Thanksgiving stars

Family holiday gatherings are tricky at best, with politics and religion strictly off the table. There is however, the family history to be pulled out, dusted off and stories told with a new twist with every telling; the now grown children in the family provide running commentary on the older folks memories. Some of the stories are old and musty, and some are fresher; but every year, we tell the tales of our little family history, of the ones who went before, and the family holiday times spent together for years. 

Thanksgiving has always been spent in the country, on my wife’s family farm in Wendell, NC, sixty-five of the quietest acres you can imagine to roam and hike. The calm at my brother and sister-in laws home is astounding. The only sounds are the rustling of trees and the chatter of birds. Deer gather at the rim of the property from their thickets to feed, and tonight, as we drove away down the long curved drive, we saw a dozen fawns and does. We stopped the car, and sat and watched as they fed on foliage.  In the city, we never see does or fawns. It was magical, as the farm always is for us.

The chef this year was my nieces fiancé, who knows his way around a kitchen. His sous chef was my younger niece, who helped create appetizers, and was the food timer. The table was set with ancient linen, and the wines were lovely. John’s turkey would rival any out of Martha Stewart’s kitchen with it’s perfect golden glow, and juicy perfection with pomegranate glaze. Best turkey I ever ate. The courses the young folk prepared were incredibly delicious, and we all stuffed ourselves and gave extra thanks we have a culinary crew a la familia.

As the afternoon passed onto evening, we said our goodbyes and walked out into the huge field to look at the stars above us. In the country, with few lights, and a big sky, they glittered in the blackness like glimmering gold. I felt as if I were in a planetarium, watching the vastness of the night sky and the suns beyond our imaginations. The brilliance of the stars helped remind me how this little family group of people, in the middle of the country, celebrating our thanks for the food and each other was maybe insignificant, but for me, the day was as bright and glorious as any star.

Winter Show at Green Hill

The individual elements of art are nearly valueless; paper, canvas, paints, ink, clay, stone or steel.  It is when one engages real passion, and intellectual, emotional property that value is added to art. Considerable value that exceeds accountants and spread sheets. If we look at history, art values transcend stocks, bonds or real estate. Art is valuable beyond “rational” measurements. Art transcends time, and it can be argued that art is always a wise purchase. A down-turned economy may be the best time to purchase art, as record prices have been set in recent years for American artists. 

On December third, Green Hill Center for NC Art will open the Winter Show exhibition, curated by Edie Carpenter, with the gala Collectors’ Choice. The exhibition will showcase the work 125 North Carolina Artists, many of whom are emerging, young in their careers, and have never shown before at Green Hill. The show will include works across every medium; priced to fit any budget, providing buying opportunity for first time and seasoned collectors to find new artists and support them. “We want everyone to become a collector, no matter what their budget or what the economy is doing,” Carpenter says. “I’ve bought a lot of things that I later regretted buying, but not one of them has been a work of art.” She adds, “If you have less money, as many of us do right now, why not invest it in something unique and handmade, something that’s one of a kind, and something that will increase in value.” 

This phenomenal art sale and fundraiser supports Green Hill’s exhibition and educational endeavors, yet also provides a living for those who create fine art. First Choice, an event that allows preview purchases from the show, is on Thursday, December first, for patrons who purchase advance art credits. Tickets are available online for both events and at the door. Add some real “value” to your life this holiday season, by buying art you love for yourself or as a gift for someone you love. When you come to Winter Show, or purchase art, you are supporting working NC artists, but also enriching the lives of those who partake of the many programs and exhibitions Green Hill Center offers. For more information and preview images, go to: www.greenhillcenter.org

The Jet

November fifth is my buddy, Boyd’s birthday, a 'Guy Faulke’s Day' baby, who always loved the Beatles' lyric, and British phrase, "remember the fifth of November.” We have not seen each other in several years, but ten years ago, he came to my rescue on his birthday as my mother was dying. He was with me the day I turned 21. He was in my wedding nearly 34 years ago. It seems to me as if we have always been friends.

