She laughed. “More determined.” She pointed to the deep cuts on Cal’s legs, visi-ble under his shredded pants leg. “You’re hurt.” “I’ll live.” Then he noticed her legs were also covered with scratches. “They probably hurt too.” “They sting a bit. I was only a few feet down when a rock broke. I slid till the ledge caught me. I re-ally thought I was going to die. Then you came down. I’ll never forget your face. Never! “Nor I yours,” Cal said. “Time to go, Kathleen.” Her father took her arm and pulled her up. “Cal Larsson, come to Killybegs, and we’ll give you a proper Irish thanks.” “You know, Sean, I might just do that.” The O’Sullivans waved and walked toward the beach. Then Cal noticed his pants pocket had ripped open when he slid down the jagged rock face. The mag-ic pebbles from Djúpalónssandur Beach were gone, but now at least he had Kathleen’s crystal. He sat down on the grass again, trying to forget how this day might have had a different ending. “That could use a little TLC.” The girl from California sat beside him. “I’m a nurse, and I brought a few tools of the trade.” Digging into her rucksack, she pulled out a first aid kit. “I heard your name is Cal. Mine is Sally Davis. I’m from San Diego.” She radiates the suntanned appeal a young woman from San Diego would have, he thought. After tearing a bigger hole in his pants, she cleaned the deepest wound and covered it with a large bandage. “That should take care of you.” “I’m glad you came prepared.” “Girl Scout training.” She smiled. “What brings you to Iceland, aside from patch-ing up injured geologists?” “I’m meeting my boyfriend tomorrow, and we’re driving along the south coast from Reykjavik to the Vatnajökull Glacier.” “You’ll see the big glacier while it still has ice.”

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A look at the cliffs in Iceland where Kathleen fell.

“It’s melting, isn’t it?” “Three feet a year. In a century, it may be all gone.” “Another casualty of global warming?” “It is.” “What about the dolts who say the whole thing’s a hoax?” “Guess they’ve never visited a glacier.” Cal laughed.

The van driver began rounding up his passen-gers to begin their return trip. Cal and his new seatmate spent the rest of the trip talking about everything from climate change to California politics to collecting zeo-lites. The tour left him wishing he was driving around Iceland with a pretty girl from Ireland. The next morning, Cal caught the airport shuttle.

Author Roy Lindholm

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Oh, dear. The kids next door have done it again. Should she call the police? Mrs. Ingersoll drops the cor-ner of her curtain and picks up the telephone. She knows the number by heart, she’s called it so many times. Her hand hesitates. The last time, Officer Mead had suggested it might be a bit more neighborly if she would talk to the mother first. He’d put it as a question, but Mrs. Ingersoll had not been fooled for a minute. The oldest girl, the one with naturally wavy blond hair, had stuck her tongue out when Mrs. Ingersoll had complained about the three girls throwing china berries at her cat. “Tommy started it,” the girl had whined after Mrs. Ingersoll had finished her account of the incident. Fluffy was still making himself scarce, three weeks afterwards. “I’m sorry,” the woman had said, not bothering to introduce herself, even though Mrs. Ingersoll knows their name is Collier. “Well.” Mrs. Ingersoll had stood there, not quite knowing how to continue. Then she’d added, “Fluffy could have been injured.” “Nuh-uh,” said the girl, whose name was either Ginny or Jill. “He’s way too fast.”

“Jill,” her mother had replied in arctic tones. “That is not the point. You shouldn’t be fighting with the boys in the neighborhood.” “He started it,” said the kid, her lower lip stuck out. All in all, it had really not been very satisfactory, even though Mrs. Collier had sent the girl to her room. But so what? Had she learned her lesson? No. That’s why Mrs. Ingersoll had called the police when she’d spied the girls riding their bikes up and down the sidewalk, tossing water balloons at a couple of the boys. What a mess! And what a waste of precious water, considering this is a desert city in the middle of a severe drought—oxymoron though that might seem. It’s not likely to rain in the near future, not likely to do so ever. In Mrs. Ingersoll’s humble opinion. Officer Mead probably won’t do a darn thing if she calls him. But what those kids are doing this time goes way beyond fighting with boys or jumping off the roof of their shed—a sight that had truly frightened

MAGIC FOREST

Caroline Taylor

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Mrs. Ingersoll. For a minute there, she’d thought the child—the middle one named Polly—was going to kill herself. Not a scratch. While the girl was brushing her-self off, Mrs. Ingersoll had opened her window just in time to hear the one named Jill dare her sister to jump off the garage roof, which was at least four feet higher than the shed. “No!” the littlest sister had yelled. Dinah—or was it Diane?—couldn’t be but five or six although she seemed to have more sense than the other two. “Don’t you dare do that!” she’d said. “It’s too high. You’ll break a leg, and Mommy said not to!” The screen door slammed open, and Mrs. Col-lier stood there, hands planted on her hips. “What are you girls up to?” “Nothing,” said Polly. The little one proceeded to tell her mother ev-erything, getting the three of them into trouble so deep, nearly a whole month passed before they were spotted playing in that poor excuse for a backyard. Those girls need a much firmer hand. Why, they’re hardly girls at all, racing around in jeans all the time. Never seen in dresses. Playing war games and cowboys and Indians when normal girls would be play-ing house. It isn’t natural. Clearly, Mrs. Collier imagines herself to be a modern woman, although she isn’t one of those post-War gals who’ve stolen jobs from our men and then re-fuse to go back to being housewives. Mrs. Ingersoll sighs. Rupert would understand. He’d march right next door and give that woman what-for. But Rupert is in Heaven, and Mrs. Ingersoll is left to her own devices, forced to make judgments on every single thing. Call the police or not? Going next door to complain will make her feel that somehow she is at fault, that she’s a female Scrooge who despises Christmas and all that it stands for. Not true. Mrs. Ingersoll does her house up very nicely for the season, even though it’s somehow very sad now that Rupert isn’t around to help with the tree and admire her decorating. Call Mrs. Collier, then. Warn her that this time her children have put the entire neighborhood at risk. If not the entire city. No. Too dramatic. Mrs. Collier will only give her that wry smile that seems to telegraph, Weren’t you ever a kid? “Yes, I was,” Mrs. Ingersoll says out loud. “I was

a good little girl. I never wore trousers. I played with dolls and paper dolls and coloring books, and I never got into fights with boys.” Fluffy is looking up at her, his tail twitching. She picks him up for a cuddle, but he’ll have none of it, leap-ing from her arms and heading tail up, for the kitchen. Crossing to the window, Mrs. Ingersoll flips the curtain back. Well, what do you know? In the Collier’s backyard, Officer Mead is talking to the girls’ mother. Mrs. Ingersoll can barely see the two of them, the place is so full of this year’s discarded Christmas trees. The girls must have collected them from all over the neigh-borhood. They’re propped up against the walls bor-dering the yard, and those that still have their wooden cross stands nailed into the trunks are planted in neat rows—like a forest. A dried-up, scraggly one. Her tree is probably among them. She cracks open the window to hear “. . . get the idea. It’s magic, dontcha think?” Mrs Collier is smiling. “That’s what the girls call it. Their magic forest.” Then she looks up at him. “I sup-pose Mrs. Ingersoll complained.” “Nope.” He’s reaching into the front pocket of his uniform shirt, pulling something out of it. “Neigh-bor on the other side.” “I’m sorry,” she says, and then, “No, thanks,” when he offers her a cigarette. He’s about to strike a match when he stops. “Probably not such a good idea,” he says, waving at the trees surrounding them. “You re-alize what could happen here, dontcha?” Mrs. Collier shakes her head. “All you’d need is some guy walking down the alley there. He tosses his cigarette butt over your wall and whooooomp! That’s all she wrote.” Mrs. Ingersoll’s hand leaps to her throat. Then she closes the window, smiling. Tomboys. That’s what they call girls like that. She’s known all along they’d be a mess of trouble. Luckily, Officer Mead has taken care of that little problem, and Mrs. Ingersoll won’t be blamed for tattling.

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JACKIE O MEETS THE MARLBORO MANAlternAte title - An evening with JAcqueline Kennedy OnAssis

WILLIAM HICKS

Remember the Marlboro Man, the advertising industry’s iconic image in the 60s and 70s that influ-enced young men like myself to switch their brand of cigarettes? Hundreds of thousands aspired to the rugged, masculine look of the Marlboro Man. His aura of manliness persuaded us to purchase not only filter cigarettes, but also leather vests and a pair of cow-boy boots like he wore. If you lived in Manhattan, you bought your boots at Kaufman’s, then located on the east side in the 30s. The shop was known to carry the real thing, genuine high-heeled, pointy-toed, hand-stitched sh*t kickers, using the best leathers cobbled into what cowpokes wore to herd cattle in the states of the Far and South West. At the time, I worked as director of develop-ment for Joseph Papp, founder of Free Shakespeare in the Park (est.1956) and off-Broadway’s Public Theater (est.1967). Our first production at the Public, the hippy musical HAIR, was a huge success. Five years later, THAT CHAMPIONSHIP SEASON also received rave reviews, moved to Broadway, and went on to win the Pulitzer Prize and the Tony Award. A CHORUS LINE, our ultimate hit, gained worldwide fame and acclaim, becoming a virtual money machine for the Public, and funded a $20 million endowment for our

not-for-profit enterprise. Early one summer evening in 1972 my staff and I were working late, for what purpose I can no lon-ger recall. As I leaned back in my chair, legs crossed, admiring my spanking new, honey-colored Frye boots and chatting away on the phone, into the office popped my boss, obviously in a hurry. I hung up the phone and asked, “What’s up, Joe?” He replied, “Emergency at home. I’ve got to leave. Jackie Kennedy is coming to see ‘CHAMP’ tonight. Take care of her. If you have plans, cancel them.”

