All My Pусский Contacts, I Swear

So we’re up to our nostrils in all things Russian these days and people are worried sick that the US is soon going to be Moscow on the Hudson, as well as Moscow on the Mississippi and Moscow on the Rio Grande and Moscow on every other river and creek and bayou in the country. We’ve become so suffused with Russia paranoia and things have become so edgy that Representative Trey Gowdy, a Republican from South Carolina and chairman of the House Oversight Committee, wants to get to the bottom of all this Russki stuff. He’s urging that folks come clean about all their contacts with Russians.

Gowdy minced no words in his call for full disclosure. “Someone needs to get everyone in a room and say, from the time you saw ‘Dr. Zhivago’ until the moment you drank vodka with a guy named Boris, you list every single contact with Russia.”

Pretty hard to misunderstand that kind of demand.

Now, I consider myself a loyal American and a patriot, and in this stressful time I think I should, like all good Americans, come clean about my association with Russians. So here’s my confession: A long time ago in Chapel Hill—a town of known leftist tendencies that US Senator Jesse Helms once said could function as the North Carolina state zoo if you put a fence around it—I had contact with Russians. And in that spirit of full disclosure that Representative Gowdy is demanding, I’d like to tell everything I can recall about those contacts.

It was the summer of 1977. I’d signed up for a summer school course at Carolina. I had a good friend from Raleigh, a brilliant linguist who was fluent in Russian, German and Polish and could probably make himself understood in at least half a dozen other languages. He was good friends with some Soviet (as we called them in those days) exchange students.

He was especially good friends with a guy who I remember only as Evgeni—or, as he may have spelled it in Cryillic, Евгений. Evgeni was, until Vladimir Putin came along, the image that popped into my head when anybody mentioned Russians.

I’ve learned over the years that it’s generally not a good thing to think of groups of people in stereotypes. It can get you into trouble in lots of ways. And yet, Evgeni pretty much perfectly fit the American stereotype of a Russian. He was big, blond, loud, and backslapping friendly with a booming voice that could have been heard by Sarah Palin on the other side of the Bering Strait. And he could drink all the residents of any small rural American county under the table.

I don’t remember the first time I met Evgeni, but it may have been when I bumped into my friend and him on Franklin Street. During my introduction, my friend probably said something to Evgeni in Russian that sounded something like this: “Das vidanya. Spragelly meestslamy mas y telly joo davastli.” And then a huge grin spread across Evgeni’s face and he extended a hand the size of a bear’s paw and wrapped his fingers several times around my hand as he shook it.

I saw Evgeni regularly, always in the company of my friend. One day, my friend asked me to spend a Friday night with Evgeni. I think he had a date and he didn’t want Evgeni tagging along. Evgeni knew very little English at this point, and I knew no Russian. But what the hell, I was game. I figured with enough beer, everything would be OK.

And it was. We hit many Franklin Street watering holes that night, and downed many beers, and exchanged no intelligible language that I recall. But alcohol, in the hands of open-minded and imaginative imbibers, can erase language barriers and be a remarkable facilitator of communications. We made ourselves understood with gestures, backslaps, facial expressions and noises. And when all else failed, we ordered another round. By the end of the evening, we were drinking buddies even though we had not exchanged a single coherent sentence.

As the summer progressed, Evgeni’s English improved, as did his ability to calculate American prices in terms of his Soviet background. I recall him asking the price in American dollars of something he wanted. Someone told him. He was silent for a few moments as he mentally converted the cost in US currency to the Soviet economy. He became wide-eyed when he’d finished the calculation. “Is two cheekens!” he exclaimed in disbelief.

I had another memorable encounter with Evgeni later that summer. This time I was stumping down Franklin Street with a cast that covered my left leg from my foot to just below my knee. How I got that cast is an anecdote that makes a great story, but it’s a story that I’m not ready to publicly disclose. I will say this, however: It involved excessive alcohol on a Friday night, misplaced youthful exuberance, and one of the worst decisions I've ever made. Still, no laws were broken, no property was damaged, no cops were involved and no one except me was injured. I never received a bill for my visit to the emergency room at North Carolina Memorial Hospital, so I assume it was covered by my student health insurance.