He was born the middle child of three boys; Boyd being his mother’s maiden name; and was the eternal cut-up, grabbing attention. Annie Boyd, his Mother, was a legend in our small town for her humor, and I believe he was her favored son. He was her only son by her side as she died. I met him in high school, that slippery time of teen terror, where he was always a star. Tall, lanky and blonde, he was a natural athlete, and incited riots at the basketball games for his unusual free-throw style. He was notorious as a funnyman with a wit that could slice a person in half. In an almost-alarming algebra II class, he and another class clown tortured the poor ancient teacher, Mrs. Tyler, and developed her nickname, “Tippecanoe and Algebra too!” That fabled class is still discussed and laughed about. Every person at our 40^th high school reunion wanted to see Boyd aka Jet, and clamored for his attention.  We grew to know each other around an ever-socially evolving lunchroom table, and later, were roommates for a while in college. Those early seventies were lively days, and there are insane times to be told; like our road trips to New Orleans for Mardi Gras, or the annual “Turkey Bowl” football game, but this blog does not have enough space for all the crazy things he and I did together, or with our larger group of friends. Most of the the legion of stories simply are neither printable nor safe for work. Sometimes, I wonder how we all survived. The main characters reading this narrative will know and remember. No need to tell the tales again. Somewhere along the college years, Boyd became “BC, the Jet,” which shortened to “The Jet.” The name stuck and today forty or so years later, his friends still call him Jet.

Jet married the love of his life, lovely Catherine, who was, and is his perfect comic straight-man whose comic timing is as sharp as a razor edge. I think she was the first woman he loved who just completely and totally “got him,” and they just recently celebrated their 20^th wedding anniversary. She is the holder of his balloon string, and has always allowed him to be himself, the funny dear man we all love and cherish. Together, Jet and his wife, whom we call “Catbird”, have forged a wonderful life together with children and grandkids, with a trail of friends that would stretch for miles. He and I have celebrated birthdays together and apart, but I never, ever, forget the fifth of November, and am forever grateful for every memory of our time together.

Happy Birthday, Jet.

Autumn art adventure

The long rays of autumnal beach sun are the best, because they are the last before winter's chill. When our dear friend,  artist Elizabeth Bradford, invited us; along with the architect Frank Cheney, to her home in Pine Knoll Shores to paint and play and cook, we jumped at the chance. I named our adventure the “PLAIN-air Paint-Off.” Liz and I agree that the term, “Plein-air painting;” when discussing paintings done outdoors, is just a dreadfully pretentious phrase, and “plain air” painting better suits our southern tastes. Neither B.J. nor Frank paint, but were wrapped up in their own serious reading projects. We two artists painted and drew up a storm of ideas, in a vortex of fun, serious work and quiet critique. We studied the water and cloud movements, the twisted shapes of coastal evergreens, the vivid hues of marsh grasses, and we chattered about the process of making art.  

Of course, in my humble opinion, to paint well requires food of the highest caliber, and lucky for us, our hostess is a sensational cook, whose mantra is “fresh ingredients.” We ate like kings and queens on the fruits of the sea, and the last of summer’s harvest. No restaurant in the area could have served better tasting cuisine. First evening she served prawns with two homemade sauces. Nothing in a jar will ever beat homemade tartar or cocktail sauce, which she made fresh each day. The tartar used Greek yogurt, freshly canned chopped pickles and plenty of parsley. The cocktail sauce was seasoned with softened cooked mountain apples and onions, stewed with ketchup, sieved and blended before adding freshly ground horseradish. Second night we were treated to sautéed sea mullet. Third night was an oyster feast, when we ate a half-bushel of fresh oysters, scrubbed clean and roasted. Unfortunately, Liz badly cut her finger chopping, causing her some serious pain requiring BJ to administer first aid, and I immediately became her sous-chef. Trying to keep up with her kitchen pace was tricky, but she made it work, checking over my shoulder, keeping a close eye on my techniques. The last night, we used two dozen leftover oysters to make an old fashioned oyster stew as a first course, followed by the last of the summer tomatoes and okra, served alongside a classic crab casserole. We also created an apple tart served with an egg custard that she made literally with one hand. It all sounds so rich and decadent, but was quite light, because it was all so fresh. We ate European-style; late and slowly with lots of wine, candles and lively laughter. Perhaps that made the meals seem decadent. I wish I could say the art I produced was as fine as the food, but I believe the food won the contest, hands down. The art excursion turned into a serious cooking class, and this eager pupil learned some needed culinary skills.