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“But, Joe,” I pleaded, “Look at me. I’m in jeans, plaid shirt, and denim jacket. I’m wearing cowboy boots, for God’s sake. I can’t meet Jackie Kennedy dressed like this!” Joe ordered, “Sure you can. She’s coming to see the play, not YOU! Give her a drink at intermission. You’re the Master of the Revels.” Joe headed outside to his car. Turning to my staff, I wondered aloud how I could possibly make it home to change clothes and back in time to play host to Jacqueline Kennedy On-assis. Everyone agreed there was not enough time to dress in more appropriate attire. For a brief moment, I fretted, then sprang into action. “Okay, let’s invite Jackie upstairs to Joe’s office during intermission and offer her refreshments. Ste-ven - go to the deli before it closes and buy whatever to serve as hors d’oeuvres. Also several bags of ice. Mar-ion - check out Joe’s office. Let’s use real glassware, not plastic. Turn over the sofa cushions if they’re stained. Straighten the chairs around the coffee table. Chris - speak to the house manager and let him know Jack-ie Onassis is in tonight’s audience. He should tell the ushers to be cool. No one should ask for an autograph. Here are keys to the closet, get the champagne and put a few bottles in the fridge in Joe’s office. Thanks. Get moving.” I checked the men’s room mirror to see how I looked and headed to the theater lobby. Curtain time was less than a half hour away. The wait for Jackie’s ar-rival was nerve wracking, which only got worse as time slowly crept by. I sent word to the stage manager to not raise the curtain until I gave a signal that Mrs. Onassis had arrived. Most of the audience had already filed into the theater by the time she showed up, two minutes before curtain time. Introducing myself, I apologized for Joe Papp’s absence. She gave me a big smile as she intro-duced her companions: band leader Peter Duchin, his wife Cheray, and attorney Michael Forrestal, a former top aide to McGeorge Bundy, National Security Advi-sor to Pres. John F. Kennedy. She had dressed simply in a plain ivory blouse over black slacks. I no longer felt under-dressed. I began to relax. Escorting them to their seats, I laughed to myself as imaginary newspaper headlines flashed in my head: ‘First Lady meets Marl-boro Man!’ and ‘Where’s the Paparazzi when you need them?’ To hinder gawkers and for security’s sake, I took the aisle seat, with Mrs. Onassis seated next to me.

THAT CHAMPIONSHIP SEASON is the sto-ry of the 20th reunion of the coach and four players of a Catholic high school basketball team in northeast Pennsylvania. Jackie and her party proved to be a ter-rific audience. Engaged by the dialogue, they laughed at the jokes in the script, and never appeared distract-ed from what was happening on stage. I noticed Mrs. Onassis said not a single word to Mr. Forrestal, her ap-parent escort. As usual, the actors were superb and the performance came off without a hitch. At intermission, her guests dallied in their seats, so much so that most of the audience had already de-parted to the lobby for drinks or to use the rest rooms. As she and I exited the theater followed by her guests, we descended a short staircase. A hush came over the crowd gathered in the lobby below. People stopped conversing when they realized a celebrity was in the house. As we crossed the marble floor, all eyes were upon us. The crowd separated from one another like the parting of the Red Sea after Moses’ command, to al-low Jacqueline Onassis, her escort (me), and her guests to pass. Next day my staff reported they’d heard people inquire as to the identity of the “guy with Jackie O”.She hooked her arm into mine and in her breathy school girl voice, observed “Bill, the program says the playwright Jason Miller is married to Jackie Gleason’s daughter. Do you remember the TV comedy show that starred Jackie Gleason playing a bus driver? His neigh-bor was so funny.” “Sure, I remember, Mrs. Onassis. Gleason played a bus driver named Ralph Cramden. However, his buddy Ed Norton, who was played by Art Carney, worked in the sewer.” “What was the name of the show? It’s on the tip of my tongue.” “’The Honeymooners.’ “Oh yes, I remember!” she exclaimed, giving a huge grin and a belly-laugh. I joined in. We continued to make small talk about the theater’s history. She and guests piled into the Public’s small el-evator. I explained we were headed to Mr. Papp’s of-fice for refreshments. Pushing the button for the sec-ond floor, I sent them on their way in the antiquated, slow-moving machine. I took the stairs two steps at a time to reach Joe’s office before they did. Miraculously, Joe’s office looked swell. Lighting had been dimmed. Buckets of ice had been found to hold bottles of champagne. Glasses glistened nearby to receive the bubbly. Sofa pillows had been fluffed. Com-fortable chairs circled the coffee table. I was pleased.

And then I spotted the bowls of Pepperidge Farm Gold-fish. “That’s all the deli had left,” my assistant Steven sheepishly explained. “That’s okay. It will give Mrs. Onassis some-thing to talk about at lunch tomorrow: Dom Perignon and Goldfish. Another first!” As she and her party arrived, I poured the cham-pagne into flutes. Peter Duchin suggested she should plan to see the play a second time with Aristotle Onassis, whom she had married a few years earlier. “Ari would love it!’ It’s butch, just like him!” Duchin exclaimed. Conversation bubbled, just like the champagne - tasty, delicious, ice cold - so much so that everyone accepted seconds. No one was at a loss for words. Mrs. Onassis finally turned to converse with Michael Forrestal. From across the room I stood by, observing the group. Thanks to her fame and notoriety, the former First Lady possessed a kind of aura. Her grace, her re-gal bearing, and bouffant hairdo enhanced her natural beauty. She was radiant, vivacious, her eyes flashing as she spoke. Never before or since have I seen a person’s eyes set as far apart as hers. Spying me, she patted the seat beside her, inviting me to join them. I smiled my thanks, but shook my head no. The group discussed the play, their families, their plans for the rest of the sum-mer. Checking the time, I intruded to announce Act Two was about to begin. They made haste to rejoin the audience.

Act Two was filled with high drama, theatre at its best. When the curtain came down, the audience roared with approval. Mrs. Onassis turned to me to say how “utterly marvelous” the play was and to thank me for providing a very special evening. She seemed quite sincere. I invited her to come backstage to meet the all-male cast. She thanked me again, but demurred, saying she would write a note of appreciation to Mr. Papp. In the lobby, everyone exchanged goodbyes. She left to climb into the limo that stretched outside. She never did write a thank-you note. Joe Papp could not remember ever receiving one. For me, the evening had been a thrilling moment. A conversation - so natural, without stiffness or affectation - with one of the most famous public figures of our time became an indelible memory. Over the years at dinner parties, I’ve often been asked to share my impressions of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. The story has joined my repertoire of anecdotes about crossing paths with some of the world’s most admired women. Circumstance presented these opportunities. I took advantage of them. And frankly, I confess to being an exceptionally lucky guy. Cheers!

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He came into the world in much the same way as you or I, except for two peculiar occurrences, one more curious than the last. When Joe left his moth-er’s womb, he did so, right hand first and on that right hand, he had four nearly perfect fingers and one mostly perfect thumb. As phalanges go they were normal, ex-cept for the fact that they were curled into a fist. At first glance, his mother and the good doctor that delivered him thought this was a temporary condition that would resolve itself once young Joe relaxed into his new world. This was not to be, however. Upon closer inspection, it became clear that each digit was fused to the next and they all were attached to his palm along the length of each finger. As he grew older, Joe and his mother would lovingly refer to this as his “forever fist”.

Oh? Well, you’re right, of course, dear reader; I did indeed say there were two peculiar things about the way our Joe came into this world. As if being born with a forever fist weren’t enough of an oddity for our hero to endure; what followed that unusual right hand out of the womb, was a perfectly healthy and unremark-able baby boy. Unremarkable, except for the fact that he was born wearing a perfectly formed, pair of dunga-rees, complete with brass rivets and (as Joe would later learn), magic pockets. No matter how many times they removed those blue jeans from his tiny little legs, after

the next blink of the eye, they’d be right back on his bot-tom zipper closed and buttoned up. Joe grew up as normal as a boy in magic pants and saddled with a forever fist possibly could, but kids, as you well know, dear reader, can be terribly cruel. Some called him “One fist Joe” while others called him “the denim kid” (I said they were cruel, not creative) and still others just snickered behind his back. No mat-ter what other people called him, the only name that mattered to Joe was the name of which his doting moth-er knew him, and that was always “Joe My Love” even when she was angry. Now if the story ended here, I suppose it would be a curious enough tale, but our story does not end here, in fact, it has hardly begun. I told you of how Joe came to be so I could tell you about the Magic that sur-rounds him and before I can go on I must tell you a bit more about those wonderful pants of his. You see aside from the fact that they were somehow woven and stitched together, rivets and all, inside his mother’s womb, those fantastic blue jeans had ever more magic to reveal. First, they grew with Joe! The longer his legs got, the longer the jeans got! The wider his waist got, so too the jeans. Whenever they became soiled or thread-worn, all Joe had to do was utter the words, “jeans just right” and they were like new once again. By far the most astonishing thing about those marvelous pants was the left hip pocket, but you’ll hear more about that in a little while. Now I’ve already told you (and you already knew) that kids can be cruel and if there was anyone that knew this better than Joe did, it was Little Mack-enzie Hillenbrand or Mack as Joe called him. Joe was Mack’s only friend and he Joe’s. They had something in common, they were different. Now Mack didn’t have a forever fist or magic pants but he had been born with a slightly smaller than average head and a very large brown birthmark that started on one cheek and ran right across the bridge of his nose to the other cheek.

The Ballad of One Fist Joe and the Denim Curiosity

Jason Carter

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This rather unfortunate combination had led to some particularly hurtful japes and jibes. It had also branded him with the nickname “Mud-Mark Mackenzie”, com-pliments of Bartholomew J. Shiner. Who is Bartholomew J. Shiner? You ask. He was every schoolyard bully you’ve ever heard of and every back alley brawler all rolled into one. He was fourteen years old and still in the fourth grade and he was big! Even for a teenager. He was 5’10’’ tall and weighed 180 pounds. The only reason he was allowed to stay in The State Street Primary School was that his mother was the principal and his father the Mayor of Grittsburgh. Despite his upper-crust breeding he was unsettling to behold, to say the least. He had greasy, flop sweat, black hair and he smelled of sweat and onions and he had yellow teeth because he was known to pinch cig-arettes from Jack Crowley’s Service station and he sel-dom brushed his teeth. He was renowned in four coun-ties for his ability to torture smaller children and one of his specialties was punching them in the nose just so, as to blacken both eyes at once, with a single blow. This particular penchant had led to the moniker “Black Eye Bart”! One day, some short while after his seventh birthday, Joe was walking home from the market with a few groceries his mom had asked him to fetch when he saw a sight that made him chill right through. It was Black Eye Bart and his gang of stoolies surrounding his latest victim. There was a crowd gathering and even from the other side of State Street, Joe could make out the shrieks of his one and only friend, Mack. Now, this was not the first time Mack had fallen victim to Bart’s bullying and Joe himself had often been the target of Bart’s japes if not a few of his right hooks, yet he had never been able to screw up the courage to stop him. Today, however, was different. Today Joe had had enough! Joe crossed State Street with purpose and he el-bowed his way through the growing crowd. With each step Joe could feel the blood coursing through his forev-er fist, throbbing in his fused digits. To Joe, it appeared that with each angry beat of his heart his fist seemed to grow larger ever so slightly. He made his way to the cen-ter of the circle where he found his friend lying spread eagle on the sidewalk with tears streaming down his bright red face and pooling around his namesake mud-mark. After helping Mack to his feet Joe turned to face Bart. Joe wanted to tell him off for abusing his friend and for being such a nasty bully, but as he turned he had just enough time to register a snarling Bart mov-