Anyway, I was somewhere near the Varsity Theater when I heard this booming voice above the Franklin Street traffic noise. It was speaking Russian. I have no idea what was being said, but it sounded like “Vee lee! Vu dees eu da!” I think I must have looked skyward, because my friend said afterwards that I looked like I’d heard the voice of God calling to me.

It was, of course, my drinking buddy Evgeni, and he was concerned about the cast on my leg. I don’t remember much else about that encounter. I’m sure my friend explained to Evgeni what had happened to me and he thought it was hilarious and slapped me on the back.

I saw Evgeni occasionally during the next year or so. I remember parties with other Soviet exchange students. I remember these guys downing tumblers of vodka like it was ice water, and feats of strength and loud conversations, mostly in Russian. I never picked up any of that language, so I have no idea what they were talking about. But since the conversations seemed to involve calls for more vodka and challenges to arm-wrestling, I don’t think anything subversive was being said.

That’s all I recall of Evgeni. I think he left Chapel Hill sometime in the late ‘70s, and I haven’t heard from him since. So this concludes my debriefing of my Russian contacts.

A final note to Representative Gowdy. I also saw Dr. Zhivago. A long time ago in Charlotte. With a couple of friends. I’m still good friends with that guy from Raleigh, and he still speaks Russian fluently. And sometimes I use Russian vodka for my vodka martinis. That's all my Pусский contacts, I swear.


Guess Who I Bumped Into At The Grocery Store

The late Buddy Hackett
Editor's note: This was originally posted on a blog called Side Salad shortly after the death of comedian Buddy Hackett on June 30, 2003. See the tagline below for a detailed explanation.

It was the mid-'70s, and I was recently out of the Army and in school at the University of North Carolina. Had a room on Franklin Street (Chapel Hill's main drag) across from the campus and a few blocks from Fowler's Grocery, where I'd go once or twice a week for beer, frozen dinners, and similar provisions for a guy living on a GI Bill budget in a rooming house with several other guys, a refrigerator and a toaster oven.

Fowler's was an institution in Chapel Hill. It was famous for its meat counter and its frosty, walk-in beer cooler. It offered the staples, as well as other eclectic items I'd never seen in the grocery stores back home in Stanly County. This was long before the days of Whole Foods, Trader Joe's, and similar upscale food stores. You could get things at Fowler's that you just couldn't find anywhere else.

So I was in Fowler's one night, took a left at the end of the canned soup section, I think, started down the next aisle, nearly bumped into this pudgy guy pushing a shopping cart in the opposite direction. Looked up, and I thought "Jeez, that guy looks like Buddy Hackett."

If I remember correctly, his cart was pretty well loaded. There was no one on that aisle except Buddy and me. I went to the end of the aisle, turned right, and headed up the next aisle. There was Buddy again, only by now he'd been recognized by some of the other shoppers. And he didn't seem too happy about it.

I didn't hear what the first person who recognized him said to him, but whatever it was, Buddy launched into a stream of profanity-laced insults. The woman who'd spoken to him just stood there with this sickly smile frozen on her face as old Buddy sailed away with his shopping cart, leaving her in the wake of his hysterically funny, profane insults.

What was Buddy doing in Chapel Hill? I didn't dare ask him, but he was probably taking part in the famous rice diet program that once was conducted at the Duke University medical school. As you probably know, dear old Dook is only about 10 miles down U.S. 15-501 from Chapel Hill.

It was, so I was told, extremely expensive to go through the rice diet program. Many tubby celebrities went through it in those days. The ricers often came to Chapel Hill to presumably escape the confines of the rice diet's restrictions. My guess is that Buddy was playing hookey from the program and had ducked into Fowler's to grab a few off-the-record carbs before heading back to Durham. (The New York Times reported in 2005 that Hackett was known for ordering pizzas for fellow dieters during his visits to Duke.)

Anyway, Buddy caused quite a stir as he pushed his cart through Fowler's, and he was giving everybody absolute hell and you could watch their smiles of recognition slowly morph into this look of shocked horror as they realized they were being sliced to pieces by the sharpest tongue they'd probably ever encounter, and they were powerless to protect themselves or even respond. I mean it was non-stop, take no prisoners. Buddy was talking out of the side of his mouth in that nasal, sort of high-pitched Noo Yawk accent, and he was cutting people down left and right.