We all sat every day in the sun, taking in the air and the peace and quiet of a nearly deserted beach. We painted in acrylic and watercolors, read, and walked the shore. I played footsie with the chilly surf, watching the movement in tiny tidal pools. In the afternoons, we sat on the wind-protected terrace for our waning sun cocktails. The tranquility was as delicious as any of the food we ate. After dinners, we sat outside in comfortable lounge chairs, watching the stars, covering ourselves with warm blankets as if we were on some magical ocean liner in the middle of some exotic ocean. The last long rays of warmth and beach sun in Carolina are so bittersweet, but will provide months of winter warmth for my soul.  

September sweetness

When our daughter was barely a toddler, she had her first taste of the sea as she raced toward the water, me running behind, fearing a wave would hit her. She won the race to the ocean, and sure enough, a wave knocked her down, but the next day, she was back in the water. She became a nationally ranked swimmer at sixteen, but I like to think her love of the water began that first trip to the Pine Knoll Shores 26 years ago. Until she was adult, we took beach trips with extended family, including the “grumps” as we called my wife’s parents, and her brother and his wife and their daughters and then later, all three girls had a friend with them. It took a lot of bedrooms. After years of the Crystal Coast, we rented an amazing variety of beach houses at Wrightsville, where I spent my childhood summers.

When my daughter was four and same age as my grandson, and again the next year, we were in Pine Knoll Shores, and fell in love with Beaufort and Morehead city. The past four years, since we became grandparents, we have had trips without any children or family to Pine Knoll Shores, always in September or April, and Beaufort is still a beacon for us, and a way to step back in time.

This September, we spent two full weeks at Pine Knoll Shores, and the last half of the trip my daughter and curious grandson joined us. It was the sweetest and dearest vacation I can remember as an adult. We were at the same exact beach where I had held my daughter’s hand at age four in the water, and there, 26 years later, I was holding another precious little hand, being protective of waves that might crash over a wee head. The thoughts of my circle of live were overwhelming, spending time with him. He and I spent so much time in the water, our hands became like prunes.

The joy of being with my little family, and the laid-back attitude and child-like wonder of a four-year old made the trip quite an adventure. We spent hours on the beach collecting shells just after the wild hurricane waves had passed, and he found a huge conch the first morning he was there. We covered the same delightful North Carolina Aquarium with him that we visited when she was four, and we ate at the “Sanitary Restaurant,” where she played outside so many seasons ago, and where my grandson, likewise, wanted to play and watch the boat activity. The “Sanitary” has a candy shop at the exit, and my daughter bought and hoarded several of her favorite candies from her tween and teen years. I think we all become a little child- like at the coast. We sat outside on the dock in Beaufort, watching boats of all sizes and hearing several languages and accents. My grandson took a liking to “Blackbeard,” and the research being done on the sunken ship of “Blackbeard,” named the “Queen Anne’s Revenge.” There are videos of the recent raising of her 18^th century anchor and some incredible artifacts brought up from the ship on display at the charming Maritime Museum. We ate lunch at a new wine shop café called “Queen Anne’s Revenge,” and my grandson loved the sophisticated children’s menu ordering pasta with Parmesan, and asking our server for a table under the large portrait of “Blackbeard.” He was just so alive with pirate questions and so happy with the moment overlooking the sun reflecting off the water.

There are moments of clarity in the sweetness of September that make living in the moment magical. The circle of life as a grandparent is so astounding, and makes my life richer and fuller, as does the serenity, salinity and rage of the ocean which draws me back again, and again.

The Light in August

Like a magic meteor shower, an energy force has flown through my veins these fast few hot summer days. The August light has always intrigued me, and has ignited my passion for the pigments once again. Like a madman, I have spent sleepless nights in my garret studio painting as if the easel were a magnet, with the intensity of deadline being done by dawns’ light.