ing toward him with his hands outstretched in an un-mistakable, “when I get my hands on your throat” posture. With absolutely no word from Joe, the forever fist (which now without a doubt had grown two sizes) flew from his side with inhuman speed and caught Bart just under his left mandible. The punch lifted the terri-ble bully (who was well over a hundred pounds heavier than Joe) at least two feet off the ground until gravity deposited him, tail over teakettle onto the State Street asphalt. Bart’s goons were too shocked to be angry, but they closed ranks around Joe and Mack just the same. Joe raised the forever fist over his head, just then; he was startled by a wiggling in his front left pocket. With-out a thought, Joe plunged his hand into his pocket to investigate. When he pulled out his hand he found a tiny (but perfect) 1/16th scale hornets’ nest. The now unconscious Bart’s goons advanced on Joe and Mack! Joe, perplexed by the curious trinket he had found in his pocket but with more pressing things to worry about (like fending off the seven fourth-graders bent on his annihilation) threw it into the air. As the tiny nest reached the apex of its arch, it grew, in an instant to full size and sprang open, expelling hundreds of denim col-ored hornets with brass stingers! The terrified onlookers ran away shrieking, as did Bart’s flunkies, but they hadn’t made it more than a few steps before being set upon by the curious insects. One of the Hornets (the largest one) even stung the still snoring Black Eye Bart for good measure. Now I’d like to tell you that this was the end of the bully problem at State Street Primary School but of course it wasn’t. Other bullies came and went but they didn’t last long with the tale of the one punch wasp bringer, lingering overhead. I can tell you that neither Bartholomew J. Shiner nor his ghouls ever bullied any-one again. In fact, Bart was so impacted (no pun intend-ed) that he joined a monastery and took a vow of silence so as to never incur such wrath again. As for Joe and Mackenzie, the denim wasps didn’t bother them of course. As Joe stood there with his friend on the sidewalk he felt another curious tug in-side his pocket. Joe hooked his left thumb into the fabric opening and pulled the pocket ajar so he could peek in-side. Just then a beautiful (and quite large) faded denim butterfly darted out from the pocket and circled around their upturned faces. The butterfly circled Mackenzie’s face three times and landed softly on the little boy’s cheek at one end of his birthmark. Mack moved to swat the insect away but Joe stopped him. As the butterfly slowly walked across Mack’s face, Joe could see that it

13

was changing from its beautiful pale blue to a muddy brown, little by little, with each step. To his amazement, Joe could also see that in the butterfly’s wake, where Mackenzie Hillenbrand’s lumpy brown mud-mark had been, now there was smooth pink skin. When nearly all of the birthmark had been changed, the now mostly brown butterfly flapped his wings and left the weeping boy’s face, leaving the tiniest freckle on his cheek. When it had circled three times it vanished into thin tendrils of smoke. Mackenzie grew into a fine young man and went on to do many fine things and to this very day when he looks into the mirror to shave his chin or brush his teeth he smiles at the tiny freckle and remembers his friend with the magic pants. Joe had many more adventures; maybe someday I can tell you more tales of his forever fist and magic pants but let us linger here a bit longer, lest we forget that this story offers us more of a blessing than a moral. Jason Carter tells this story

MAY YOU NEVER RAISE YOUR FIST IN ANGER,

SAVE TO DEFEND WHAT IS RIGHT

AND

MAY YOUR POCKETS ALWAYS HOLD

EXACTLY WHAT YOU NEED

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When finally I was able and ready to give up the bottle, a delightful substitute was provided. A Banana! It gave my little hands something comfortable still to clasp; and chewing on the fruit was far more reward-ing than chewing on an empty rubber nipple. In oth-er words, I “Went Bananas” at an early age! Ever since childhood I have depended on starting the day with Ba-nana slices on breakfast cereal. And through the years, Banana slices have enhanced my taste for several oth-er kinds of food, including peanut butter sandwiches, puddings, cakes and pancakes, even assorted soups. My first sight of Bananas actually growing on trees was not until adulthood, when husband Joe and I went to Costa Rica on a Birding Tour and were taken to a Banana Plantation. My “mind’s eye” still holds the wonderful picture of big yellow-green Banana bunches covering the tops of low-growing trees. Laborers car-ried the bunches on their shoulders to a warehouse, for washing and rinsing in large tubs of water. Then the Ba-nanas were loaded onto trucks and hauled to the coast to awaiting Banana Boats. Many were bound for the US.

No doubt the cargoes also included a few Ba-nana Spiders, although we did not encounter any in Costa Rica. But soon after our move to Florida I spied what may have been one, an enormous brown spider on the ceiling in a corner of our guest bedroom. It was a spectacle, but of course belonged elsewhere. Joe cap-tured it in a butterfly net and released it outside. We never saw it again. Perhaps it found its way safely back to a Banana boat? When we retired to Florida I was determined to have a Banana tree of my own, and found a small one at the local nursery. Joe planted it in our side-yard. The tree had no bananas on it at the time, but I was assured it would eventually. I could hardly wait! Then about a month later daughter Carolyn came home for a visit, bringing her pet Samoyed. Although he was a well-be-haved dog, it seemed best that he sleep outside at night, in our enclosed side-yard. That turned out to be a major mistake! The next morning I found my prized little Banana tree lying piti-fully on the ground, completely uprooted. Either out of

BANANASBetsey Wood

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resentment, or because the tree had inspired his curi-osity, our doggy-guest had dug it up. Joe immediately replanted the tree on the chance that it might recover. But it did not. After that unfortunate incident I decided not to try growing another, and have settled for store-bought Bananas ever since. Six years ago, when I felt ripe enough for a re-tirement facility, I picked Galloway Ridge. Here, my taste for Bananas continues strong as ever. For dinner I usually request one or two in place of dessert. When the waiter’s reply is “Sorry, we don’t have any tonight,” or “They all are overripe,” it is very disappointing. I am reminded of the old song “Yes, we have no Bananas, We have no Bananas today.” Fortunately Bananas always are available in Harris Teeter’s produce section, so I still can enjoy one every morning on my cereal. Usually I first remove the skin’s sticky label, to add to the display on one of my kitchen cabinets. These decorative (?) labels indicate where the Bananas came from, and include Costa Rica, Guatemala, Ecuador, Venezuela, Mexico, Honduras and the United States. The company names are Chiquita, Dole, Rosy, Del Monte, Amigo and Sunkist.

Occasionally I also amuse myself by recycling the Banana skins. I cut them into assorted shapes and hope they will retain those shapes as they dry. When they do, I’ve turned them into a Banana spider, an octo-pus, birds, flowers, and a reclining human figure. And I enjoy a game called “Banagrams” which involves mak-ing crosswords from 144 lettered tiles held in a yellow Banana-shaped zip-bag. But always, and especially nowadays, I am care-ful not to let a slippery Banana -peel drop to the floor. It could cause a great fall, fatal as Humpty-Dumpty’s. I am not yet ready for that. When the time comes, how-ever, it might be rather an appropriate way for me to go!

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SAILING RIGHT OF WAY RULES

Ann Alderks

Sailing Coach at Christ Church School in VirginiaBoys Boarding School

Two Students from present-day Christ Church School

Close hauled upon the starboard tack - no other ship may cross your track.

If on the port tack you appear - of other ships you must stay clear.

You must yield when sailing free of ships close hauled and on your lee.

And if you keep the wind right-aft - keep clear of every sailing craft.

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When my family and I moved from the north-east to Kentucky, we began to join the customary mi-gration of my husband’s extended family to northern Michigan for summer vacation. The Traverse City area had drawn midwestern families for generations with its great weather, devoid of humidity, its water, sand dunes Petoskey stones, fishing and cherries. In those days, there were hordes of cousins be-tween the ages of about twelve and three years of age roistering around. Parents would leave their individu-al cottages on the compound to gather around that of grandparents who held court in the late afternoon, after the day’s fishing and trips were over. They lounged, raised a glass and chatted until the common evening mealtime arrived to be followed by another brief spin to see if fish were biting in the dusk. I was the latest to join the group and the least well-known since we lived “away” -- from the Cincin-nati area. I was a recent immigrant which accentuated my “newcomer” status. How many, after all, quietly sympathized with my father-in-law when he wondered aloud, when I first arrived, if, being Irish, I might well be an alcoholic! And so, the vacation days passed pleasantly. Sometime during the second week, I felt a surfeit of “togetherness” and determined to take a trip alone to Interlochen, not far away. I had read or heard of the Interlochen International Music Camp and it was un-thinkable not to go see it when it was close by. My plan was received with a measure of incomprehension by many family members but there was my husband to keep an eye on the children so off I drove. There were lots and lots of cottages and larger buildings scattered about the wooded campus. Young people flitted about carrying instruments, costumes, scores and lighting equipment as they prepared for the evening performances. Even today, with a campus enlarged to 2600 acres, a greatly expanded slate of artistic disciplines

on the prospectus, the name changed to The Interlo-chen International Arts Camp, students of all ages from thirty-one countries, the focus is on music. Fifty-one percent of students are there to study music. They are highly selected, competitive, gifted young people all who benefit from an extraordinary teaching staff. Seated two rows ahead of me as we waited for the first soloist to appear on stage sat a family of four: mother, father, a boy of about eight and a daughter of about thirteen years of age, I would guess. Nothing very remarkable but my attention was riveted on the girl. She was tall, leggy, coltish with waist-length hair. She was draped about her father’s neck and shoulders in an incongruous pose. I found this distracting and disconcerting, to put it mildly, and wondered if the ju-venile behavior resulted from her having, perhaps, psy-chological problems or …or…? Where I came from, this would appear unseemly. Nothing of the sort would have been tolerated in a girl about as tall as her mother.A few instrumentalists played their solos which were very good indeed though I cannot now recall the de-tails of their performance. The girl’s name was called. She slowly, languorously unwound herself to her full height, picked up her violin and mounted on stage where her mother had already taken her place at the piano as accompanist. This girl raised her violin, rose to her full height. Every vestige of her former ‘immaturity’ fell away and she began to play most beautifully in an astoundingly mature fashion. The transformation was complete. I was transfixed and the hair rose on the back of my neck. In this transport, I completely lost any sense of time.Of course her family had sacrificed to come live here for a month, would continue to sacrifice in support of this ‘terrible beauty’ that had been given her – given them. I hoped that her brother too would benefit in his turn. Later I drove back, somewhat changed from what I was before.

