Month: August 2018

September Books

FICTION

Waiting for Eden, by Elliot Ackerman

A mortally wounded Marine, Eden, has been in a burn unit for three years. His wife never leaves his side. Believing that he is close to death, she agrees to allow the hospital to ease his way out of this world. But they realize the clacking of his teeth is a code and he’s trying to communicate. Although he is ready to end his life, they decide not to help him on that route in this moving tale of love, loss, loyalty and betrayal.

Transcription, by Kate Atkinson

In 1940, 18-year-old Juliet Armstrong is reluctantly recruited into the world of espionage. Sent to an obscure department of MI5 and tasked with monitoring the comings and goings of British fascist sympathizers, she discovers the work to be both tedious and terrifying. After the war ends, she presumes the events of those years have been relegated to the past forever. Ten years later, after becoming a radio producer at the BBC, Juliet is unexpectedly confronted by figures from her past. A different war is being fought now, on a different battleground, and she finds herself once more under threat.

The Labyrinth of the Spirits, by Carlos Ruiz Zafon

The internationally acclaimed New York Times best-selling author returns to the magnificent universe he constructed in his novels The Shadow of the Wind, The Angel’s Game and The Prisoner of Heaven in this riveting series finale — a heart-pounding tale of suspense that introduces a sexy, seductive new heroine whose investigation shines a light on the dark history of Franco’s Spain.

The Collector’s Apprentice, by B.A. Shapiro

It’s the summer of 1922, and 19-year-old Paulien Mertens finds herself in Paris — broke, disowned, and completely alone. Everyone in Belgium, including her own family, believes she stole millions in a sophisticated con game perpetrated by her then-fiancé, George Everard. She creates a new identity and is hired by the eccentric and wealthy American art collector Edwin Bradley. She soon finds herself caught up in the Parisian world of post-Impressionists and expatriates as she travels between Paris and Philadelphia — where Bradley is building an art museum — and things get complicated as she tries to clear her name.

NONFICTION

Heartland: A Memoir of Working Hard and Being Broke in the Richest Country on Earth, by Sarah Smarsh

The anthem of a Midwestern childhood rises from the pages of this poetic, truth-telling memoir. Set in Kansas in the 1980s, Smarsh unapologetically tells the history of several generations of her family rife with physical abuse, substance abuse, poverty and nomadic upheaval. The product of an emotionally unattached mother, she shares the story of her childhood with her imagined, never-to-be-conceived daughter, August. Her people were hardworking and hard-partying, and would give the shirts off their backs to anyone in need, while never quite getting ahead themselves. This is an important sociological examination of the isolation and distrust in a class of people as overlooked and misunderstood as the “flyover” states of our nation’s heartland.

Small Fry, by Lisa Brennan-Jobs

The fact that Brennan-Jobs’ father is Steve Jobs is part of the story, but it’s not the whole story in this well-written and engaging memoir. Transporting us to her childhood in California with detached perspective, she writes about a man who is fully himself, flaws and all, with the love, compassion and unapologetic care that a daughter can share.

Whiskey in a Teacup, by Reese Witherspoon

A lifestyle book with recipes and menus for entertaining and celebrating holidays, and ideas for making special occasions truly special, Whiskey in a Teacup is also full of personal essays about Witherspoon’s childhood memories; why she idolizes Dolly Parton; the importance of female friendships; her love of literature; portraits of family members; and her secret recipe for hot-rollering your hair. Peppered throughout with fun sidebars (“Let’s Talk about the Steel Magnolias Beauty Parlor Scene”; “How to Catch a Frog with Your Bare Hands”), the book’s voice is all Reese — chatty, funny, down-to-earth, open and enthusiastic.

In Pieces, by Sally Field

With the humility and authenticity her fans have come to expect and the pitch-perfect prose of a natural-born writer, Field brings readers behind-the-scenes for the highs and lows of her star-studded early career in Hollywood and deep into the truth of her lifelong relationships — including her complicated love for her mother. Powerful and unforgettable, In Pieces is an inspiring and important account of life as a woman in the second half of the 20th century.