Oil pigment is messy. It stains and ruins clothes. Turpentine, which is offensive to some, is an elixir to my smelling sense. Whatever color was used last will hang under the fingernails, and impossible to clean. The pains are worth the pleasure of this incredibly sensual medium. Oil paint feels like silk on the fingers, and possesses the consistency of creamy paste for those who do not paint. Oil oozes, and immediately becomes a sexy medium. It’s difficult to explain why the medium is sexy, as that would require a treatise, but oil paint is tied to my puberty when I first started painting in oil. To me it’s just sexy. Being an artist at twelve was powerful. In the Renaissance, I would have been sent to be an artist’s assistant at that tender age.

My brain sees something in the loose under-painting on the canvas, and my hand picks up just the right brush, and the alchemy of mixing hues together and creating values of warm and cool, light and dark begins on my palette. I have to put down washes of under-color because I simply cannot face a white surface. The subjects have been seascapes and storms. I have no idea if my subconscience is expressing stormy emotions, or quiet, calm ones. Makes no difference to me, as this fresh bolt of light is all about the paint. I have no cares about the image subjects as they exist only in my mind, and only a means to an end.

It is all about the paint. The texture of the brushes dragging and scumbling has been like my hand was driven by an unworldly force, The new large, round brushes have opened a whole new way for scumbling paint. My favorite brush since I was a kid is the flat chiseled number 12. Perfect for almost any stroke. The flat brush allows me to push paint thick like meringue, creating colors of the reflected sunlight shimmer on water, and the light on reflecting cloud forms I have so intently studied this last year. I read that John Constable spent a year of his illustrious career painting clouds. Michelangelo called clouds, “forms without substance.” I sense the enormity of life in clouds, so I will allow these good humors and Aristotle’s Eudemons to pass through my brain to my hands to palette to canvas as long as the gods allow it to last. The September light will look different.

June fresh

One of the joys of June is the flavors that entice from the organic gardens and farms in Carolina. When the food is June fresh, the taste buds beg for more stimulation. Last weekend, B.J. and I headed downtown to one of our favorite restaurants, named, "Table 16," and were pleasantly seated in the front window at table number 16. We came especially that night to say goodbye to A.J. Gregson, who is leaving Greensboro in pursuit of romance, and new adventures. Last summer, A.J. served a lobster corn dog, presented with a hot chinese mustard and a sweet asian sauce. Amazing! At the Green Hill Center for NC Art "Select" event I helped with this spring, Graham donated hors d' oeuvres, and A.J. served oysters on the half shell, with a sweet onion barbecue sauce. The guests were duly impressed.

Graham Heaton, owner and head chef of "Table 16," was reared on the NC coast and trained in New Orleans. His flavor profile is pure creative genius; a mixture of worldly flavors, tinted with a southern attitude, and a nose pointed toward the ocean tides. The  staff of servers make everything look effortless, as they pour and advise, with no hovering. From most any seat in the house, you can watch the chefs' movements, searing, stirring and tasting. When we dine at "Table 16," we have to make no decisions about what to choose from the monthly changing menu. Graham knows our preferences, and after we discuss what he feels is best, we sit back and allow the kitchen to create and present a tasting of many layers of tastes and textures, in usually five or six small courses. There is never a sense of, "oh, I wish I had ordered that dish!"

We thought the chilled sweet corn vichyssoise was smooth as silk, with miniscule bits of juniper berry-flavored ham and a truffle shaving. Soup was followed by flash-fried crispy Whelk, from the New River, served with a hot cherry marmalade. Third course was Creole alligator, with dirty rice, and a tiny cheese biscuit, which I could have eaten a basket full.  The Ostrich came next with spinach and a licorice-flavored bordelaise. As a finale, we devoured a dreamy frozen slice of white chocolate and strawberry heaven finished with creme fraiche and two coulis. A good bottle of french wine washed away the sins of the palette. 