I wish I could remember some of the insults he flung at people, but, as I said, it was a long time ago and I wasn't taking notes. I will say this -- he was profanely articulate and funny, and he kept it up even as he went through the checkout line, and I just remember a lot of numb, silly smiles when he left, or, rather, made his exit.

So, bon voyage Buddy, and thanks for a memorable improv performance.

Editor's note: Long ago, in the frontier days of the Interwebs when we were at the mercy of dial-up landline connections and busy signals, I was an occasional contributor to a lively blog called Side Salad. It was produced by Jeff Houck, whom I've known since my days in the South Florida journalism wars of the last century. Jeff is a very funny guy with the quickest wit I've ever met. He's the guy who instantly comes up with the sparkling situational one-liner that you might think of two weeks later. I wrote some stuff that I thought was funny, and Jeff was kind enough to post it on Side Salad. That wonderful blog is no more, alas. But Jeff has agreed to let me dig up some of my stuff from the archives and re-post it on Drye Goods. So here's the first one--a recollection of the time I bumped into the late comedian Buddy Hackett in the aisles of a Chapel Hill grocery store. It was posted on Side Salad on July 9, 2003, shortly after Hackett's death on June 30. Please note that I'll probably tinker a little with some of these re-posts. I just can't leave stuff alone.


The Kid Grows Up

John Morrow, Dickinson College Class of

Our nephew, John Morrow, a political science major, graduated with the Dickinson College Class of 2017 last weekend.

This is the kid who was delighted when, as a toddler, I'd hold him upside down by the ankles; who once mused, as a small child as we were passing Jockey's Ridge (a giant sand dune on the North Carolina Outer Banks) that, one day, "we must shovel that;" who explored with his dad and me the sites of legendary baseball parks in the NY-NJ metro area; and who did me the stunning honor of mentioning me in his college admissions essay and saying that he'd learned about so much more than baseball from those trips and hoped to apply the same learning methods in college and beyond.

Here's what he said in that essay in 2012:

"When we went looking for old baseball locations we found urban history, learned about the benefits of redevelopment and preservation and we encountered people I would never have met anywhere else. Uncle Willie embraces learning that way and I hope to do the same for the rest of my life."

Congratulations, John, and well done.

And here are links to posts about those visits to old ballpark sites: Ebbets Field, Polo GroundsRoosevelt Stadium, and Hinchliffe Stadium. (Photo by Jane Morrow)


An iconic still from Woody Allen's 1979 film, "Manhattan."

So somehow, "Manhattan"--the 1979 Woody Allen movie about self-centered, white wine sipping, white linen wearing, early New York Yuppies--found its way into his DVD player. He poured himself a glass of chilled chardonnay and sat down with the spaniel to watch it.

At first he was struck by two things--how dated the movie seemed, and how the opening montage of New York scenes that ended with the fireworks display against the Manhattan skyline made him think of the September 11 terrorist attacks. And he felt superior to those urbanely provincial people depicted in the movie who fretted their ways through failing marriages and affairs and dealt with agents and publishers and unfulfilling but lucrative jobs.

But then, as always seemed to happen when he watched a Woody Allen movie, he started noticing uncomfortable familiarities and he realized the same thing he'd realized the first time he saw the movie 38 years ago--that he had more than a few things in common with Allen.

And it occurred to him that over the years he'd become, in some ways, a sort of Southern-fried, redneck version of Woody Allen--even to the point of dealing with agents and publishers and his own collection of chronic neuroses. But without the fame and huge income.


The Passing of a Childhood Hero

Baseball great Roy Sievers

I'm deeply saddened to learn that my friend, former Major League Baseball great Roy Sievers, died late Monday night at his home in St. Louis. He was 91 years old.

Roy gave me an unforgettable moment in 1959 when he invited me into the dugout of the Washington Senators during a preseason exhibition game in Charlotte, North Carolina. A few years ago, I wrote about that moment in Drye Goods.