A SIDE-TRIPAideen Weickert

The Interlochen International Arts Camp

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PROLOGUE For several years, I participated in a month-ly “prompt writing” class at the Fly Leaf book store in Chapel Hill. During one of these sessions, our group of twenty people was challenged to look at a single photo-graph and then write a two-part interpretation of what we saw. In other words, first create a scenario written in the voice of the photographer and then follow with a scenario written in the voice of person in the photo-graph. Twenty minutes were allotted for hand writing each section (no computers allowed)! I’d like to share the fruits of my labor during this session, but first I want to try and peak your interest in writing from a “prompt.” So, what is a writing prompt? A “writing prompt” is simply a topic around which you start jot-ting down ideas. The prompt could be literally anything from a single word like ‘friendship’ or a short phrase (“I can’t imagine life without…”) to a complete paragraph or even a picture. The idea is that these word or pic-ture prompts give you something to focus upon as you start to write. You may stick very closely to the original prompt or you may wander off on a tangent. In my prompt sessions, there were times when all I could come up with were rough, disjointed notes. Other sessions seemed to really flow and I produced something more polished and complete. I was always surprised where my creative journey took me, since just one minute before I walked through the door of the book store, the given prompt was not even remotely in my head. The point is to simply start writing without being held back by any inhibitions, doubts, or spelling challenges. I found that some of my efforts took on a humorous tone and other times I’d be in the thoughtful memoir mode. Now, here’s the prompt photo that I mentioned at the beginning of this essay. It is accompanied by my interpretation (written in about 20 minutes). Remem-ber, the prompt was to write about the photo using the voices of the photographer and the woman in the pho-tograph. I titled it: The Photographer and the Shopper.

I was out on a photo shoot in the North Carolina Arbo-retum in Chapel Hill. It was a glorious Spring day and I knew exactly how I was going to approach my new free-lance assignment for “The North Carolina Natural-ist Magazine.” My subject matter was straight in front of me and the landscape was wonderfully silent. I carefully checked the settings on my Canon EOS Rebel camera, and pointed my new telephoto lens toward a stately row of old poplar trees. The branches and leaves cast crisp dark shadows on the sun-lit gravel path. I was going to capture a perfect moment in nature’s quietude. Just as I was about the release the shutter and freeze time for a nanosecond, a human form rushed out from behind a tree. Instinctively, my camera went into action as I captured the extreme contrast of my two sub-jects – one second I was focused on the peaceful, green precision of a tree lined garden lane and the next sec-ond I was “shooting” a determined “female predator” charging at me like a shopper bound for a door-buster sale the day after Thanksgiving.

Adventures in Prompt Writing

Susan Blaustein

THE PHOTOGRAPHER’S VOICE

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Hello, my name is Clarissa Avery Wellington and I have a story to tell you. It’s about the day I visited Chapel Hill to patronize the Little Shop, the most ele-gant women’s wear emporium in town. However, in the blink of an eye, my wonderful plan was almost ruined. Here’s what happened… “I arrived in town on a beautiful Spring day, with a cloudless Carolina blue sky over-head. I decided to enjoy a short stroll before heading to my intended des-tination. I parked my 20-year-old Buick Regal near the shop which also happened to be next to the entrance of the North Carolina Arboretum. Off I went to enjoy the delicate colors and gentle sounds of the season in a won-derful park setting. Somehow, in the first five minutes of my constitutional, I got turned around on my path and found myself wandering through what seemed like a forest of monster trees. To say that I felt panicked and

disoriented in this abundance of nature is rather an un-derstatement. Really, have you ever tried maneuvering on a rock-strewn trail wearing stiff (but oh so fashion-able) high heel shoes and a calf-length gabardine pen-cil-skirt? I was totally miserable and could think only about how much quality shopping time I was missing. Then in the blink-of-an-eye, my luck changed as I spied a woman photographer in the distance. Even though her long black camera lens was pointed straight at me like a pilgrim about to shoot a Thanksgiving tur-key, I felt a big sigh of relief. Here was my chance to be rescued from my misguided wanderings; surely this person would be able to point me back in the direction of the Little Shop.

Truth be told, this modest “prompt” essay would never be a Pulitzer Prize contender for the “Very Short Fiction” category but it was a lot of fun to compose and my writing buddies enjoyed hearing me read it.

Here’s some prompts for you to use.

Give it a try!!!

THE VOICE OF THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTO

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ANNE ADAMS

A new resident in Galloway Ridge, Anne Adams, is this issue’s artist

I grew up near the water in Jacksonville, Florida. Looking out over the water always brought a sense of wonder and peace. My father was a well-known naturalist and bo-tanical illustrator. I have an innate sense of color and composition as most of us do. My father encouraged me to continue to use that in painting. I fear it frequently is drummed out of us in school.

ONE ARTIST’S PERCEPTION

Anne Adams

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ANNE ADAMSI have two methods of working:

Ususally with my watercolors, I start with a pre-conceived idea and work from there. I like painting animals and doing landscapes. I like getting the feel of the place, rather than doing an exact rendi-tion.

With my mixed media and collages, I work from what I put on the page. Frequently the line is cre-ated by the edges of the paper, that I mostly hand color. The repetition of color and shape cause the idea to move through the page.

My goal is to reflect the harmony and balance rem-iniscent of natural forms. There is a continuum between the representation of natural forms in my watercolors and the abstract forms of my mixed media.

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Once upon a time in the ante-bellum South, there were two brothers. Ezekiel and Jude the Righ-teous. Their father died early of a heart attack. He left them each a small farm with a few slaves. He left Eze-kiel the young slave girl, Alice. Ezekiel then lived with Alice as his wife. Jude was outraged, but held his peace to maintain family dignity. He was a Deacon in the lo-cal Baptist church. The father had also left two married daughters two small bequests. Ezekiel and Alice had one son, a light-skinned negro, Jesse. When the son was twelve in 1835, Ezekiel took wife and son from Alabama to Ohio, freed them, and left them there so Alabama could not re-enslave them. He sent them monthly sums for living expens-es. Ezekiel had started to have heart problems like his father. He also gave Alice witnessed copies of his Will and his life insurance policy with them named as bene-ficiaries. He did all this on the advice of a local lawyer in order to prevent the white heirs from nullifying the Will by Alabama State Law. Alabama Law prevented blacks from inheriting and from being freed by a Will. Freed blacks with money were an anathema in the South. Ezekiel believed that he as a white man could do as he pleased and take responsibility for his wife and son, re-gardless of color. The local lawyer agreed with Ezekiel’s beliefs. Jesse goes to college in Ohio and becomes a law-yer. His mother, Alice, dies in 1850. Before she dies, she gives Jesse the Will and insurance policy. The monthly allowance from Ezekiel does not arrive that summer. Jesse goes back to Alabama to find out about his father and seek to probate his will. He knows he and Alice have been named as heirs to the Will. He also seeks to cash the insurance policy. He makes sure to take notarized evidence of his manumission by Ezekiel in Ohio. Jesse arrives in town and walks the 5 miles to Ezekiel’s farm. He knocks on the front screen door and Jude, The Righteous, answers. Jude does not recognize this light-skinned negro in a suit. Jude is dressed in farm clothes. “What do yah want, Boy,” Jude asks. “I’d like to talk to Ezekiel Smith,” Jesse replies.” “Ezekiel died last April, Boy” “I’m no Boy. I’m Jesse Smith. I’m Ezekiel’s son,

Didn’t Ezekiel have a Will?” “Yes, he did. What’s it to yah?” “I’m his son, Jesse, and I’m a lawyer in Cincinna-ti. I’m here to probate the Will.” “Won’t do you no good. The judge Hardiway threw the Will out because it warn’t legal here in Ala-bama. A white man can’t leave property to a black con-cubine nor to any black children. The Court awarded me all the estate including this farm and slaves. You have no claim here. In fact, by probate, you are my property. Nigger.” “I’ll check at the Courthouse tomorrow morn-ing. I have a notarized copy of the Will.” “Won’t do you any good. Slaves aren’t welcome at the Courthouse.” “I also have a notarized copy of my Ohio manu-mission papers.” “Northern legal papers are not recognized here, either.” “I’ll come back afternoon and we’ll see.” Jesse returns the next afternoon. Jude asks, “Did they give you the time of day at the Courthouse?” “Yes, there’s a new judge there. He read the Will and the life insurance policy.” “What life insurance policy?” “Ezekiel’s. Naming my mother and me as bene-ficiaries.” “Let me see that policy.” Jesse hands Jude the Righteous the policy and says, “By the Will, this farm and these these fields should be mine.” “Well, you jess step out back to look at your fields.” Jesse steps out back and sees a newly dug grave. Jude raises his rifle and shoots Jesse several times in the back. Jesse falls forward into the grave. Jesse cries, “Please help me out and get me to a hospital.” “A nigger’s life’s not worth a plug nickel. No nig-ger’s going to take my lawful property. You’re not going to besmirch our family name by claiming my brother practiced miscegenation and tried to leave property to slaves. Slave women are not worthy of protection under the Alabama Law.”

JUDE THE RIGHTEOUS

Sherman Poultney

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Jude the Righteous shoots Jesse once more and then starts filling the grave with dirt. In spite of Jesse being his slave. “You’re not going to spread nigger blood into the white race and you’re not going to overturn our religiously-ordained system of slavery by rewarding fornication across color. A white man here is free to do as he damn well pleases.”

©Sherman Poultney 10 July 2015

Note: Based on Righteous Fathers, Vulnerable Old Men, and Degraded Creatures: Southern Justices on Miscegenation in the Antebellum Will Contest, Bernie D. Jones,2005 http://digitalcommons.law.utulsa.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=2495&context=tlr

Peaceable Kingdom - Edward Hicks

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My brother, Shad, is either a chicken or the best friend a guy could have. I’ll explain. One Saturday, Dad, a writer for our local paper, came home and told us he had interviewed a pilot who had built his own plane. The interview was done out at the airfield, and Mr. Romero took Dad up for a ride. “A biplane,” Dad said, “you know the kind with two sets of wings and just big enough for two riders. We flew over our house, but there was no way to let you guys know I was overhead.” “I’ve always wanted to go up in a plane,” Shad said. “You would have loved it, Shadwell. You could see the whole town laid out under you. I even saw Grandpa’s little farm.” “Can you take me up in a plane, Dad? Shad asked. “It’s kind of expensive, Son.” “I know, but it would be the best thing that ever happened to me.” “Well, sometime, maybe.” “My birthday’s in two weeks, how about a ride in a plane for a present?” “Are you sure you want a ride? Once it’s over,

there is nothing but memories to show for it.” “It would be the best present I ever got, honest!” “Okay, if that’s what you really want.” Dad called the pilot and a date was set for two weeks from that day. That night Shad and I were in bed waiting for sleep to come, when I said, “What are you going to do if the plane wasn’t built too well – say, a wing fell off.” “Won’t happen, Hal. Don’t need to worry about stuff like that. I have a good feeling about this plane ride.” I waited. I knew this would start him thinking. I could count on him making the next move. The next morning after breakfast, we were get-ting ready for church when Shad said. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared next Saturday. I mean ac-cidents do happen, right?” “Right,” I said. I could feel a great idea coming. “I was thinking about that umbrella Gramps leaves in the hall closet – the one in his golf bag.” “What about it?” I asked. “Well, I know they make jokes about using an umbrella as a parachute, but that umbrella is so big.” After church, we always had a big dinner fol-lowed by a snooze for the adults.