To dial down the evening, as coffee is poured, Graham always comes out to see if everything was as expected. We always are full of praise and told him it was a perfect June dining experience. We have a reservation in July to celebrate B.J.'s birthday, and I wonder what summery sorcery Graham will conjure and serve?

Night at the Museum - part two

A misguided preacher announced  the world would come to an end on May 21st with the Christian "rapture" that stirred up a silly fuss in the media. The 21st was also the evening for the inaugural "Art of the Auction" gala at the NC Museum of art, in which my little painting had been hanging for three weeks. My "Divas," who are my muses in one sense or another, joined us for the dressy gala. 

These women are my biggest boosters; my wife of 33 years, and three of my BFFs, which include an accomplished Artist, a celebrated  Interior Designer, and my gallery owner, who was a NYC model and stylist. They all looked so fabulous. We celebrated with a glass of champagne before the drive to the museum, and once there, we followed the very tony and well-dressed crowd to the entrance for our tickets. The air seemed to crackle with energy, with over 800 guests anticipated.

My painting had been juried and out of more than 500 entries, of which 140 were selected. I was thrilled to be included, and felt a strong sense of giving back to the iconic museum that had been a source of such vast richness to me. As we slowly moved to the ticket window, a staff member I knew, rushed over and told me that my painting was the very first sale of the evening! I was literally awestruck and dumbfounded, but I believe that possibly my chest puffed up a size, and my head was floating, with four beautiful women as my dates. What a lucky man!

We descended the main staircase to the crowd, the band, bar and food; and the wine did flow. The silent auction had some nice work on which to bid, and then the main auction began at nine, in an enormous tent. I have never witnessed such a lively and exciting auction. A serious amount of money was raised for the museum educational programs, and for future exhibitions, such as the Rembrandt show in the fall.

I loved watching people look at my painting, and hearing their comments. The tornado subject matter had become very relevant and more disturbing, as the south and the nation had been the targets of  tornados in the weeks before the auction. Obviously, the person who bought my picture had staked it out beforehand, and I was told she rushed in exactly at seven, as the evening began, to purchase my painting. I would like to thank the person who bought the image, and inquire what drew her to my stormy canvas.

Dancing began just after the auction, and we stayed late, until coffee and desert were served. As we headed west, we were all chattering with memories of the night, and then the girls grew quieter, and then they slept. Driving in the silent dark of the night, my mind began to race through memories of the night, the stages of my life, and how art had been such an important part of who I am. We arrived home well past midnight, and the 21st was already over.

The "rapture" had not ended the world as we know it, but the rapture I felt in my heart on that special night, surrounded by my dear friends; and the joy I had felt earlier at the family museum dinner, will live on in my most joyous memory files the remainder of my life. I do know that if the world had ended that evening, I would have have gone out incredibly happy.

Night at the Museum - part one

Our NC Art museum has held a piece of my heart since I was a child. Visiting the Norman Rockwell exhibition last year revealed brushwork techniques I had long forgotten.  In February, a call for entries online for the inaugural juried "Art of the Auction" exhibition and sale at the NCMA caught my eye. On a lark, I sent in a digital photograph of a stormy tornado painting which I had entitled "Funnel". My longtime fascination with storms and tornados may have been linked to the "Wizard of Oz" or perhaps it was the memory of seeing an ocean waterspout in Florida when I was six. How can something so beautiful and mesmerizing have such fierce power? 

 

Forty years ago, in calls for show entries, my work had been rejected by the NCMA which stung my ego at the time, and set up a change in my life. I had several gallery shows after college, and sold some art, but no luck in getting into the NCMA statewide exhibitions. After marriage, I gradually gave up a painting career to focus on family and building a business. After retirement, I began to paint once again. Images seemed to flow out of my brain straight to canvas, and 2010 was a prolific year in which I did about thirty paintings to get my hand and brain in concert once again. Not only did it feel joyous but it seemed to take me back to my roots of classes in oil, starting at the age of ten. Of these works, some have found a home with friends and family while others are locally exhibited. 