How Do We Look: The Body, the Divine and the Question of Civilization, by Mary Beard

Conceived as a gorgeously illustrated accompaniment to the Civilizations shows How Do We Look and The Eye of Faith on PBS, renowned classicist Mary Beard has created this elegant volume on how we have looked at art. Focusing in Part I on the Olmec heads of early Mesoamerica, the colossal statues of the pharaoh Amenhotep III, and the nudes of classical Greece, Beard explores the power, hierarchy, and gender politics of art in the ancient world, explaining how it came to define the so-called civilized world. In Part II, she chronicles some of the most breathtaking religious imagery ever made — whether at Angkor Wat, Ravenna, Venice, or in the art of Jewish and Islamic calligraphers — to show how all religions, ancient and modern, have faced irreconcilable problems in trying to picture the divine. With this classic volume, Beard redefines the Western and male-centric legacies of Ernst Gombrich and Kenneth Clark.

CHILDREN’S BOOKS

The Truth About My Unbelievable School, by Davide Cali and Benjamin Chaud

Ho, hum. Every school has art, PE, science and a giant jellyfish for a class pet. Oh, wait, maybe not that pet thing. And maybe not an Olympic champion for a PE teacher. And possibly not a Ferris wheel or a principal’s office that . . . well, lets not talk about the principal’s office. Let’s just say that this school is unbelievable, and in a world of “school can be scary” back-to-school books, this book is, well, unbelievable, too. (Ages 4-6.)

Interrupting Chicken and the Elephant of Surprise, by David Ezra Stein

Every great story has an elephant, um, element of surprise, and Little Red from the Caldecott Honor-winning Interrupting Chicken is back with a big surprise of her own. A very “pun-ny” read-aloud just perfect for story time, Interrupting Chicken and the Elephant of Surprise is a ton of fun. (Ages 4-6.)

Running on the Roof of the World, by Jess Butterworth

Tash and her best friend, Sam, live in Tibet where, as practicing Buddhists under the strong arm of the occupying Chinese soldiers, they must never utter two words: Dalai Lama. So, when Tash’s parents are arrested following a local uprising, Tash and Sam, along with Eve and Bones — two absolutely wonderful borrowed yaks — make their way across the treacherous mountains to carry an urgent message that could just save everything and everyone they hold dear. Running on the Roof of the World is a fast-paced adventure that will leave curious young readers on the edge of their seat. (Ages 10-14.)

I Am Still Alive, by Kate Alice Marshall

Tense and brilliantly written, I Am Still Alive grabs you on the first page and doesn’t let go. After the death of her reclusive father, Jess and Bo, a half-wild almost bear-sized dog, scavenge for sustenance in the wilds of Canada. A great choice for a long, rainy day or, better yet, a snowed-in blackout blizzard night, I Am Still Alive is a must read for anyone who loves to see just what people are made of when pushed to the brink of existence. (Ages 14 and up.) PS

Compiled by Kimberly Daniels Taws and Angie Tally

Book Tour Blues

At Bespoke Coffee and Dry Goods

By Wiley Cash

Photographs By Mallory Cash

Bespoke Coffee and Dry Goods at the corner of Princess and 2nd streets in downtown Wilmington seemed like a good place to meet my friends and fellow writers Jason Mott and Taylor Brown for several reasons. First, the place is absolutely gorgeous. Huge windows pour light into a high-ceilinged space that is grounded by checkered tile, hardwood floors and countless succulent plants that lend soft pops of natural color to the industrial furnishings. Second, Bespoke’s coffee is just as outstanding as the curated list of local beers they have on tap. Finally, I knew Taylor would already be there, just as he is every afternoon.

I find Taylor at his spot near the register, sitting at the window that looks out on 2nd. When I say “his spot” I really mean it; a small gold plaque on the counter reads This space is reserved for Taylor “The Bodyguard” Brown.

“I spend hours writing here every afternoon,” he says when I ask him to tell me the story of the plaque. “When they first opened, I would stay until closing at 7:00 p.m., and then I would walk out with the staff.” He smiles, looks down at his open laptop where it sits just below the plaque. “They started calling me the bodyguard.”