Roy's niece, Terry Cole, saw that essay and showed it to Roy, and thus began a series of phone conversations during which I talked to Roy about his stellar career. I wrote about those conversations in 2015 in an essay for the National Pastime Museum.

Roy was an old-school baseball hero and a generous and thoughtful guy. Thanks for the memory, Roy. You'll always be one of my heroes.


The Shrewd Operator

Staff Sergeant William McNally, 1974
I can’t look back on 1974 without wincing. It was a rough year for me. But I got through it with the help of one of the shrewdest, most savvy leaders I’ve ever known.

Let me set the stage for this tale.
In 1974 I was involved with a woman who was not good for me, and I was only beginning the painful realization of how bad for me she really was. And I was not living in an especially uplifting place. I was an Army medic stationed at Fort Bragg in Fayetteville, North Carolina. I had about a year to go before my discharge, and I was not yet old enough to realize how quickly a year passes.
Now, the good townsfolk of Fayetteville have worked hard for the past few decades to make their city a safe, pleasant place to live. But in 1974, that work had yet to begin and the city was, to put it plainly, a cesspool of crime and sleaze.

By 1974, the U.S. had withdrawn most of its troops from its ill-fated proxy war in Vietnam, and Fort Bragg was the first stateside stop for GIs who had been “in country” for tours of combat duty. These troops brought with them many skills, habits and deeply ingrained reactions that had kept them alive during their fight against a clever, ruthless enemy in the jungles of southeast Asia.

But some of these men were haunted and deeply troubled by their experiences, and those skills and habits so necessary in combat were sometimes misapplied in Fayetteville. Strange and unusually violent crimes were being committed—especially on Gillespie Street, which had become so dangerous that it was nicknamed “Combat Alley.”

And then there was downtown Fayetteville’s infamous 500 block of Hay Street—a gaudy, sleazy celebration of youthful testosterone and a testament to how many eyes local government officials were willing to close to avoid interfering with a shady but lucrative form of commerce. The block was a nearly unbroken strip of topless bars whose names—Pop-A-Top Lounge, Pump House, Rick’s Lounge, Seven Dwarfs, King’s Den, Nite Cap, Oasis—blazed above the sidewalk in neon, so that at night from a distance the glow almost made it seem like Hay Street was on fire.
Inside these bars, well-endowed young women removed nearly all their clothing while lonely young men guzzled overpriced beer and tucked folded currency behind the dancers’ G-strings. Even the historic and once-dignified Prince Charles Hotel at 450 Hay Street had topless dancers displaying their charms in its lounge.

A portion of the 500 block of Hay Street, downtown Fayetteville,
North Carolina, circa 1974. Photo by Fayetteville Observer
Bragg Boulevard, the four-lane thoroughfare that bisected Fort Bragg and ended at Hay Street, was lined with businesses that thrived on the impulsive decisions and poor judgement of young men eager to separate themselves from their monthly pay and fat reenlistment bonuses in exchange for something fast, shiny and loud. Used car lots offered hot, low-mileage cars—the previous owners hadn’t kept up payments long enough to pile on too many miles—on credit to anyone who’d reached the rank of private first class. The harsh, grating chant of a radio commercial hawking Hondas for Meridian Motorcycle is still imbedded in my memory like a fishhook. And interspersed among the used car lots, motorcycle dealers and still more topless bars were, of course, the pawn shops.
The city’s wholehearted embrace of trashy vulgarity as an economic anchor and its reputation for violent crime had earned it some unflattering but well-deserved nicknames—among them Fatalburg and Fayette Nam. A thoughtful fellow medic from Oregon noted that everything about Fayetteville in 1974 seemed geared toward stimulating the gonads and engaging the libidos of 20-year-old males.

I was in charge of the small pharmacy at Troop Medical Clinic 22 at Simmons Army Airfield, which provided health care for several airborne units. One of my most important duties was to remember to order extra massive doses of penicillin injections when the monthly payday happened to fall on a Friday. On those weekends, Hay Street was swarming with young GIs seeking that most primal of satisfactions. It was said that when a Fort Bragg payday fell on a Friday, hookers were bused in from as far away as Baltimore and Dallas.
The author at Troop Medical Clinic 22, Fort Bragg,
North Carolina, 1974
I knew I’d be needing those extra penicillin injections around Tuesday or Wednesday of the following week. It was as predictable as the sunrise and as certain as an incubation period.

