News-Record.com

A community is defined as much by its small stories of life as its big news events. This is a place where we hope to tell some of them. Some will be anecdotes, others observations. Some will have insight, others no obvious point. Sort of like every day life. We expect this to resemble more of a personal blog than others on this site. Think of it as the Triad's version of the New Yorker's Talk of the Town or the New York Times' Metropolitan Diary.

We want you to feel inspired to contribute. Tell us a story and send it in. There's a good chance we'll post it.

Driving through town this past Thanksgiving weekend, I couldn't help but notice newspapers piling up on some driveways. I can appreciate people not wanting to bother stopping the paper while they are out of town for a few days, but what's up with their neighbors? They can't walk over, pick up the paper and toss it on the porch?

I know that the concept of neighborhood and community has changed as cities grow, people become more transient and technology allows us to stay inside. But, really, you don't even have to know your neighbor to move their paper to the porch and eliminate that "we're-not-home-and-the-neighbors-aren't-paying-attention-so-back-the-truck-up-and-help-yourself" look. Have we gotten to be such a faceless kind of place that that simple courtesy is neglected or, worse, not even considered?

Of course, I didn't stop and do it. They were outside my neighborhood, and someone might have confused me with a robber. Don't need to be shot before Christmas.

The scene: An Elm Street restaurant.

The players: Two co-workers and a novice waiter.

"What's the soup du jour?"

The waiter: "Lemme check on that." She returns a few minutes later.

"Sorry," she says. "The soup du jour was yesterday."

--- by Robert Bell

The guy walking down Friendly Avenue early Sunday morning wearing the red Santa hat and black hoodie proclaiming "Christmas sucks" was a contradiction in fashion that begged for an answer. So we asked.

"Spent the night at a friend's house and she gave me this for the walk home," he said.

He seemed pleasant enough and there was a hint of a smile on his face so we left without clarifying which article of clothing he borrowed.

--- by Robert Bell

I live in a oldish house with a number of large, old trees around it. This time of year it feels like a veritable forest. I have a powerful gas-powered leaf blower that takes care of most of the yard in an afternoon. There is one corner, though, right by the road, where it is easier to use a rake.

So, I had finished the yard except for that one area. I had put the leaf blower away. The grass was green and clean-looking. I was finishing up with the rake when a youngish woman walked past on the street. She stopped briefly and said, "I so appreciate you using the good, old-fashioned rake out here. Those leaf blowers makes such a racket and cause pollution. Doesn't it make you feel good doing it the old-fashioned way?"

I smiled and said yes. She didn't stop to share the joy with me.

I like reading church signs.

Sometimes they make you think. Other times, they seem to offer just the right words at the right time.

And then there are those times they just make you laugh.

Like this one I passed two weeks ago at Burnett's Chapel, a United Methodist church on Old Randleman Road.

Clearly this church means business!

Reader submission from Edward Bruce Kalaniokaapuokamehameha Keohohou

After making my decision, back in 1985, that North Carolina is where I wanted to continue
graduate studies, I figured I may as well get settled in. Settling in for me is to secure a physician, retain legal counsel and prepare for my earthly remains to be handled with dignity. This I have always done whenever I stationed myself in a new community. Seems odd, but when you're alone and haven't met people yet, you prepare yourself for life.

Among my list of things to do, I decided to register to vote. I contacted the Guilford County Board of Elections to inquire about registering and what requirements I would need. No problem! I can handle all of that.

When I got to the BOE Office, I approached the counter, and an employee asked me how she could be of assistance. I told her my intentions, and she respectfully acknowledged my request.
Now, bear in mind. I was advised to present legal identification. I had a letter with my present address on it, my driver's license and my military identification. In fact, I carried a copy of my birth certificate. I figured I was well loaded with identity accessories.

When the employee reviewed my documents, she asked where my "green card" was. I thought to myself, "Green card? What green card is she asking for?" Now, I had just gotten my Greensboro Library card, and it was green. So, I presented that her. She shook her head and said that was not it. I reached into my wallet, and pulled out my First Union Bank Card, it was green! She shook her head again and said that wasn't it.