I have known Taylor since an advanced reader’s copy of his debut novel, Fallen Land, found its way to me in the months leading up to its publication. The novel, which was released in 2016, was a huge success, and it was followed by the novels The River of Kings in 2017 and Gods of Howl Mountain in 2018. He has just recently returned from a long book tour that had him crisscrossing the country.

“How are you feeling after all that travel?” I ask.

“It gave me mono,” he says.

I laugh.

“No, seriously,” he says. “I went to the doctor last week.”

Jason walks in the door while we are talking. Like Taylor, he has just arrived home from a long book tour himself. We all shake hands, and Jason asks how we are doing.

“Book tour gave Taylor mono,” I say.

“I almost died on book tour, too,” Jason says.

I gesture toward the bar.

“Let’s get some drinks.”

We get our drinks — iced coffee for Taylor, water for Jason, and an IPA from Wilmington Brewing Company for me — and grab a table just inside the front door.

I have known Jason since my parents introduced me to him in 2013, when his first novel, The Returned, was released. The book was optioned and produced as a television show for ABC before it was even published, and my mom watched it and loved it, and then she and my dad went to one of Jason’s book signings. She fell for him because of his books, and my dad fell for him because of his cars. To say that Jason Mott is a car enthusiast is an understatement. He buys them, repairs them, modifies them, and races them. My dad had spent much of his young life doing the same. Finally, a writer both my mother and father could support.

Jason’s second novel, The Wonder of All Things, was released in 2014, and his novel The Crossing was released this spring. I ask him to expound upon his near-death experience on book tour.

“Hospitality driver,” he says. “He almost mowed down someone crossing the street in Seattle. He slammed on the brakes, and I thought I was going through the windshield. He told me he hadn’t seen the guy because he’d been about to pass out.”

“What did you do?” Taylor asks.

“Well, I was starving, and I figured if he was about to pass out, then he might need food. We stopped at Burger King and ate dinner before heading to the bookstore.”

“The glamour of book tour,” I say.

Our conversation quickly turns to surprising, horrifying and hilarious things that can happen when you are on book tour alone, staying in bad hotels, catching red-eye flights, and always feeling like you are supposed to be somewhere else.

“I’m actually working on a novel right now about a writer who goes on a book tour where insane things happen,” Jason says. “I wrote it as a screenplay, and the folks out in Hollywood said it may get more interest if it’s a book first.”

“I’ll read it,” I said.

“I’ll read it and blurb it,” Taylor said.

We tell more stories, finish our drinks, and then stand to leave. As someone who drives a toy-littered Subaru Outback with two car seats in the back, I watch Jason leave and try to imagine what kind of car he will be climbing into. Taylor heads back to his seat where his laptop still rests below his plaque.

“How late will you stay?” I ask.

“They close at 6:00 p.m. now,” Taylor says. “They felt bad for running me out of here an hour early, so they gave me a key to lock up.”

“Are you serious?” I ask.

He smiles and holds up a brass key on his key ring.

I say good-bye and step out into the heat. As I settle into my car and turn on the A/C, I imagine Taylor a few hours from now, closing down his laptop, turning off the lights at Bespoke Coffee and Dry Goods and locking the door behind him, glad to be home. PS

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

2018 Department Drinking With Friends

Soul Soothing

A place and a person to remember

By Tom Bryant

You are not dead until there
isn’t a crumb of memory left
anywhere in the world.

— John D. MacDonald,
The Empty Copper Sea

There is a place hanging on a mountainside right off the Blue Ridge Parkway where a person can rest his soul. The place is known as the Sourwood Inn. It’s a lot more than the common definition of a bed and breakfast. There are 12 bedrooms situated in a classic mountain lodge, overlooking a beautiful, almost mystic valley. The lovely inn was built for rest, relaxation and, as I mentioned, restoring the soul.