I’d been expecting to see a bit of the world while I was in the Army. But I’d landed in the grimmest, most joyless environment I’d ever encountered. Things could have been far worse for me, of course, but I was still young and naïve, and a year at Fort Bragg seemed like a life sentence.

So I probably drank a little more than I should have, saw an Army shrink for a while to try to get a handle on my frustrations with Fort Bragg and the emotional pain being inflicted on me by the woman I mentioned earlier, and made plans for the big day when I’d be discharged. Basically, I did my job and stayed out of trouble. But I was moody, sometimes mildly depressed, and always a bit annoyed.
And this is where Staff Sergeant William McNally enters the story.

If I remember correctly, Mac was from Kansas. He was an Army lifer in his mid-40s who’d done a tour or two in Vietnam, brought home a Vietnamese wife, and now was the Non-Commissioned Officer in Charge of TMC 22. And he was a genius, in his own way, at leading young soldiers.

No army in history, from Caesar’s Legions and Napoleon’s Grand Armée to Hitler’s Wehrmacht and MacArthur’s Battling Bastards of Bataan, has ever been able to function effectively without thousands of McNallys in its ranks. It's been said that an army’s commissioned officers are responsible only for two things—where the troops are supposed to be and when they’re supposed to be there. NCOs are responsible for everything else, and it’s also been said that if an NCO doesn’t tell a commissioned officer how he got something done, the officer shouldn’t ask because there’s probably a good reason why the NCO didn’t tell him.
Mac knew how to maneuver in this world of strict written rules and even stricter unwritten rules. He understood the nuts and bolts of the Army’s organizational structure, and no shrink has ever had a more practical and insightful understanding of human psychology. Watching him work the system to accomplish both military objectives and personal favors for the troops under him was watching a master plying his craft.

He knew when to follow Army regulations to the letter, and when to wink and sidestep the book. When he needed a favor, he knew who to ask and how to reward him when the favor was done. And he understood the going rate for exchanging favors, so that if another smoothly operating NCO asked him for a favor, he knew exactly what he could reasonably request in return.

I can’t recall all his skillful manipulations of the system that I witnessed, and of course I have no idea how many schemes he hatched that I wasn't aware of. But I never knew of him abusing his remarkable powers, and I do recall his personal motto that he often repeated: “Take care of the troops, and the troops will take care of you.”

And I clearly recall one time in particular when he took care of me.
During one week, I was going through an especially rough stretch. I was glum, sullen and simply a pain to be around. To make matters worse, payday was still a week away and I was broke.

After a couple days of my crankiness, Mac had had enough. Late one afternoon he confronted me in one of the treatment rooms in the clinic. “Drye, you got any money?” he asked.

“Geez, Mac, what do you think?” I growled, thinking he was going to hit me up for a loan. “Payday’s a week away. Hell no, I don’t have any money.”

He nodded, pulled out his billfold, and slapped a $10 bill on a table. For perspective, a ten-spot in 1974 would have the buying power of more than $50 today.

“I want you to go downtown tonight and get drunk,” he said. “That’s a direct order. If you come in here tomorrow morning without a hangover, I’m gonna have the MPs haul you in for disobeying orders.”

Then he turned and walked out, closing the door behind him.
What else could I do? I picked up the $10, and the following morning I reported for duty with a scorching hangover. My head was pounding, but the snotty mood was gone. Mac never said another word about it and didn't even ask me to repay the ten bucks.

A few months later, I had my Honorable Discharge. I said goodbye to Mac and left Fort Bragg like it was a burning building. I haven’t seen Mac since then. But I’ve never forgotten him.



Ruth and Arnold

You never know what you're going to come across in a thrift store in Florida. That's because so many people move there every year to run out the clock, so to speak.

