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.