It had been a sad, gray, melancholy time. A good friend had suddenly keeled over and was gone before the EMS could arrive. A cousin I hadn’t seen in years passed away with heart trouble. And my mother, 99 years old and still with the grace and fortitude of a Southern lady, passed away quietly after a small stay in the hospital and an even shorter visit to hospice. It was as if she didn’t want to inconvenience the family with a long, drawn out, sad time of dying. She was that kind of lady, always thinking of others.

My sister’s call about Mom came late one evening. It had been a typical Sandhills summer day, hot with a high humidity that sent folks searching for air-conditioning. I had waited until late in the afternoon to beat the heat and do some much needed yard work. With that finished, I sat back in the sunroom enjoying a cold beer. My cellphone was still in my pocket, and I answered its persistent, buzzing ring.

“Tommy.”

“Hey, Bonnie, how’re things on the farm?” My sister had been Mother’s caregiver, and they lived in the old plantation house that was built in 1830.

“Not good. Mom’s in the hospital. She fell this morning and is not doing well. I’m on my way back over there to talk to the doctor now.”

“OK. Linda and I will come on down as soon as I clean up a little.”

“No, don’t come now. Wait until I find out from the doc what’s going on. This could be it, Tommy. Mama looks terrible.”

After a short stay in the hospital, Mom was moved to hospice. It was exactly as we feared. She was ready, after all her years, to give up the fight.

Linda and I made it to the hospice building a little after 11 the next morning and entered the room to see Mom.

“Hey, Mom, it’s Tommy. I love you.” Mother was past communicating with anyone. She was in the bed, eyes closed, breathing hard. I couldn’t take it and went back out in the hall.

In just a few minutes, Harriet, my cousin, an excellent nurse who had been observing the efforts of the hospice nurses, came out behind me and said, “Tommy, your mother is gone.”

My other sister, Billie, standing next to me, said, “It’s as if she was waiting for you.”

The rest of the week was a blur. Folks from the old Mizpah Church did a wonderful job with Mom’s funeral. The pastor, an easy-going, caring young man, presented the service just as Mom had wanted, and members of the church put together an afternoon meal for the family.

Mother was laid to rest beside my dad, who died almost 50 years ago. They were finally reunited.

On the drive home, Tom, our son, was dozing in the passenger’s seat, and Linda was in the back seat.

“It was great for Art, Bryan and Sandy and Bob to drive all that way,” she said. Bob and Sandy live nearby in Southern Pines, and we don’t see them often enough. Art lives in Albemarle and is part of our duck-hunting crew; and Bryan, another hunting buddy, drove down from Burlington.

“Yep, remember what Mom always said, good friends are gold.” I was quiet as we motored toward home, thinking about her and all her wise sayings and how she would be missed.

“Babe,” I said. “We really need to get away for a while. What if we go up to the mountains and stay at the Sourwood for a few days? We could kick back, read and maybe ride into Asheville for a bit.”

“That’s a wonderful idea. I’ll call them right now and see if they have a room available.”

We were in luck. Susan, the young lady who runs the inn, said that our favorite room was available and we were welcome. The room that we have stayed in several times is located on the second floor and has screened French doors leading to a small balcony overlooking the valley and mountain ridges beyond.

After a four-hour ride out of the sweltering heat of the Piedmont, we breathed a sigh of relief when we finally saw the mountain ranges to the west. We reached the Parkway; then it was just a short distance to Elk Mountain Road and the little one-lane, firebreak-wide driveway to the inn.

After we had unloaded and settled in our room, Linda went down to the great room and brought back homemade cookies and lemonade. I, on the other hand, decided to kick back on the balcony with three fingers of good Scotch I had been saving for a special occasion. The sun was beginning to set and a smoky gray mist was rising out of the valley.

Linda had put together a little picnic supper knowing that the inn would not be serving dinner that Wednesday evening, and we didn’t want to ride into Asheville after our five-hour trek across the state. We ate out on the balcony and watched as the sun set behind the inn and darkness crept over the valley. Linda went inside to read, and I watched the shadows and listened as nocturnal wildlife started calling and moving about the woods. After a while I went in, picked up the book I was reading and got ready for bed. I left the doors to the outside open, only latching the screens.

