Early one Saturday morning back in 1975 found me at the main street newspaper office in Forest City sweeping the front room, when an old farmer wearing faded overalls came through the front door (no keypad, no buzzer, no armed guard) wanting to see the editor.
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Last week’s earthquake up in the northwestern corner of North Carolina gave me a shake, too. Beginning in the summer of 1968, right out of college and green as grass, I served as editor…
Ask any college town “townie” what’s their favorite time of year — and many are likely to say, now. From Athens, GA, to Lawrence, KS; to State College, PA, to Chapel Hill-Carrboro, the start of the fall semester brings with it a wave of youthful energy, intellectual ferment and…
Sixty-four years ago, I went to Narnia, where I became a lion named Aslan. To get to that foreign land, I didn’t need a passport. But I did need a great teacher to open the magical door through the old wardrobe.
As the calendar turns to the dog days of summer, our thoughts turn to ice cream, which leads us to Maple View Farm.
The bumper sticker on the back of the old pick-up truck outside of Carrboro caught my attention. It read, “Make America Kind Again.” Permit me to riff off a recent New York Times op-ed piece that opined thusly: that if there’s any silver lining to the double-whammy of the pandemic and the murder of George Floyd, it has to be our heightened awareness of our common humanity and mutual interdependence.
“f/8 and be there!” — the old-school photojournalist’s equivalent cheer of “GO HEELS!” for Tar Heel fans — might as well have been created by James (Jim) H. Wallace Jr., fabled DTH civil rights photographer.
Tiring of building dams in the mountain creek below the cabin, one day I spied a flat rock that had the distinct shape of North Carolina, only fatter. Picking up the husky N.C. rock, I began wondering, what other state-shaped stones might I find in the clear gurgling waters of Silver Creek?
Dear Reader: This week the Townie is on vacation at the beach, having quarantined for two weeks prior, so he can hug his grandkids. Without apology, this week’s abbreviated Lens turns to haiku.
Father’s Day, in the home in which I grew up, didn’t exist. The third Sunday in June was just another day. But I’m certain that wasn’t true for my heartbroken divorced mother, nor for my big brother, Nick, traumatized by the betrayal of his beloved dad. Father’s Day was a cruel reminder of abandonment. How does a 7-year-old boy grow up when he feels rejected by his own father?
Of late, there has been much talk about “the talk.” Now, a year and a half after a dramatic play by the same name debuted locally, a video version will begin streaming live and free for a month.
This week especially we could all use something to celebrate about. To that end, I offer two stories that should help restore a little of our faith in the human race.
On Memorial Day, tens of thousands of buglers across the land stood out on balconies, porches and backyards and played “Taps” at precisely 3 p.m. — the brainchild of CBS “On the Road” host and Charles Kuralt protégé Steve Hartman.
Henry David Thoreau knew a thing or two about social distancing. In 1845 he self-quarantined for two years and two months at a one-room cabin he built himself on the shores of Walden Pond outside of Concord, Massachusetts. Neither by edict nor necessity, but rather by intention, Thoreau wanted to “simplify, simplify.”
News coverage of recent college and high school graduation ceremonies reminds me of another commencement — one that changed this newsie’s life in a flash.
A true townie I am, too, having moved to Chapel Hill in 1947 when I was 2, bringing along my older brother and my mother. So, while I wasn’t actually born in Chapel Hill, I can claim to be a native — albeit with an asterisk.