WHAT ARE BROTHERS FOR?

Les Ewen

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“Come on, let’s try the umbrella out,” Shad whis-pered when we heard Dad snoring in his recliner. We snuck the umbrella out of the closet and went out back to our separate one car garage next to the alley. Shad thought it would be a great place to see if the umbrella would make a good parachute. “I’ll give you a boost up to the roof,” Shad said. “Now wait a minute, this was your idea,” I said, “You jump!” “I would but how are you going to get me on the roof? I weigh twice as much as you.” There was a certain amount of logic to that. “Oh well, what the hey, I’ll give it a go,” I said. He lifted me up, and I crawled from the gutter to the peak of the roof. I couldn’t believe that the look down was so much bigger than the look up. “I ain’t jumpin’, Shad, it’s too high.” “Come on, Hal, the umbrella will float you down - land you like a feather. It’ll be great.” “No way!” “How about I drag your old crib mattress out of the garage.” “Maybe.” I wasn’t going to jump onto any gravel that’s for sure. Shad dragged the mattress out. I opened the umbrella. A gust of wind lifted the umbrella, pulling my hand with it. Maybe this was go-ing to work. I moved closer to the edge. “Here I come!” I leaped into the air. The um-brella pulled out of my hand and I fell with a thud to the mattress. I lay still, unable to breathe. Dad must have heard us because he came running out the backdoor. He took one look at me and yelled, “You stupid kids! Haven’t you got any sense?” Shad ran to get the umbrella. He came back smiling. “The umbrella’s fine. I was worried for a min-ute.”

“The umbrella? Are you serious?” Dad said. “Look at your brother.” By this time, I was starting to breathe again. My arm hurt something awful. Dad brushed the hair out of my face. “Hal, I think you broke your arm.” I looked down and saw my arm not only bent at the elbow, but half-way to my hand there was a bend as well. “Let’s get you to the hospital.” The doctor set my arm and gave me some stuff for the pain. By the time Shad’s birthday came around, I was feeling great. The only problem was the cast felt itchy. The whole family went out to the airfield to watch Shad get what he called, ‘the ride that would change his life’. Mr. Romero came over to Dad and asked, “Who’s the lucky kid?” Dad gave Shad’s back a shove. “This boy right here.” “Uh Dad,” Shad said, “Could we talk alone for a minute?” They walked over to the hangar. It was obvious Dad was steamed about something because he stomped away from Shad. Then I heard Dad yell, “But I already paid for the darn ride.” When Dad came back he announced that Shad didn’t want to go up today, maybe next year. About this time my brother piped up. “Why not let Hal take my place?” I didn’t need to be asked twice. I jumped at the chance. I loved the ride even if I did almost throw up when we did a loop-de-loop. When I looked at Shad, he was grinning. Did I get the plane ride because Shad was a chicken or did he want to make-up for the umbrella jump?

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26

ON THE ROAD IN CHATHAM COUNTY

Jim Starling

Goo

gle M

ap -

show

ing

Gal

low

ay R

idge

, Big

Hol

e, a

nd F

earr

ingt

on

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Every 5 or 6 weeks I drive from Galloway Ridge south on 15- 501 towards Pittsboro to get a haircut. Sometimes there are 2 to 3 men my age sitting around discussing politics. It’s interesting to hear their very conservative viewpoints which at times usually disagree with mine.

These are not folks who get their information from the Wall Street Journal or New York Times. But it is a pic-ture of the rural South. The solo barber Abbott is my age and has been barbering in the same chair for 53 years. He had a part-ner for 46 years who died a few years back. I asked him why he didn’t get another partner. He simply stated that it would be too emotional for him and that he will re-main the lone barber until he can no longer work and then he will sell the business. Abbott still has steady hands and gives a very nice haircut even though I’m not much of a coiffeur’s challenge. The charge is $14.00 and this includes a warm foam shave around ears and the neck. I asked him once why there were no black clients and he said it’s because he wasn’t trained to cut black people’s hair and that there were two black barbershops in Pittsboro. One of the neat things for me going there for a haircut is that he knows I’m not a native, but a Yankee from the upper Midwest. Because of this he always takes a few minutes if he is not rushed to tell me something about the history of Pittsboro and Chatham County. Re-cently he asked me if I had ever heard of the Big Hole? It was a mystery to me so he began to tell me about this secret government/AT&T project located not far from Galloway Ridge, and touching the southern border of Fearrington Village. This fantastic tale intrigued me and fostered my curiosity to find out more, and how the

Cold War came to Chatham County.

THE BIG HOLE

I went to the Chatham County Courthouse to look for more information. With the help of Lun-day Riggsbee, Register of Deeds, on October 31, 1962, Mary Elizabeth Hamme McLean and husband A. F. McLean, JR. sold a portion of her property to Ameri-can Telephone and Telegraph Company which is regis-tered in the state of New York. It is located in Williams Township, Chatham County. It consists of 150.38 acres of land bordered on the north by the lands of Moore brothers, on the east by the remaining Hamme lands, on the south and west by Hamme and Moore brothers and the on northern tip it touches Fearrington Village; the Eastern part is now adjacent to the Preserve at Jor-dan Lake. I found out from newspapers that construc-tion began almost immediately and became one of the nation’s most secretive Cold War installations. It was a huge underground bunker buried seven stories into the ground. According to former managers at the Big Hole who worked for AT&T, it was a bona fide fallout shelter equipped for outlasting a nuclear attack. The underground portion is suspended from a superstruc-ture ceiling to cushion bomb blasts. The bottom sits on a shock absorbing cradle of gravel. The walls are 1 1/2 feet thick and sheathed in copper to deflect an electro-magnetic pulse. The managers have reported in various press accounts from 1972 to 1984 that the power gener-ators are backed up with fuel stores. It is also equipped with bunks, medical, supplies, and food sufficient for a staff of 30 men to stay underground for at least 30 days. There was 100,000 gallons each of water and fuel. In ad-dition, there was also a decontamination chamber and internal filtering system to keep the air safe. It had two massive steel doors each weighing 20,000 lbs., and even the urinals were spring mounted.

Recent photo of the BIG HOLE front gate

The barber of Pittsboro in his shop. The sign was made in Wilmington in 1954.

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Access to this facility was through a private road off Mt. Gilead Church Road just south of Gallo-way Ridge. You can see the government was not kidding around. The actual architectural plans for this bunker are still classified by the government. Local building codes obviously didn’t apply. At any rate prior to 1988 build-ing permits where not required in Chatham County. When you actually go there, all that is visible from the ground are two monolithic concrete cubes an-gled inward with a 30-foot dish mounted on the side. These were the antennas called “troposcatter.” AT&T had numerous communication bunkers across the country but the one in Chatham County was one of only five that were heavily armored and guarded by the US military. These were called “Project Offices”. These offices were also designed to shelter high-level govern-ment and military officials to preserve at least a skeletal government in the event of a nuclear attack. Three oth-er offices were located around Washington, DC and the other in Virginia built only to link the Chatham facility to the others. There is another similar constructed bun-ker located at the Greenbrier in West Virginia to shelter the U.S. Congress. The communication system was called AUTO-VON and could carry high priority secret messages as well as a long-distance nonpriority telephone service for military personnel. There were special phones and access codes to communicate with other bunkers with AUTOVON equipped personnel. According to neighbors close to the Big Hole whom I spoke to there was constant AT&T and military traffic on this private road for over 25 years. They told me the double fenced perimeter was lit during darkness and two military guards were posted at the heavily forti-fied front gate. There were numerous signs leading up to the gate informing gawkers to immediately turn around or face the consequences, as well as a car activated loud speaker system telling to stop, turn around, and leave. Towards the end of the Cold War around the late 1980s and early 1990s technological changes altered the mission of the Big Hole. With the development of satellite and computer communications the Defense Department began phasing out the analog AUTOVON system and replacing it with digital systems, now called the Defense Switched Network(CONUS(DISN-C). AT&T deactivated the Chatham site in 1996. In 2000 trucks were seen carting equipment away. This tract of land, classified as a public utility, is under state assessment, not Chatham County. In 2016

AT&T paid $23,264.91 in property taxes.

I hope I’ve stimulated you curiosity. Sometime when you have a few free moments, take a drive to the BIG HOLE ROAD to see this remnant of the Cold War. Drive south on 15- 501 a short distance to Mount Gilead Church Road. Drive about 3/4 mile and you will see on the left a road sign for the Big Hole road. It says private and it is. However, have no fear it is not “beware of dog or shotgun private.” I’ve traveled this road many times and have spoken to the welcoming people who live there. You will pass some beautiful active North Carolina Farms as well as some restored farmhouses and buildings from the mid-19th century. At the end of this drive you will see an imposing compound which is still highly fortified with a thick steel gate prevent-ing entry. Turning around is very easy. I think you will enjoy your ON THE ROAD in CHATHAM COUNTY trip to the BIG HOLE. You have truly seen one of the fascinating pieces of the history of the Cold War and of Chatham County.

Carpe diem

The author appreciates the editorial assistance of Peter Smith

References:1. Edye, Randy,” Mystery of “Big Hole” in Chatham County(NC) linked to the Military? The Chatham News, 3/18/2010.2. Price, Jay, Mysterious Cold War Bunker in N.C. Closes, News and Observer, 8/10, 2008. [http://www.newsobserver.com/news/chatham/syo-ry/1171531.html]3.Indy Week.com, 12/13/2000.