 

As the final day for announcing the auction jury selection arrived on March 30th, I concluded that I had been rejected once again. Then a late afternoon email arrived. After forty long years, an acceptance letter from NCMA may seem like a silly bit of vanity, but reading that letter gave me an enormous sense of validation.

 

The week of my 60th birthday, I delivered the painting to the museum and met my wonderful sister-in-law for a lively lunch at the museum restaurant. After hearing the news of my acceptance, she asked if she and my brother-in-law could come to the Preview event. In a few days the group had grown to include my wife and daughter, and my niece and her fiance. We all gathered in the courtyard, and found our way to a table and the catch-me-up southern family chatter began in earnest.

On a quest to find my painting, I slipped away from the table. My eyes searched the galleries downstairs, with  no luck. I went back upstairs and in a prominent corner by the entrance, there it was, and there I was; standing in front of my own painting, with joy and amazement. It was one of the most powerful moments of my life. As I stood there, I felt a tear rolling down my cheek, and such  enormous pride, thinking of my parents, who had given me that first paint set and lessons fifty years earlier.  A female guard, watching my reaction, asked, "Is this your first time hanging here?" I nodded yes, because I could not speak. She reached in her jacket pocket, and handed me a tissue, saying, "Congratulations." I will never forget  that dear woman's face and kindness.

I then took my family, one by one, to see the painting, and we celebrated our excitement with toasts and  several more glasses of wine. At half past eight, my sis-in-law announced that we had reservations to eat at "Iris," the stunning new restaurant in the new museum building. Off we went and enjoyed a  wonderful family meal. The drive home was quiet, and as the night progressed, I found myself wide awake, savoring every moment of the delicious night.

Teemy turning 60

My buddy Tim has always has my back. I call him "Teamy," and he calls me "Rock." Tim always accepted me for what I am, flaws and all. He appreciates my creativity and I envy his easy athletic body comfort and knowledge of sport. Tim was and always will love all sports. Statistics are his muse. We always laugh at the same sort of ironic humor, and share our secrets. We can go months without talking or years without seeing each other, yet we always pick up the conversation just where we left off.

We met in algebra class at seventeen, over 40 years ago, and shared a high school lunch table that was a lively, yet chocolate-box assortment of kooky kids. Tim was immediately accepted as a popular guy because he was a natural and outstanding athlete. He was totally miserable at first, having been transported junior year by his parents from Iowa to Burlington, a little town known for its insurance industry, but he settled in soon. His family was my first look at midwestern life and culture, and began my understanding that there was more about humankind than just being southern.

We became close friends in college, although we never attended the same school; and lived together one silly summer at the beach in his parent's house, doing as little as possible except being young; sleeping, eating and partying. We had a job moving furniture for an interior designer until a nasty sleeper sofa unleashed its fury on Tim's leg with a bloody gash that took us to the emergency room. After that, we just partied. We later lived the pivotal summer of 1976 across the hall from each other in an odd and wonderful old victorian house whose walls could now tell hair-raising tales of our seventies exploits. That summer was the best, because it was our last as boys.  

His insurance executive father got me a job in '76 at a prestigious art insurance firm in Washington, DC, and his mother showed me the virtues of no-nonsense midwestern sensibilities, and gave me an appreciation of delicious Iowa ribs and corn. When she cooked, we ate well. His parents were always my champions, buying paintings from my art shows and sharing graciously their homes, their love and time. Once, his father had his company plane pick BJ and I up for a weekend at the beach. His father was generous and kind to a fault, and Tim has followed in those footsteps.

When we were seniors in college, we took an insane, snowy road trip to NYC with our buddy Flip to meet a friend at West Point. We stopped to eat at a McDonalds in Laurel, Maryland. After a quick burger, we realized this was the same establishment where Alabama governor George Wallace had been shot. In our illegally-induced daze, we thought that fact enormously ironic and funny, and laughed for miles that we had happened on the place where our hateful 70s nemesis had been brought down. Looking back, there was noting at all funny or ironic about a man losing the use of his body - it was tragic, no matter who; but on that night, driving in the snow, we made a pact to come back to that little town of Laurel, Maryland on our 50th birthdays, as a celebration of remembrance.