She asked if I had my passport. I said that I hadn't left the country, and I don't usually carry that around with me because I'm not in a foreign country.

Another clerk, who was evidently listening in, shouted, "He's a citizen! He's a citizen!"

I was taken aback and thought to myself, (duh!), she wanted a Green Card! Like in, INS Green Card.

The employee reviewed what I had presented to her, minus the "Green Card," with the other employee. Then she said, "I didn't know Hawaii was a state?"

Well, that was my official welcome to Guilford County, City of Greensboro, North Carolina. It makes me proud to know that I am recognized as a citizen of this country.

Act now and you can be the first one on your block to get those coveted Bruce Springsteen tickets for his Greensboro show this spring!

How early will you be? Consider this: The tickets aren't even on sale yet. Heck, the Greensboro coliseum won't even confirm the concert is happening.

But that hasn't stopped the wheels of free enterprise. Stubhub.com, a ticket resale website, currently has 76 tickets available for the April 28 concert for as much as six times the expected list price. That's right, for just $583 each, you can get tickets that, according to Springsteen's official website, don't go on sale until Dec. 7.

How can it be that be, you ask? Is this some Christmas miracle? Or do these tickets even exist?

Don't worry, Virginia, there really is a Santa Claus. But at these prices, he must have a lot of overhead to pay for.

Jennifer, a friendly Stubhub.com operator we spoke to Sunday, checked and assured us that indeed, that two actual tickets for Section 121 row RR can be yours for the equivalent of a mortgage payment. Plus a 10 percent premium to Stubhub. Plus shipping.

Stubhub only acts as a middleman for the deal. People who hold tickets use Stubhub to resell their tickets. Stubhub won't release the name of the seller, since scalpers are generally shy about taking credit for the valuable service they provide.

When we pointed out that the tickets were't on-sale yet, Jennifer explained that this wasn't all that unusual. Often early tickets are released by the promoter, the venue or the band, she said. Andrew Brown, a spokesman for the Coliseum, says the tickets didn't come from them.

While you're pondering this miracle, here's a clip to get you in the mood for the concert. It may be a close as you get:

Several years ago (the VCR era to be exact), the wife and I got cozy on the couch to watch The Blair Witch Project. Big mistake. The next day we flew up to Maine for a week in the woods. Just me and her and 12,763 acorns falling onto our cabin's tin roof each night.

Which brings me to my point: That wet fog that's blanketing downtown right now? That might be charming elsewhere -- San Fran perhaps. But not Greensboro. Not after we went to the movies last night and saw The Mist.

We arrived at roughly the same time, each sizing the other up. Amidst the holiday rush of shoppers in the parking lot of a big box retailer in Greensboro, we were at a crossroads: The dreaded four-way stop. Do I go first, or last, or somewhere in between?

After waiting, and waiting, and waiting, I did what any northerner would do: Squinted my eyes, hit the gas and made that left turn. I got out alive.

For all you holiday shoppers out there, don't do what I did. Instead, check out our handy guide to navigating the four-way stop so you can be better prepared.

Call it a case of old-fashioned distracted driving.

A dispatcher overheard on our newsroom scanner relayed a complaint this morning someone was reading the newspaper while driving on N.C. 68 south near Bryan Boulevard in Greensboro.

So this newspaper - and I can only guess which one - is such a compelling read that you can't wait to get to work to dive in? Maybe there is hope for our industry.

Every year I ring the bell for Salvation Army. Yes, I know. It annoys some people as they are trying to get into the store. I used to be one of those people. But, as in the Christmas stories, my eyes were opened to the joys of charity. Other people's charity. I'd say that about every third person drops some money into the kettle, which is a pretty good average if you think about it.

A couple years ago, I was ringing during the night shift at Barnes & Noble at Friendly Shopping Center. It was cold, business was brisk and people were hurrying in and out. I smile at everyone who makes eye contact and wish most of them a Merry Christmas, but avoid watching them if they put money in the kettle. The amount they put in should be private, I figure.