Archival photo just inside perimeter of main gate at the Big Hole

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Today a salting of snow whitens the branches of the pines. A chickadee pecks at the feeder, his water congealed to ice in the birdbath broken in two. Where have the other birds gone? And the one chipmunk who burrows beneath the rhododendron to sit on the step in the sun? I recall last fall when he lay in the feeder, stuck, his belly a balloon. I want him back come spring to celebrate with me, to see his shadow once again.

by Liza Sisk

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MY YEAR IN CAROLINAFebruary

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“Thank you for choosing Delta. Your call will be answered in the order in which it was received. Please stay on the line. Your business is important to us.” “S- - -,” I muttered. All I wanted was to extend my time in Europe for a few days following a business trip so I could vis-it my granddaughter who was spending a semester in Lyon studying medieval art. Changing my return ticket shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. The wall clock said 1:08. My tee time wasn’t un-til 2:15. Still waiting like this pissed me. The holding music was loud, jazzy, and grating. Every minute the programed mechanical voice reminded me of how im-portant I was and requested my patience which was di-minishing as rapidly as an ice cube on the sidewalk on a hundred-degree day. At 1:18 as I was about to hang up, the music stopped, the phone rang, and after a pause a voice said, “Thank you for your patience and thank you for choos-ing Delta. My name is Phillip. As a Delta Airline rep-resentative I’m here to serve you. First sir, your name

please.”“ I’m James Southerland.” “May I call you Jim?” “Dr. Southerland will do.” Phillip sound like a kid from Tijuana. “Thank you Jim. Now, how may I help you?” “I need to change my reservation.” “It will be my pleasure to help you do that. I am very sorry to inform you there is a fee for issuing a new ticket.” “I understand. What is the fee if I may ask?” “For the ticket you are using the fee is $200.” “My God man, I want to change one seat not the entire plane load.” “I’m most regretful and am only carrying out Delta’s policy. If you wish to proceed please, your ticket information.” “My current ticket is for a round trip from Ra-leigh, North Carolina leaving on Thursday, May 12th, Flight 214 to Charles de Gaulle and returning on a May 19, flight 215. I want to change my return date to

THANKS FOR CHOOSING DELTA

Charles R. Merwarth

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Wednesday, May 25. Please note I paid extra for an exit row seat.” “One moment please sir.” The music came back sounding like nails on a blackboard. “Thank you for your patience sir. You want to return from Charles de Gaulle on Wednesday, May 25?” “Yes. Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris in the country of France. Can’t you understand me?” “Oh yes sir, your English is very good. I under-stand totally. You want to return to Raleigh-Durham on Wednesday May 25 from Charles de Gaulle Airport. We may have problems. ” “If I have to wait can you turn the music off? It’s giving me a headache.” “I will surely try. First, please, a question, sir. How tall are you?” “What the hell does that have to do with chang-ing my ticket?” “Sorry sir, something new. Delta now charges an additional $50 if you are more than six feet- two inches tall and have purchased an exit row seat. We are told to stress that being more comfortable involves add-ed expensive. The taller you are the more a seat with added leg room contributes to that.” “I’m four feet tall, okay. Maybe Delta owes me a refund.” A pause and more music. The time was 1:25. With each passing minute my irritation grew. I was be-coming anxious about making my tee time. There was no reason a simple ticket change should drag on and on. “I’m back Mr. Jim. Thank you for your patience. I am most sorry to tell you there is no Paris-to-Raleigh flight that day. The direct flights are only Tuesday and Thursday.” “I’m sorry, but with your accent I can’t under-stand you.” “I will try to speak more distinctly. There are no flights that day.” “You mean your whole airline shuts down that day?” “Oh, no sir; only that there are no non-stop Par-is-to-Raleigh flights that day.” “What did you say about delays? I’m still having trouble understanding you. Where are you anyway?” “At a call center, sir.” “It sounds like you’re calling from Mexico?” “Our call center is outside Manila in the Philip-pines.” “Am I having to pay for a long distance tele-

phone call? You’re charging me for everything else.” “Oh, no sir. This is a toll-free number.” “Maybe it would be best if I talked with your su-pervisor.” “I will try to get him on the line. I am so sorry I have not met your needs. Please be patient and be assured that we appreciate you choosing Delta.” I was assaulted by more music and more exhor-tations to remain patient. My ire was rising as swiftly as the wind before a squall. A new voice; “Please excuse the wait Mr. Jim. We appreciate your patience. How may I be of service?” The accent was more pronounced. I wasn’t making any progress. “Listen, I’m sorry, but I can’t understand you. I need to talk with someone in the United States,” I said. “Please stay on the line. I regret my English is unsatisfactory.” His irritation seeped through. In a minute a cheerful woman’s voice greet-ed me. “Good afternoon Dr. Southerland. I’m Janice. How may I help?” “You’re from New England. Boston I’d guess.” “Correct. How’d you know?” “Accent. Even though you don’t speak South-ern, I can understand you perfectly. Not so with your people in the Philippines.” “Happens a lot.” I explained my problem. We worked out a solu-tion in a few minutes. She even apologized for the extra charges. “Thanks Janice. Can I call you if you I have any problems in the future?” “I’d be glad to help except our office is transfer-ring its operations to India next week. Sorry. Anyway, thanks for choosing Delta.”

CRMMay, 2016

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Medical school classmates celebrated our 50th re-union five years ago while I recovered from surgery in an intensive care unit. Friends told us they offered toasts, and showed an old picture of Joyce and me in a caribou skin tent. They apparently had a wonderful celebration. We vowed to join them on the next big reunion. As we approached our 55th, almost all of us were 80, and some have left us for good. Discussion on a con-ference call to plan the events shifted to a new kind of sharing opportunity: TED talks or something similar, short one-person monologues. I offered to give such a talk, about overcoming bigotry. A retired classmate, a psychiatrist who is now an experienced adult learning teacher, was recruited to lead the TED talks. He became my mentor and my muse over the course of a number of drafts. This talk seemed amaz-ingly important for some reason. There will be no more that 35-40 people in the room. I have spoken before 3500 or 4000 people. But these people are a kind of exalted family, men and a few women who impressed with their intellect and talents on our arrival at Harvard Medical School in 1958. Here were people who played music at the highest level, who recited Shakespearean sonnets or read Freud while I tried to memorize the course and rela-tions of some nerve. Clearly their capacities far exceeded my own. Many became leaders in academia and in prac-tice. Some remained here in the Harvard academic med-ical community, sometimes called “mecca” (especially by Harvard people), while I emigrated to the provinces of North Carolina to pursue my destiny. A few of us gathered at a friend’s house overlook-ing the Harbor for dinner on our first evening back in Boston, avoiding the gala dinner in a big hotel. Below us, a bridge was suspended by fiery ribbons, and the water sparkled with lights from waterfront buildings. A full moon allowed a glimpse of the masts of the USS Consti-tution (“Old Ironsides”) in dry dock. We met the new Dean, Dr George Daley, at a breakfast meeting. He is a very good man with a tough job: fixing an inherited annual deficit in the tens of mil-lions. Should he sell the naming rights to our medical school for a billion dollars? What an unthinkable ques-tion, a sure sign of changing times in medicine. His be-

loved new medical curriculum was dwarfed by this crisis. His plan was to completely eliminate lectures and replace them with group discussions, depending on the students to fully assimilate readings sent earlier to learn the base facts. Imagine future Wikipedia entries: “Medical school professors: A former group of self-pos-sessed people intent on transferring their knowledge of all the important facts to hapless students who sat suffering for hours on end”. No more stories of professors such as Soma Weiss, who once interrupted a lecture to announce to his class that he had just suffered a ruptured Berry An-eurysm. Before he collapsed, he had the presence of mind to describe the pathophysiology of what was happening, as his ruptured artery bled into his brain. They don’t make them like that anymore. We gathered with our spouses for discussions about our lives, how we were adapting to new challenges. The discussion foundered on personal stories by several people about poor medical care, and how their lives are diminished by illness and disabilities. Their passion and anger were surprising. It was difficult to refocus on the positives of being retired. A few bravely offered that their lives are now enriched by opportunities to read and learn new things, by music and poetry and gardening, time for reflection, time for family and friends. One expressed gratitude that good fortune had enabled him to have a “good bite of the apple”. There was a consensus that much had been lost in the new business practice of medicine, which emphasizes computerized records, efficient (short) patient encounters, and billing (money) over face to face personal time with caregivers. Who remembers the sto-ry of a Japanese businessman who was interviewed by a reporter from National Public Radio over 20 years ago about why he came from Tokyo to Seattle to see his per-sonal physician? His answer was engraved into my mem-ory: “Because my physician here looks at my face…He looks at my face”. Why do we insist on organic chemistry as a requirement for medical school? Why not insist on more humanities, since it is the humane that so many are missing as recipients of care in the new era? Not to say that all physicians are lacking in humanity, as many are entirely caring and give of themselves totally; Joyce and I are fortunate to have such physicians care for us. But

REUNIONMEDICAL SCHOOL 55 YEARS

Fred Sparling

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the anecdotal evidence is quite convincing that there is a growing problem due to time constraints on caregivers, and the effects of hand-offs among members of health care teams. Dean Daley undoubtedly understands the same need. Now that everyone can access facts almost instan-taneously from anywhere with a smartphone, the current problem is in knowing how to ask the right questions, how to use computers as a partner in making complex decisions, and how to humanely convey decisions to pa-tients. But can one teach empathy and kindness? Can doctors look at their patient’s face while entering the bill-ing data into their computer? At the TED talks, my muse and mentor opened up the session. I was next. Using no notes, and speaking particularly slowly to conserve my asthmatic breath, I delivered my message. We can learn to love others whom we were once taught to disparage. Racism, antisemitism, xenophobia are toxic. We must respect and listen to each other. We are all the same. My classmates seemed to like the performance. They said they liked the slow cadence, the pauses, not realizing this was due to dyspnea. One person even stood up to clap. The rest, more sensible and sedate, were polite. The other talks were delivered with feeling and passion. A talk about poetry in the practice of medicine was deeply moving. A talk about the joys of gardening, of returning to one’s childhood roots evoked poetic images. A few people were on the edge of tears. There was a sense of something special happening, amplified by awareness of future losses. A sense of community was powerful. It was a beautiful day, and a small group of us walked through the green park called The Fens to take the MTA (subway) to Cambridge. We passed by my old residency and subspecialty training base, the Massa-chusetts General Hospital, and the old gray stone for-mer Charles Street Jail (currently a boutique hotel) on grounds adjacent to the MGH. Memories were still fresh of being sent as a 27 year old intern from the Emergen-cy Room at 2AM to see a jail prisoner with chest pain. How scared I was, with prisoners housed in vertical rows like animals caged in a zoo, banging the bars and yelling taunts. I made up my mind this was not a place I want-ed to visit in another capacity, no fudging on taxes for me! Other ER stories were suddenly vivid, including one about an obese woman whose buttocks were inextricably trapped in a toilet seat. She was brought in with the toilet seat still attached to her buttocks. She did not survive; the blood supply was cut off, which resulted in her glu-teal necrosis. Ghoulishly funny at the time, and quite sad. Once we were very young.