Tim has built his life back in Iowa with his wonderful wife, three beautiful daughters and a precious granddaughter. He turned 50 ten years ago, and on that day we shared laughs on the phone over those lost days of youth, and wondered aloud what we thought was so special about that night in Laurel, Maryland, and who in the world would go there to celebrate important birthdays. Ten years have past. Tim is sixty today, and I am six weeks away from that magic number. With some age behind me and the pains of aging upon me, I totally understand now why we made that important pact that cold, snowy night so many decades ago. We did not understand it then, but we just wanted to celebrate and remember what we were at that moment in time - young and full of joy and life, with all the possibilities of what might be ahead.

This is my birthday card to you, my dear friend. Happy day, bro!

Anniversary

We celebrated our 33rd wedding anniversary this week. As I approach my 60th year, I realize that more than half my life has been with Betty J. Brantley. In May of 2012, we will have known each other fourty years. Anyone who has spent time with me understands the horrors she has put up with. After decades of sickness and health, happiness and sorrow, we still make each other laugh, and complete each other's unclear sentences. She gets me, and has always allowed me to be who I am. She is a keeper. I knew it the day we met.

We were introduced by her roommate, Elizabeth, a fellow art student and class buddy in Chapel Hill. The afternoon Liz introduced us, I took the girls for a beer, and then we all drove in my red convertible to a country barbecue joint where I carved our initials on a picnic table, "BJB + RLC." I was smitten. She was not. We became pals. The two roommates held a sort of Salon in their tiny apartment, and threw amazingly stylish parties, with interesting, talented students always lingering in those smoky, hazy early years of the seventies. BJ and I stayed in touch after graduation through newsy letters, and while I was living in Washington, she came for a weekend visit, and our friendship grew and blossomed.

We were wed in the coldest dark of winter by warm candlelight in a small chapel. The groomsmen in black tuxedoes, behaved like naughty penguins; putting raisins on their front teeth to appear toothless, as they paraded down the isle trying to crack my icy face. The beautiful bridal attendants were dressed in cerise silk, and carried bouquets of white french tulips. As a groom, you have the best seat in the house, watching the spectacle unfold before your eyes. I remember every single detail of that play. My dear dad had obtained one of my mother's "little helpers" for me to swallow along with my jitters, so I was as cool as the chilled January air outside. As the crowd stood for the bridal processional, she appeared at the door on her father's arm; dressed in her mother's wedding gown, a cloud of white satin and lace that appeared angelic. Her bouquet was an riotous explosion of wild color - cerise, purple, yellow and pink, as if she had plucked the essence of spring and held it in her hands. She took my breath away.

 She still takes my breath away. I wonder if our initials are still on that picnic table?

Eulogy

On Friday, I took part in a sweet funeral played out by a large cast in honor of Mary Stewart Covington, the mother of my and dear friend, and brilliant artist and writer, Elizabeth Bradford. The early morning interment was at the church where Elizabeth's father's funeral had taken place, and her wedding, at which I was a groomsman for her former husband, David. The old cemetery sits on a boulder strewn hill  that overlooks the 19th century clapboard church. As we stood in the bright cold, saying a tearful good-bye, I was overcome by the rush of fourty years of memories.

Mary was called GrandMary by her grandchildren, and "grand" she was. Liz and I were art students in Chapel Hill when she introduced me to her mother for the first time at her parent's annual Christmas party in 1971, which was as elegant an affair as I had ever seen in my 20 years. Upon entering the living room, the grand piano tunes reflected the shimmer of the decor and the incredible Christmas tree. This tree was flocked in white, and covered with live white narcissus in floral tubes, decked out with three sizes of miniature white lights and a dazzling display of crystals and shimmering ancient glass ornaments. The tree was surrounded by a blanket of snow on which there were satin ribbon-wrapped gifts with tiny moss covered pots of narcissus sitting casually about. The fragrance was intoxicating. In 1971, not even Martha Stewart had forced narcissus bulbs. There were white mechanical birds hidden in the branches which tweeted a serenade all evening. The food was southern, mouth-watering bites, passed by waiters, and the bar was stocked and hosted by her loquatious and fun-loving dad, Hurd Bradford. I was simply astounded by that party. As a rather unworldly college student, my world was rocked by that Christmas party and by the "grand" Mary and her great taste. She became my teacher that very night. On later summer visits to their mountain house with Elizabeth, Mary took us to the auction houses and antique shops, and taught me about how to spot a fake and how to grab a treasure. She explained clarity and cut in diamonds, and the difference and importance of platinum. She showed me the secret inlaid drawers in the first real Sheridan piece I had ever seen, her own desk. Heady stuff for a young man who loved design. I never saw a woman who could go through an antique shop in such record time, and with her expert eyes, always find an amazing overlooked find. The following spring after that Christmas party, Elizabeth introduced me to B. J. Brantley, her UNC room mate, and my destiny was sealed, as B.J. and I were married 33 years ago this month.