In the middle of the night, I was suddenly awakened. It was as if something or some noise had jolted me from my deep sleep. Groggily, I sat on the side of the bed, trying not to wake Linda, and heard the culprits that had roused me from my slumber. It was a pair of barred owls. They were evidently having a dispute over territorial rights and were arguing like a couple of Southern lawyers. I eased out to the balcony to listen.

The dark sky, full of stars, looked as if it had been sprinkled with diamonds, and the Milky Way seemed to be hovering right over the inn. I watched and listened as the owls moved down the ridge toward the valley, and I thought about Mother and a conversation we had before she became so conflicted with dementia.

“Tommy, don’t you be so upset when I leave this Earth. I’ve had a good life and I’m ready.”

“Mom, you’re going to be here for a lot more years,” I replied.

“No, son, I’m not. And listen to me. My death is not going to be an ending. It’s a new beginning. Think of it as if I’m just heading out on a big adventure and will see you again some day. I won’t see you anytime soon, though, because you have a lot of living yet to do in this world.”

I listened as the sounds of the owls faintly drifted up from the valley, and then they were silent. A meteor streaked across the northern sky. I stood and stretched so hard I could hear my tendons creak. It was as if a heavy weight fell from my shoulders, and I silently went back into the room and to bed.

I dreamed about meteors and stars and Mother. PS

Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.

2018 Department Sporting Life

The Back Deck

Where there’s enough for everyone

By Renee Phile

The green, grassy yard is a triangular shape, lots of plants: basil, rosemary, pansies, and other flowers that look cool, but I don’t know their names. Bird feeders — the whimsical ones — are scattered in the yard. The hoi polloi squirrels eat peanuts from kitchen pans on picnic tables. The birds chirp, the highway beside the house roars softly, the wind tingles against my skin. It’s a cool September morning in Nags Head, and I can smell the ocean. My best friend’s grandma reminds me of my own. Delicate but not breakable. I’m sitting right beside her on the back deck. Just the two of us. I hear a buzz. A bee. Then a hummingbird. I see trees full of birds I can’t identify any more than I know the flowers. I hear a car honk. A door shut. She is reading her devotional book, The Upper Room, and I remember my Gram reading the same book. She reads her Bible at the same time, the books balanced in her lap. Flips pages in her Bible. Points her finger along the page like a palm reader tracing the heart line. Reads. Flips more pages. Reads. Rubs her worn, delicate hands together. Flips more pages. Reads. Rubs her wrist. Peers down at a verse. Reads it to herself. The words almost loud enough for someone to hear. Sips her coffee. I sip my own and continue to write in a notebook. A blue jay hops close to me. She looks up. Throws it a peanut. “Uh, oh,” she says as another one swoops down, snatches it, and flies into a tree. She throws a second peanut for the first blue jay, the one that got pushed to the back of the line, but the one in the tree flies down again, and there is a little scuffle. Bird stuff. “There’s enough for everyone!” she laughs. I laugh too. “This house was built in 1990, and we bought it in 1998,” she explains. I nod. “We have been here ever since.” I nod. She tells me about the house. Two stories. She tells me about her children. Two live close by, they can smell the ocean. One lives on the other side of the world. She tells me about her husband, who passed away this year. He was a wonderful man. She lays her hand flat on the page of the book. There are doves on the roof of the house, looking like a conference is taking place. Bird stuff. I wonder what they are talking about up there. “The blackbirds eat up everything!” she says as she throws a peanut to a squirrel. It hops up to the deck and devours the nut. She reads, and I write. I breathe in the ocean air. I never want to lose this. Instead I will store it away and come back to it whenever I need it. The blue jay swoops down again, greedy. PS

Renee Phile loves being a teacher, even if it doesn’t show at certain moments.

2018 Department Mom Inc.

Gifts from the Sea

Add a powerhouse of nutrients

By Karen Frye

Walking along the shoreline in the northernmost part of Maine and into Canada at low tide, you will find beautiful sea vegetables on the rocks. Edible seaweed grows in an area of the ocean’s edge called the intertidal zone, a fertile area where the land’s organic mineral matter meets the ocean’s mix of water and sunlight.