Toward the end of the evening, a white Lincoln Continental -- the older, boxier, more elegant model -- cruised up to the curb. A man got out of the back seat and approached the kettle. It had always impressed me when drivers would see the kettle and make a special stop. So, I wished him a season's greetings and looked the other way, giving him a modicum of privacy.

Next thing I know, he had unlatched the kettle and was halfway back to the waiting car. "Hey, what are you doing?" I asked and stepped to follow him. I know it sounds like a dumb question now, but it never occurred to the naive me that someone would try to steal the money. He replied that he was with the Salvation Army and was picking up the kettle a little early. Even I recognized that as BS. But by the time I got to the car, he had hopped in, closed the door and was on his way.

I wrote the license number on my hand and called the Salvation Army contact, who called the police. An officer interviewed me the next day, and Isaid I could identify the guy, but I never heard what happened.

I didn't feel violated or angry or scared or anything that robbery victims say. Mostly, I felt foolish. Foolish that I let it happen and foolish that I didn't have my wits about me to stop him. I wrote an extra large check to the Salvation Army to try to cover the donations he took.

But it didn't stop me from ringing. I'll be the guy in the Santa hat at the Wal-Mart on Cone on Wednesday.

I saw a fist fight Sunday afternoon.

I was walking the dog, vaguely aware of a group of boys playing football in a neighbor's front yard. The sound of arguing broke through the usual noise of kids playing, and I looked up. Two boys, one significantly larger than the other, both about middle-school age, were face to face shouting at each other. As the larger boy turned away, his adversary pulled him back and sucker punched him in the face. The crack was audible to me about 100 feet away.

The larger boy dropped to the ground, but only for an instant. He leaped back up and grabbed the other kid in a bear hug, and they both fell to the ground wrestling.

An adult at the house swept onto the scene quickly -- the whole thing took probably 10 seconds -- and broke it up. Both boys were sent home.

Inured by routine stories of crime and movies of cartoon mayhem, I had forgotten how ugly even the tamest violence can be.

At Laser-X, the laser tag center on West Market Street, the teen-aged attendant dutifully went through the rules of engagement with a roomful of six-year-olds and their parents.

"Aim for the lights on your enemy's chest and shoulders," he said. "If you get shot, your gun won't work for a few seconds."

"Any questions?" he asked.

"Just one," said a parent, yelling over the din of kids hyped on birthday cake and eager for combat. "Before everyone starts shooting at each other, maybe we could try talking out our problems?"

He didn't last long.

Of all the signs posted around the area - both permanent and temporary - is there any less noticable and less readable than those little black and white rezoning signs?

You know, the one's stuck on the ground with a little stick? They are the sign equivalent of a whisper, when I think most people wouldn't mind a little shout: "Hey, they are planning on putting a space shuttle assembly plant here. Thought you might like to know!"

Aren't signs meant to attract attention and inform?

Granted, some rezonings can be fairly minor but many others can be "change-your-neighborhood-forever" important. I figure the county could at least post signs as noticable as, say, the yard sale sign my neighbor made out of the box her new TV came in. She does a pretty good job actually, maybe they can hire her.

Even if you notice the signs among all the competition of much larger and colorful signs often nearby, the print on them is so small you have to park your car and walk right up to them to find out what they are about - always a good idea on a busy road.

And even then, good luck deciphering the jargon. They want to do what? Change this from AG to RS-30? Is that a preschool or has Mercedes come out with a new model?

Here's a suggestion: make the signs at least as big as a real estate yard sign, use some plain language, add a little bright color and use lettering big enough to read without binoculars.

Scene: New York & Company, a women's clothing store in Four Seasons Town Centre

A little boy, about 5-years-old, was practicing his ABCs while his mother shopped. Spotting letters on a large poster board sign, he stopped to try what he'd learned.

"S-A-L-E," he carefully spelled.