Mary Stewart had an amazing life, and was adored by many as a forward-thinking progressive teacher and philanthropist. She survived three husbands, and her will and faith kept her in this world stylishly alive and alert until her last moments. She passed on her great sense of graciousness to everyone she ever encountered. Mary's service was held in the beautifully proportioned Davidson Presbyterian church on the Jeffersonian-inspired campus. Simple, upbeat and tasteful, the service was followed by a reception at which we saw many old faces; including artists and friends of Elizabeth, and her wonderful family and amazing children, now grown men. We also visited with David, whom we had not seen in over twenty years, and shared laughs over old times. It was a lovely send off.

On the long afternoon drive home, BJ and I sat mostly in silence, lost in the dusty trail of memories, occasionally breaking the quiet with a comment on the day, or discussing the next beach trip with Elizabeth. I realized at some point during the drive that it was January seventh, and that I had buried my own father that very same day, six years earlier. I wondered at the roundness of days and years, and asked myself silently, "will I stand on that hill, overlooking that sweet old church when Elizabeth dies to say good bye, or will she help BJ sprinkle my ashes at the beach, where we three have had so many good memories together." Who can guess what the future may hold. Either way, I imagine one of us will say or write a eulogy of some sort, as a send off to dear old friends and the passage of time together. In the meantime, I give thanks to fate, for bringing Elizabeth, and her dear mom into my life.

January one

I awoke early this first day of 2011 thinking of a lyric I vividly remembered from a 1974/1975 new years party. The song was written by Phoebe Snow whose music I adore, and she had just released her eponymous first album. The year 1975 set in motion amazing events that would change my life forever, but on that last night of 1974, in the midst of a recession, jobless, and alone, Phoebe's lyrics struck a cynical nerve in a cynical time.
My buddy Tim hosted the party at his parent's house, and we played billiards and drank beer all afternoon preparing for the evening. Of course, his saintly and progressive parents were out of town. A lively and large college crowd of  friends came and celebrated well into the wee hours. At midnight, Tim and I dressed as "Father Time" and "Baby New Year," with banners of the year numbers fashioned across our chests. Tim had the body, so he played the shirtless diaper role, and I dressed in a sheet and carried a borrowed old sythe. Sometime before dawn, after everyone had either left, scored, or passed out; I mournfully and drunkenly played the Phoebe Snow album over and over and over on the record player, and when I awoke on the floor, it was 1975. No explanations appeared.
Several years ago, Tim sent me the treasured photograph of us shot at midnight in costume. I took a long hard look at that picture this morning and went on a trip down my dimming memory lane with You Tube to find the song called, "It Must be Sunday," with the funny lyrics. The last time I went out on new years eve was 2000/2001. These days, my last night of the year is spent in contemplation as it was last evening. No expectations ever for the last night of the year. Here is the verse of the witty and timely lyric that stuck:


"December thirty-first
Is the very worst time of the year
You got to think of people
That you like enough
To share your beer
Just when you're having fun
It's January one
And you wait for explanations
To appear."

No explanations magically appeared this morning. No excuses either for the old year now history. This mornings dawn brought hope and expectation for a year of personal growth; of expressing joy and passion, and of living with as little cynicism as possible. It's January one.