Originating in Japan, the macrobiotic diet promotes the use of sea vegetables for improving health and includes them in many recipes. The Vikings carried dried seaweed on their voyages for sustenance. Early New England whalers chewed on seaweed for its high vitamin C content to keep scurvy away. The Japanese incorporated sea vegetables in their diet regularly and used them in shrines and ceremonies.

Adding edible seaweed to your food will bathe your cells with a powerhouse of nutrients. Seaweed pioneer Evelyn McConnaughey has collected references from around the world of seaweed being used in the treatment of goiter and other thyroid problems, kidney ailments, ulcers, obesity, high cholesterol, hardening of the arteries and hypoglycemia. Traditional Oriental medicine has always promoted the use of seaweed to lower the risk of heart disease. High in potassium and low in sodium, it reduces the risk of high blood pressure and stroke.

Some of the sea vegetables found easily are:

— Alaria: perfect in soups, loaded with calcium and vitamin A.

— Arame: mild flavor, soak for a few minutes and add to salads or stir-frys.

— Dulse: a reddish-purple seaweed that can be enjoyed as a snack out of the bag, or added to sandwiches, salads and soups.

— Kelp: the all purpose sea veggie, it comes in shakers to sprinkle over food (an alternative to salt); exceptionally high in all minerals, especially calcium, potassium and magnesium.

— Kombu: usually found in strips, you can tenderize (by soaking in water for a few minutes) before use; excellent to add to soups, stocks and beans; very high in iodine.

— Wakame: a very mild taste, cooks quickly; traditionally used for miso soup.

— Nori: if you’ve eaten sushi, you’ve eaten nori; it has a mild, nutty taste, use it for wraps, or crumble it over foods; the highest protein content of the sea veggies with significant amounts of the B vitamins.

Here is an easy soup recipe that is delicious and can get you on your way to making sea vegetables a part of your life.

Basic Miso Soup

6 cups water or vegetable stock

1 medium carrot, sliced diagonally

1 3-inch piece of wakame or kombu

2 scallions, thinly sliced diagonally

3-4 tablespoons miso paste (found in the refrigerated section)

Bring water or stock to a simmer, add carrots and cook until tender. Soak the seaweed in cold water while carrots cook, then drain. When carrots are tender, add the seaweed to the stock and simmer for a minute. Add the scallions and simmer for another minute. Remove from the heat. Dissolve miso in some of the broth and return to pot. Allow to steep briefly before serving. You can remove the seaweed because all the nutrients are now in the soup. You can add other vegetables like celery, onion and ginger. Sprinkle with fresh chopped parsley before serving.

Many health care professionals promote following a plant-based diet. Don’t hesitate to include the sea vegetables as well. You’ll be glad you did. PS

Karen Frye is the owner and founder of Nature’s Own and teaches yoga at the Bikram Yoga Studio.

2018 Department Good Natured

Home, Revisited

The place where old voices linger

By Deborah Salomon

Thomas Wolfe was wrong. You can go home again, virtually, at least. Beware: The journey may be enlightening or sad, affirming or bittersweet.

I have lived under 12 roofs — apartments, duplexes, condos, houses — in 80 years. Each represented a life sequence although, at the time, you only think about the stairs, stoves and bathtubs. Google makes homecoming easier because should the property be for sale, chances are the real estate agent will post a slide show.

I discovered this 10 years ago, after moving back to Asheville, where I lived as a teen in a house my parents occupied almost 40 years. The first buyer renovated and flipped it after my mother moved to a senior residence. It was for sale again. After poring over the photos I asked the agent for a walk-through, which I anticipated, naively, would be like a mother-child reunion.

This house in a very ordinary neighborhood was constructed entirely of stone in 1947 by a builder, for his own family. Poor guy knew more about materials than layout. A hopeless kitchen, tiny dining room, oversize living room, two main-floor bedrooms, two more upstairs plus two vaguely art deco black-and-white tiled bathrooms. The house was empty, with gleaming original hardwood throughout and ridiculously ornate crown moldings added later. Wall colors — bright and hard, unlike the soft green and rose of the ’50s — smacked of too much makeup on an aging beauty. I cringed seeing the mantel painted, ugh, black. Without drapes the huge picture window was a gaping wound in the living room wall.