The MTA lumbered over the Charles River Bridge, sailboats dancing in the afternoon breeze. Em-barking at Harvard Square, a stroll through the ancient Harvard University campus took us to the new Harvard Art Museum. The grounds were full of happy people of many colors and ethnicities back for their reunions, pushing their young infant children in strollers, striking-ly more diverse than our class of 55 years ago. On the last morning, a walk took us by the med-ical school, classical white stone buildings surrounding a central green courtyard. Building D, where I learned to do science as a postdoctoral fellow long ago, looked unchanged on the outside. The dormitory where we first gathered was across the street, colored a rich golden hue in the morning light. It has changed some, noticeably no longer being a place where meals are served, but it seemed entirely familiar, including the common room where I first met many of my classmates. More memo-ries flooded my brain, especially of departed old and dear friends. We continued down Ave. Louis Pasteur to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, passing the new re-search building that is both the pride of the medical school and its biggest problem, the principal source of the crippling debt. It is lovely and functional on the in-side, but from the outside it seems architecturally out of place. Tall and deep and broad, it is a shining steel gray monolith of glass. It seems huge, endless, merging into other buildings even taller, overwhelming, a shrine to the growing need for space to teach and do science, as well as the corporatization of modern medicine. It seemed an edifice to what we have lost as well as gained. The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum is lovely. Constructed over a century ago to recreate a 15th cen-tury Venetian palace, with a central courtyard, it houses a personal collection of the finest in paintings, textiles, and furniture. Programs of music embellish the commu-nity throughout the year. It is the essence of taste and el-egance. It also is a metaphor to what we perceive to be the condition of medicine today, for inside hang empty frames from great paintings that were stolen in 1990, a Vermeer, Rembrandts, Degas, others. We have been fortunate to practice medicine and pursue science under the best possible conditions, to have a really good bite of the apple. Once young and promising, we now are wiser but aging. Entering our ninth decade, we can see the end. There may not be an-other reunion. Fortunate indeed to see and enjoy each other again.

Carpe diem

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THE PIANIST

Carleton Lee

The monumental nine-foot Steinway Grand stood on the otherwise bare stage like a large animal clad in polished ebony. A full house of the well dressed was hushed in expectation. At last, from the wings a young man walked toward the piano. He ignored the welcoming applause until he reached it, then turned and bowed in the traditional way. He sat down, adjusted the stool a little for height, flexed his fingers over the key-board, and began to play. From the outset it was ob-vious that he was very confident, and the quality of his playing showed that his confidence was quite justified. Edward M. Long, Jr., 24 years old, was engaged in a high-level piano competition along with five other finalists, all of them known prodigies. In many ways, he was an unlikely personality to have reached this point in his life. He was the product of two loving parents, an affluent suburb and its outstanding high school. He had never been a “nerd” with nothing but musical in-terests and activities, even though his youth had been filled with intensive piano lessons and practice. On the contrary, he had been a B- student and a member of the school basketball team, had had several girl friends, and was occasionally in minor troubles with both his par-ents and the school authorities. He was the only child of a very happily married couple, his father a successful corporate executive and his mother herself a very accomplished pianist who had not quite made it to the highest level. Neither of them was what could be called a doting or possessive parent, but each had a somewhat different sense of their son and the sort of life he might grow into. Father saw him as potentially a great success, either as a performer or as an executive like himself, whereas Mother, more sensitive-

ly, recognized the contrasting strains in his personality, and hoped that somehow they might eventually come together in a truly happy person. It was his mother, of course, who had noticed how attracted he was to the piano as a very young child, and had immediately started giving him his first lessons. He had quickly gone on to more professional teachers, and then to the Eastman School of Music, from which he had recently graduated Now, from their place of honor in the front row of the hall, they were listening intently to Ted’s playing of the assigned Beethoven Sonata. Their feelings were those common to parents in such a situation: praying that there would be neither a disastrous mistake nor a lapse of memory, pulling of course for him to win. He zipped through the first Allegro move-ment without a slip of any kind, and then played the slow second movement with such expressiveness that his audience was thoroughly entranced. He began the last movement, marked “Presto”, at a furious pace. But about halfway through, to the complete shock of his lis-teners, he stopped suddenly in mid-phrase, rose slowly to his feet, and, as if addressing the piano itself, shouted the one word, “NO”. Then, as if it had been carefully rehearsed, he walked around to the front of the piano, and with his back to the audience carefully lowered the prop stick with one hand, holding the huge lid up with the other. After one more dramatic moment, he let it go. It crashed into the top of the piano with the sound of a mighty thunderclap. While the audience sat paralyzed, he slowly walked off the stage as confidently as had en-tered it.

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His parents were for a moment as stunned as ev-eryone else, but they quickly pulled themselves together, and tried to leave the hall by a side door as inconspicu-ously as possible. Of course, under the circumstances, it wasn’t really possible—everyone present would remem-ber, and remark on, the father’s angry red face and the mother’s enigmatic smile, as they tried to duck out. The rest of the audience, once it had recovered some sense of reality, was frantically abuzz and uncer-tain as to what would happen next. Fortunately, the management of the competition was true to the tradi-tion of “the show must go on”--after only about four or five minutes of confusion, the piano was replaced, the next contestant presented herself, and gradually things returned to normal. But it was not so in the Long family. Father and Mother, hardly able to speak to each other, made their way backstage to find their son in a dressing room. He was expecting them, with a large grin on his face. This only enraged his father further, and in a somewhat strangled voice, he accused him directly, “You planned this ahead of time, didn’t you?” Ted’s answer was a little too calm and forthright: “I won’t lie to you. Yes, I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. I finally decided I wanted to make a clear statement that I was no longer willing to have my life consumed with the goal of becoming a concert pianist. I apologize that it turned out to be so melodramatic—and so embarrassing and hurtful to both of you. But I had given it a lot of serious thought. I really hope that you will eventually forgive me and accept my decision.” Before Father could respond, Mother quietly said, “Don’t you think, Teddy, that it would have been a little more courteous to Mr. Graham and the other teachers who have worked so hard with you—and, yes, even to your father and me—if you had given us a little warning, let us in on your thinking a little earlier?” “Well, yes, I had thought of that, but I felt I need-ed something that was going to be definite and final. If I had given you warning, there would inevitably have been a long series of arguments and discussion, and I might even have changed my mind.” Having calmed down a little, Father retorted, “Well, you can still change your mind, and this awful incident can eventually be considered a temperamental outbreak—not your first by the way—and did you really have to damage the piano that way? There’s no way that this won’t be considered a deliberate insult to the piano world. I suppose the best we can hope for is that, be-cause of your talent, you will ultimately be forgiven.”

With some passion now, Ted responded, “I am sorry, Father, but you really don’t seem to get it--there is no going back now. That was the whole point, don’t you see?” Recognizing that neither one of her men was going to give an inch at this point, Mother quietly said, “I think we should go home now, Ed. It will take all three of us a day or two to recover. Let’s take some time to cool off, and then try to reach some understanding.”With that she embraced her son, kissed him on the cheek, determinedly took her husband’s arm, and they exited the room. But as they did, Father could not re-strain himself from quite loudly asking his wife, “What do you think is wrong with that boy, Susan? This all seems so crazy and weird to me.“ To which she softly replied, “Ed, please don’t say anything more now. Wait till we get home, and we can discuss the whole thing between the two of us.” “I don’t see how you can be so calm about this. He has deliberately disgraced himself—and us too in the bargain. Doesn’t that bother you at all?” “Of course it does, dear, but I can’t help thinking that this is a big turning point of some kind in Ted’s life, and I don’t want it to end up with bad feelings between us.” “But, Susan, he’s twenty-four years old. Doesn’t he have to understand that this is not responsible adult behavior?” “I’m sure he’s already beginning to wonder if this was the best way to go about announcing an im-portant decision, and I expect that in only a few days he will begin to have some serious regrets about the whole thing. I guess we can only hope that, now that it is done, it will in some strange negative way help him grow up.” “But why in God’s name isn’t he more grown up at 24? When I was that age, I was gainfully employed and about to get married. What is going on with these kids today--and why do I still think of him as a kid?” And so their conversation continued into the night and off and on for several more days. But it did not much advance either the father’s understanding or the mother’s sadness. It actually took Ted several weeks before he was ready to try to explain fully to his parents how he had come to the decision that underlay his flamboyant act. He knew full well how difficult it would be for them, especially his father, to appreciate and respect his think-ing. When they finally met in his apartment, he be-gan, “I want you to know that this is not a sudden whim.

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I have been feeling more and more apprehensive about the future I was facing if I kept succeeding as a pianist. I love music, and I love the piano, and I love playing it, and I probably always will. The thing that began to bother me, some time ago actually, was the prospect of the kind of life I seemed to be heading toward.” Father could not hold himself back from in-terrupting, “I cannot imagine any better life—success, fame, money, fulfillment—who could ask for anything more? Have you no real ambition?” “Well, if that were all there was to it, I would have little cause for concern. But to achieve all that, just think what my actual life would be like: four or five hours of practice every single day, traveling constantly to concerts, attending receptions to be lionized, having to develop a talent for small talk, staying in non-de-script hotel rooms—what happens to the real me in all that?” “My God, Ted, think of what the millions of peo-ple who have not been given your talent and advantages would say to that. And what in hell is this ‘real me’? I think all you need at this point is a good vacation—rest up and think about what you are throwing away.” “No, it’s gone way beyond that. I hate to admit this, but I finally realized that I just plain don’t want to make the effort or endure the stress which that life would demand.” “I don’t believe this! You’re afraid of hard work and stress? What else do you think keeps the world go-ing? And what about all the waste—of your talent, of our investment in you, if it comes to that? It all goes down the drain just because you are too lazy to make something of yourself?” At this, Mother decided that her husband had gone too far and cut in, “Now Ed, that’s entirely too harsh. Ted says that he’s been working on this for a while and has reached a pretty firm conclusion. Apparently, he really doesn’t want the life of a concert pianist, and I certainly agree with him about what it would involve. He is an adult and has the right to make a decision like this, jolting as it may be for us. My question is, what is the alternative for you, Teddy? Have you thought at all about where you will go from here?” Before his father could protest at what he regarded as his wife’s failure to back him up, Ted answered her question. “As a matter of fact, Mother, I have. You know that supper club, The Swan, down on Oakwood? I have heard that they need a replacement for their piano man who is leaving at the end of the month. I went down to talk to the manager, and was surprised to find out how

well it pays. It’s six nights a week from seven until mid-night, just playing jazz and popular stuff, which would be no problem for me. I’m to have an audition the day after tomorrow and if they want me, I think I’ll take it.” This announcement so added to Father’s fury that he had to get up and walk away. As he struggled to maintain his composure, Mother went to him and said, “Ed, I think that’s enough for now. We’ll go home and sleep on it.” She led him out as if he were an injured football player going to the locker room. He did not acknowl-edge his son in any way, and Ted knew better than to pursue him. And so it was that the relationships within the Long family entered into a period of major readjust-ment. It took some time, but there was in the end no permanent alienation between father and son, although Father in his heart never fully recovered from his disap-pointment. Mother’s ultimate disappointment, on the other hand, was in another realm completely: Ted con-sistently shied away from marriage and family. He went through several “serious” relationships that family and friends hoped would lead to the altar, but each time he decided that the commitment necessary would be ask-ing more than he was either willing or able to give.