"That's right," his mom replied. "That's what mommy is looking for -- a sale."

I live in -- and generally love -- Alamance County. Mebane, to be precise, where my husband and I bought a house over the summer after living there for several years in rental places. I occasionally carpool with another page designer to get to Greensboro, saving the earth and some cash.

Last week, as my coworker and I headed toward I-40, we passed a new road sign on Trollingwood Road, just before a big industrial complex. The sign says:

INDUSTIAL ENTRANCE

Consider: There are signs on 40 touting Alamance as "your link to the future," and we can't spell "industrial" right?

I may feel my first act of vandalism coming on. I don't think it should count as a criminal act if you're putting on a copy-editing symbol and an R, should it?

Across the street from my house is a lake. Actually, it's a retention pond that is dry now, but is normally only about a foot-deep when we aren't in a drought. Last spring, a friend put some crappie in the pond, and I could sit on my front porch and watch a Blue Heron hunt. He comes so often people stop their cars to watch.

I can sit on my front porch and imagine the deer in the woods on the other side of the lake. I know they are in there because I've seen them. Even though it's a thin strip of trees and dense brush that runs a three or four blocks in the city's flood plain, they're there. One day I saw a deer run along the street for two blocks before crashing back into the shelter of the trees.

I can sit on my front porch and watch the leaves blow past as they fall and contrast them with the reds and yellows and browns still yet to fall. Sometimes I imagine I'm back in the mountains. In the early mornings, I occasionally hear the call of an owl.

I live seven minutes from dead center of downtown if I catch a couple lights. I don't live in the country; it just feels that way sometimes.

How about you?

One of my favorite things about the holidays is visiting what my kids years ago nicknamed the "Magic Village," that cul-de-sac at the end of Bennington Road in northwest Greensboro with the killer light display. Every house on the cul-de-sac participates, with a couple literally decorating every inch of the house and yard.

We drove through last night and it looked better than ever -- more lights dripping from the trees, more blinking Santas, stars and trains and a couple of those huge snow globes. I can't imagine those folks' power bills, but to them, my kids and I say thank you.

"You know, if the Magic Village weren't there, it would be a real loss for Greensboro," my 10-year-old daughter remarked thoughtfully. It would indeed.

Here's some video she shot last night.

She sat at a corner table in the Barnes & Noble Starbucks this morning, oblivious to the blur of shoppers. Before her were three boxes of freshly bought Christmas cards, two sheets of postage stamps, her address book, a large coffee and seemingly all the time in the world.

Who says the holidays have to be a rush?

Gas was cheap a decade ago when I first got my license.

When the tank was running low, you could scrounge around in the seats and cup holders, take the $4.61 in change you found and ride like royalty on a half a tank of gas.

I remembered those days when I stopped to fill up at a Texaco on High Point Road today. The driver before me had pumped $5 worth of fuel. What would once get you by for a week got that person a gallon and a half of gas.

Hope he didn't have far to go.

I was in Target earlier today, poring over which "Star Wars"-themed LEGO set to get for my 60-year-old father for Christmas. (The plan is for my taking-one-for-the-team husband to spend some time putting together said LEGO set, thus, we hope, thwarting the usual fights my father and I get into whenever we're around each other.)

I had just decided on one when a boy of 8 or so and his mother came up the aisle. The boy saw me put the rather sizable box in my basket and immediately said to his mom, "I want a LEGO, too, Mommy! I want a LEGO box, too!"

I, mercifully child-free, scurried away to continue shopping, the little boy's pleas ringing in my ears. And I thought, Yoda was right. Fear, anger, aggression ... these lead to the dark side.

So, apparently, does seeing someone else getting a really cool-looking "Star Wars" LEGO set.