Once inside the heavy front door, voices long ago absorbed by the walls came seeping out: my mother’s voice, complaining about the cramped kitchen, now gleaming stainless, more like a hospital OR than a place to simmer beef stew. Gone was the wall separating it from the tiny dining room. I heard my father insisting that because the house was made of stone we didn’t need window air conditioners. He deemed “cross ventilation” sufficient. So we suffered.

The basement became his castle, housing a workshop where he made and fixed everything. I had forgotten the tiny, windowless basement bathroom, my introduction to segregation. The African-American man who did “heavy cleaning” for my mother insisted on using that bathroom to change from the clothes he wore to work at the V.A. hospital. Leroy ate his sandwich in the basement, too, although we invited him to eat with us. I always took him a cold Coke, in a bottle.

The massive oak which dominated the backyard — gone, replaced by a fire pit and meditation garden, whatever that is. The flagstone patio added under the critical eye of my grandfather, a retired brick mason, had been roofed over — now “an Italianate veranda.” I could almost hear Granddaddy shuffling along the back hall, where the carpet runners (with a hideous “carved” pattern) had been removed, lest he trip and fall.

At the top of the stairs was a sewing closet. My mother rarely fired up the Singer but my father, in search of a project, had built slanted shelves fitted with little spindles, to hold thread spools. How was the Realtor to know? “Custom carpentry,” she called them.

The upstairs was mine (an only child’s perk) until I left for university. Then it became an apartment with kitchen, sitting room, bath and bedroom but no separate entrance. That lasted one tenant, a cranky old lady who was either too hot or too cold. I peeked into the storage room under the eaves which had a window facing the street — and shuddered. My mother insisted I go on a blind date with the son of a college classmate. From that window I watched him get out of the car and approach the front door. In an absolute panic, I ran downstairs, told my mother no way, dashed into the bathroom and locked the door.

Now, for the last time, I looked through the window and laughed, a laugh that echoed through empty rooms painted garish colors.

A lot transpired in that house. My grandfather died in the back bedroom. I graduated from high school, college and married from there. I brought my three wiggly kids who made a terrible mess. When my daughter was at Duke she sometimes appeared for the weekend, unannounced, with her big dog and a boyfriend. I watched the furniture and household goods carried away at the tag sale — all except my father’s tools, which I gave to Leroy, who had admired them for 30 years of basement lunch breaks.

Why pretend? Angst outweighed nostalgia as I walked through the empty, pristine rooms. Mine was not a storybook youth. But it was my youth. Beginning in 1953, this youth played out in my father’s pride, something the sixth son of a desperately poor immigrant family never dreamed of owning — a solid, attractive, comfortable home. And now, except for the spool spindles and a few glass doorknobs, that house had been washed clean of his presence.

I found an apartment and two more houses online but have no desire to follow up. Because, I learned, only the house remains, not the home.

So maybe Thomas Wolfe was right, after all. PS

Deborah Salomon is a staff writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She may be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.

2018 Department Out of the Blue

MaryEllen & Kyle Appel

MARYELLEN & KYLE APPEL

Photographer: Six Foot Photography Wedding Planner: Vision Events Wedding & Event Planning

Kyle may live in the fast lane, but it was MaryEllen’s heart that was racing when her college sweetheart got down on one knee at a Virginia speedway. On a hill overlooking the track and the rolling, distant mountains, Kyle’s parents snapped photos from a hidden vantage point as MaryEllen said yes. The couple’s four-legged child, Lexy, rejoiced, tires squealed, and they were off to nuptials filled with custom touches. Members of the wedding party woke to a breakfast cooked by Kyle’s granny before heading to the church hand-picked by MaryEllen’s father. Instead of cake, the couple served up treats from an ice cream cart; and rather than a monogrammed watch or money clip, groomsmen were gifted a custom caricature. Today, when the couple take a glance in the rear-view mirror, they don’t see a thing they would change.

2019