Supper Club Piano Player

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This is the first of 8 sketches about family mem-bers whom my nieces, nephew, and their children did not know but heard mentioned. They will appear in a scrap-book of sorts with photos.

Mattie Stone Mills, my great aunt, lived in a two-room house at the bottom of Crowley’s Ridge, which runs from Poinsett County to Craighead County in northeastern Arkansas. It neatly divides cotton farming in the East and rice fields on the West. For a lifetime, she chopped or picked cotton, depending on the season. Although there was no grumbling about the work, she much preferred fishing from a bank, often all day. When I first knew Aunt Mattie, she was in her forties, and as I recall, plump. I was about four years old, living down the road with my parents. It was 1940 when the whole country was, so I was told, “dirt” poor. I didn’t know that, of course, but I do remember watch-ing Aunt Mattie sweep her tiny dirt front yard. I liked the idea and tried to help with my own smaller broom. Aunt Mattie and her husband, Edgar Mills, had no children. They unofficially adopted one of her dead sister’s young sons, Raymond. He lived with Aunt Mat-tie and Uncle Edgar until he was a teenager and went to Michigan where, after a brief time in the navy, he spent the rest of his life working in Detroit’s automobile in-dustry. Uncle Edgar died shortly afterwards. Aunt Mattie was a member of the extremely conservative Church of God. It was because of promis-es she made during one of their services that she never cut her hair, not even trimmed it. When I first saw her it was waist length, parted from forehead to neck, and braided in two streams, then pulled up and wound in a criss-cross ar-rangement that lay on top of her head.. Actually she was quite attractive: black eyes, dark hair, round, rosy cheeks, an almost steady smile, and given to occasional giggles.

Sometime in the early fifties, Aunt Mattie took the income from her few acres of cotton and built a du-plex between the old house and a filling station. The rooms on each side were about the same size: resem-bling a game board: three lined up rooms on the left and three on the right, joined by a wide front porch. She loved the house and when a few years later, got a small television, she judged her place complete. Once when our mother was teaching extra class-es at the school, Aunt Mattie helped by babysitting me and my little brother. He and I thought, all things con-sidered, she was really pretty good, much better than fussy, bossy Grandma. In the following years, she swept her wooden porch, worked the cotton crops, sang and spoke out at the church two miles away, down Highway 1, and baked her famous jam cakes for family holiday celebrations. Life was good when Raymond and his daughter, Shirley, came from Michigan for short visits. This was the time she began to lose the little hearing she enjoyed. The big hearing aid did little to help; still she was a quiet, atten-tive listener. When she was in her sixties, her sight be-gan to dim. By the time she entered the county nursing home, she was blind. The last times I saw her she was lying still on the bed’s clean, white sheets, smiling. Often she made gar-bled sounds, which I thought must be praying of sorts, most likely moments of praise. Several people referred to her as, ”a sweetheart.” I think she would have liked that.

AUNT MATTIE

Beverly Chapin

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CONTRIBUTORS

Charles R. Merwarth is a retired physician and sailor. Has written scientific medical pa-pers, stories about his life as a practicing physician, and, after retirement, articles about traveling the Intercostal Waterway and wintering aboard in the Bahamas.

Caroline Taylor lives in Fearrington Village. She is the author of two mysteries and one nonfiction book. Her latest novel, Loose Ends, has just been published by Moonshine Cove. She’ll be reading from the book at McIntyre’s on January 13, at 11 a.m.

Jim Starling is Professor of Surgery, Emeritus at The University of Wisconsin- Madison. He was on the fac-ulty at the University and a staff surgeon at the adjacent Veterans Administration Hospital for over 30 years. After retirement has done numerous medical missions to Palestine, Haiti, Ecuador, and Costa Rico. Loves to golf with the GR men, play bridge with friends, attend lectures, movies, and trivia. Enjoy activities with a social companion.

Sue Blaustein’s communication expertise has happily morphed into memoir writing and photo journaling. She continues to work on her chapters of “My Ordinary American Life, a Memoir by Susan Frost Blaustein” and has also completed a photo memoir chronicling five generations of her Frost family.

Ann Alderks was born in Green Bay, Wisconsin, graduated from Carleton College in Northfield. Minnesota, and received a Master’s degree in history from the University of Iowa. She taught history at several private schools and coached sailing at Christ Church School in Virginia for 20 years. She came to Galloway in 2010.

Carleton Lee is a retired Episcopal priest, born and raised in New York State and spent his whole pre-retirement life there. He is very much in debt to Dick Merwarth’s Prose Group.

Jason Carter is a Driver for the Galloway Ridge Transportation team. He is also a husband and father. He has been a Narcotics Detective, a Youth Minister, and an International Missionary to five countries in central and Eastern Europe. When he isn’t glued to a computer screen, he spends time reading, running, trying (and failing) to learn Spanish, and trying very hard not to be the worst writer on the East Coast. He is currently working on a book of Haiku.

Aideen Weickert was born and raised in Ireland. and graduated from the National Universi-ty of Ireland. She came to the US as a student, taught in Chicago, married and later became a citizen. She has moved about the US, spent two periods in France and lived in Chapel Hill for 30 years before coming to Galloway Ridge.

Where Aunt Mattie

lived

Betsey Wood grew up in Rhode Island and majored in Creative Writing at Wellesley. Nowadays her writing pertains mainly to her childhood and experiences while living in the Mojave Desert. She also writes light verse and imaginary tales.

CONTRIBUTORS continued Elise Sisk holds a B.A. in math from Suny-Buffalo and a Ph.D. in English from U.Wis-consin and taught both subjects at several universities. Then, she switched careers and worked for GE and Westinghouse, where she taught communication skills to engineers, scientists and their managers. She free-lanced as ComSci Associates.

Fred Sparling is the retired chairman of medicine and also separately microbiology and immunology at the Univ NC. He and his wife Joyce wrote a book about their travels among the Inuit “North to Nunavut” and also a piece in Writeway about the quilters of Gees Bend, AL

Bill Hicks - For nearly fifty years, Bill Hicks pursued his dream on stage as an actor and in the arts and politics as a writer and fundraiser. His work brought him a slew of rewards -not monetary - fulfillment and memories, for which he is eternally thankful.

Minnie C. Gallman enjoys writing picture books for children. Her volunteer work with Guiding Eyes for Blind inspired the picture book “Truman - A Special Dog” which can be found in the Galloway library. She is also an avid photographer.

Roy Lindholm earned a Ph.D. at the Johns Hopkins University, and then taught geology at George Washington University. He has written three books, and numerous articles in professional journals. Since Roy and his wife Betty moved to Galloway Ridge 10 years ago, photography has replaced golf as his primary hobby.

Anne Adams is a Floridian by birth. She moved to Chapel Hill to attend UNC and stayed for 40 years. She has painted all of her life.

Beverly Chapin grew up in Arkansas, attended Hendrix College (BA), Columbia University, and Louisiana State University (MA & Ph.D). She enjoyed a long career teaching Literary and Performance Studies in upper division and graduate courses at the University of Texas at Austin, Northwestern University, and then UNC-Chapel Hill since 1978. Author of many academic publications, she’s enjoyed writing twice for the more relaxed Ridge Lines.

Minnie C. Gallman enjoys writing picture books for children. Her volunteer work with Guiding Eyes for Blind inspired the picture book “Truman - A Special Dog” which can be found in the Galloway library. She is also an avid photographer.

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Lata Chatterjee was Professor Emeritus, Boston U until 2013. Has published extensively in peer re-viewed formats since the 1960s. Now interested in creative writing, supported by her Prose Writers group in GR. Especially indebted to Edythe Klein, a fellow resident. Les Ewen has actively written poetry, prose and children’s stories for over 50 years. He was editor for six years of “SHOAL” - a publication highlighting the winners of The Carteret Writer’s Contest. He has supervised elementary school publications and published one children’s book, “LOOKING FOR MOM” Sherman Poultney has published his poems, short stories, songs, plays, and photos in various media over the last 50 years and held public readings of his plays. Bill Sharpe is a former Mechanical Engineering professor who left Chatham County in 1961 and returned home in 2010. A great-grandson of Edwin Fearrington, he has become interested in local history and genealogy. Aideen Weickert was born and raised in Ireland. and graduated from the National University of Ire-land. She came to the US as a student, taught in Chicago, married and later became a citizen. She has moved about the US, spent two periods in France and lived in Chapel Hill for 30 years before coming to Galloway Ridge.

RIDGE LINES is published at Galloway Ridge 3000 Galloway Ridge, Pittsboro, NC 27312. Issues appear in mid-January, mid-May, and mid-September. Submissions are invited from Galloway Ridge residents and staff as well as employees of the Duke Center for Living. Articles are restricted to approximately 2400 words (four pages), but shorter pieces, e.g. poems, short comments or humor are welcome. Opinion pieces are not accepted. Longer pieces can be continued in the next issue. Each article must be the creation of the author; however, it can have been previously published if acknowl-edged. Electronic files in Microsoft WORD with Times New Roman 12 pt font are preferred. Other formats and typed paper copies can be converted to electronic files after submission.

Address for submissions – Bill Sharpe at sharpe@jhu.edu or mail slot J306. Due dates are:

RIDGE LINES is managed by an Editorial Committee that works with individual authors.

Comments and suggestions to the Editorial Committee are welcome.

March 15 for the May issueJuly 15 for the September issue

November 15 for the January issue

EDITORIAL COMMITTEE