Big Four flags decorating front porches on Saturdays in the fall...Those occasional 68-degree days in January...Greensboro's modest skyline that suddenly fills your windshield driving up Martin Luther King Drive...She-crab soup at Ganache...Hagan-Stone Park in the winter...the Bog Garden in the spring...Center City Park fountains in the summer...Guilford College in the fall...N.C. A&T's marching band (you can keep the football team)...Stamey's sweet tea (you can keep the BBQ)...Sunset Hills aglow with giant Christmas ornaments...seven-minute commutes...Christmas at Burlington City Park...The Powerhouse of Deliverance Garden Cathedral Choir -- all 75 of them...Grimsley vs. Page...Billy vs. Skip...The 17th floor of the Wachovia Tower (unless you know of a better way to gaze down on all those church steeples poking through Greensboro's towering trees)...Black cherry ice cream -- but only if it's from Homeland Creamery in Julian...the guy who sells his art on Saturdays outside Alex's Cheescakes...Alex's cheescakes...Fireworks at FirstHorizon (or whatever they're calling it these days)...Kirkwood's Fourth of July parade...Wake Forest's quad hours after a big win...Friday nights at the Eden Drive-In...Saturday mornings at the downtown Farmer's Market...Sunday brunch at Revival Grill...Monday Night Football at Fisher's Grille...Tuesdays with Morrie...the 90-second walk from your parked car to PTI's front doors...Lobster Ravioli at Positano...The cage elevator at the Biltmore Hotel...Orson Scott Card's deliciously pretentious Rhino Times column...Any black-and-white movie at the Carolina Theater...The clock atop the Jefferson, er, Lincoln Financial Group building...My wife's meatloaf (sure she can make it anywhere, but she makes it here)...Lake Brandt (pre dought)...It ain't Charlotte.

I don't look forward to ringing the bell for the Salvation Army every year. It's always cold. I've always got more work than time at the office. It's standing around ringing a little bell for two hours, for goodness sakes. That's the way I feel every year driving to the site. But I've learned that it is always, always worth it.

This year was no different. Scenes:

* An old woman told me that her father didn't make her wedding because he was a prison minister and the wedding conflicted with his prison ministry.
* A man stopped to cite a poem he claimed he had written called "Shame on Rudolph" having to do with Santa's lead reindeer and too much Christmas cheer. I wish I had memorized it because it was clever.
* A woman began to drop a $20 bill into the bucket when stupid me said, "You know that's $20?" She replied, "Yes. The Salvation Army helped me when I needed it. Now that I am able to give back I like to return the favor."
* A small child and her mother walked past and got about 10 feet away. The child stopped moving. The mother bent down and listened. The mother spoke and the child listened. The child then pulled her hand out of her mother's hand and crossed her arms over her chest. The mother pulled a dollar out of her purse and gave it to the girl, who ran back to me and put it in the bucket. I let her ring the bell for a few moments.
* A Loomis armored car pulled up in front of the store blocking my bucket and sat as the guards went in to collect money. They didn't share any of it with me.

By the way, I felt completely safe, but that was partly because five minutes after I got there, a police cruiser drove up, parked and an officer went inside. A few minutes later she came out with a woman crying in handcuffs who looked maybe 20. She sat her in the back seat of the car and talked to her through the window for the longest time. Then she sat in the front seat and filled out paperwork. Then she talked to her through the window again. About 45 minutes later, the two of them drove off.

What I should have done that time:

When you pass the Salvation Army kettle, drop in a buck. It's worth it.

When you live a busy life, monthly book club meetings always loom right around the corner. And there the novel rests on the bedside table with its lonely bookmark on page 53, weeks from the end.

"Sorry, not tonight, I have to get a lot of reading done before book club." she says. After a pause, she adds, "Although I don't know why I bother. Half the people who come haven't read the book. They just come to eat, drink and talk."

"You know," he says, "you should start a video book club."

"What?" she asks.

"Sure, you come. You eat, drink and watch a movie made from a good book. That way, you don't have to race through the book and then get frustrated when everyone else comes unprepared. You get to sit around and watch a movie with your friends and talk about it. You can still read the book, but the movie catches everyone up. And you have the added benefit of being able to act superior and pronounce the book as so much better than the movie. What could be more perfect?"

Are there enough opportunities? Oh yeah.

"Just like a man," she says, and turns back to her book.

For another idea, read our friend Dan Conover and Sunday's Times.

If an apple a day keeps the doctor away, then Triad physicians could soon see their waiting rooms empty.

Greensboro is getting an Apple Store. The company is advertising "future openings" for a Friendly Center location on its Web site.

That makes this Mac owner super happy. No more random pitstops into the Apple Store in Durham's Streets at Southpoint just to ogle the iPhones. There will be a Genius Bar right around the corner. And it ratchets Greensboro's "cool" factor up a notch. We too will have long lines of fans waiting to see Steve Jobs' newest tech treats in person.

The only thing that isn't giddy is my wallet.

I was driving down Church Street today and found myself behind a teenager on a bicycle. He was riding along "with no hands," as we called it when we were kids. Not holding the handlebars at all.

For awhile, both his arms were up in air, as if he were celebrating something, then one came down and scratched the back of his head while the other hung by his side. He pedaled with no hands for at least a block, supremely confident and oblivious to me behind him.

I wondered: At what age do we stop believing in no hands and start holding on?

While researching this post at The Editor's Log, I dragged out my 1968 high school yearbook from Edison High School in Tulsa. I was 15, and we were moving to North Carolina a month later.

That's a humbling experience. Aside from the bad hair, bad fashion and bad photography, there are those intensely personal, yet oddly superficial notes inside that my classmates wrote.

Samples, complete with the original grammar and spelling:

The lewd:

Twins are bad
Triplets are worst
Sleep alone
Saftey first

Roger

Thankfully, I have no memory of Roger.

The inane insult:

John, you are rather dense but this doesn't affect your obnoxious attitude.

Bob

His last name is there but it's a scribble.

And the missed opportunity:

John, what am I going to do next year with you gone? I cannot bear to think that you will out of my life forever. You have been my secret lover since 6th grade at Patrick Henry! Love you, Jeanne.

Now she tells me.

One of the benefits to working downtown is proximity to the Bargain Box, the second-hand goods store run by the Junior League of Greensboro. Clothes are the main staple here, but there's always a wide selection of odds and ends, some of which are odd and some of which should have met an end long ago. But for the most part, the place rocks when it comes to finding good-condition things.

We've both subsidized and patronized the Box over the years. Sometimes, walking into the store is like walking into our closet from a year ago. About half of our daughter's closet cache came from the Box.

Got qualms about wearing other people's clothes? While the line might reasonably be drawn at monograms and ring-around-the-collar, I've worn many a shirt that bore someone else's name on the collar. Think the clothes won't hold up or are in poor condition? Last week, my 10-month-old son was sporting a red Talbots Kids cable-knit sweater that looked familiar. Turns out I bought it from Bargain Box for my daughter a few years ago. A Brooks Brothers dress shirt I bought four years ago is holding up well.

Then there are the Box's sales, which prompts this posting. The store hosts sales several times a year, and these are not piddly sales. The one today is 40 percent off. I've been to sales where discounts were 60 and 75 percent.

Don't take these sales lightly; think rugby without the manners. Getting in the place today required three "excuse me's." If you haven't started your holiday shopping at the stores yet, going to the Bargain Box sale will prep you for crowd management.

"I'm surprised a fight hasn't broken out in here yet," said the woman in front of me.

My haul this trip: three sweaters (one of them cashmere) and an Abercrombie and Fitch casual shirt. I paid $18.

I was sitting in Cheesecakes by Alex this morning, drinking a cup of coffee with a reporter when a man came in, took off his coat and I saw the pistol, holstered, attached to his belt.

I'm not sure he was a cop. I assume he was, being so brazen about showing what I hoped was his service weapon. He was in plain clothes and was big and broad. He wore shoes that looked like shoes a cop would wear, shoes that would be comfortable when walking, standing and going places another person might normally not go.

Still, I found myself wishing that I wasn't sitting with my back to him.