Ruth and Arnold, September 1954
They've made it to retirement. They load their furniture and their favorite possessions into a van in Stamford or Albany or Montclair or Scranton. Things like their favorite vinyl Dave Brubeck and Jackie Gleason albums they've been carrying around since they graduated from Villanova in 1961. The silverware from B. Altman in White Plains that they received as a wedding gift. The camera equipment and slide projector they've had since that first big raise. The slightly vulgar but somehow irresistable porcelain hillbilly frog they found in a roadside tourist trap during a memorable vacation in the Great Smoky Mountains one summer.

Everything into the van, and we'll see you in Vero Beach or Fort Myers or Sarasota or Stuart.

The golden years pass, and then, of course, the inevitable happens, and the adult kids come down to sort through their parents' belongings. Some of the obviously valuable stuff they keep, along with a few things for sentiment's sake. But the rest--who wants 40-year-old technology, or chipped tchotchke, or VHS videos? But we can't just throw it away, it belonged to mom and dad. What the hell do we do with it?

And that's where Florida's thrift stores come into the picture--stores that support worthy causes such as the Salvation Army, Goodwill, local PTAs and churches. Every day, carloads of stuff are unloaded at hundreds of thrift stores in the Sunshine State. Some of it comes through the front door during regular business hours and is welcomed. A lot of it just shows up in the dead of night, left in the alley by "donors" who don't want to be told that their stuff isn't wanted.

That's how I came across a small slice of the lives of Ruth and Arnold.

Ruth and Arnold, October 1954

I loved poking around thrift stores when we lived in Florida in the '90s. Never knew what I'd find. There always was the possibility, however remote, that I might uncover a dusty, ridiculously undervalued treasure. But what really drew me to the thrift stores was that browsing through them was like visiting an uncurated museum. And then there often was cheap stuff I could use.

I was taking a lot of photos in those days, using a Nikon 35 mm camera and shooting mostly slide film in the days before digital cameras were commonplace. I was always looking for storage containers for my slides. One day--I think it was at a store in Stuart--I found a metal slide storage case for a couple bucks. I took it home and discovered that there were 10 slides in the case. They were unusual, framed in metal. They showed a 40-ish couple, identified by small labels on the slides as Ruth and Arnold.

The labels also said the slides had been shot during the late summer and early fall of 1954. The locations of the photos weren't given, but they had a definite urban northeastern town-and-country vibe.

Ruth and Arnold at the shore, 1954
Arnold was an attractive man with a Tony Soprano-like physique. He was a snappy dresser who seemed to me to project an attitude of competence and no-nonsense.

Arnold clearly was very successful at whatever he did for a living. Maybe he was a lawyer. Or a broker. Or maybe he was a "Mad Man" who worked for an advertising agency on Madison Avenue. However he earned his daily bread, in October 1954 he was photographed proudly propped on his elbow, leaning on a sleek, low-slung 1954 Ford Thunderbird. The license tag on the car was issued in Essex County, New Jersey, which I assume is where Ruth and Arnold lived.

Arnold leaning on a 1954 Ford Thunderbird
Ruth during the shore outing

When Ruth wore heels, she was a couple inches taller than Arnold. The photos show a stylish woman with finishing-school poise. Arnold bought her a mink jacket that she wore on an outing to the seashore, presumably when the weather was starting to turn cooler. She and Arnold are photographed together on a boardwalk. During that same outing, they posed for separate photos in the courtyard of a large building, perhaps a hotel. Arnold looks sharp in a topcoat and fedora. Ruth is wearing the mink and the same shoes as she wears in the boardwalk photo.

My favorite photo is the one at the top of this post. It shows Ruth and Arnold in what I assume is their living room. There's a vase of flowers on a sidetable. Ruth is seated, smiling at the photographer, who, judging from the angle of the shot, is crouching a few feet away. Arnold, natty in a bowtie and sports jacket, is looking down at his wife with a beaming smile on his face. He's standing erect, heels together, arms at his sides, like an ex-soldier standing at attention. He's clearly a happy man.

I've still got those curious slides of Ruth and Arnold, stashed somewhere in storage with the piles of other junk that I hauled out of Florida thrift stores and lugged back to North Carolina--the Jackie Gleason vinyl albums I got for a quarter each in Vero Beach, the 1950s-vintage slide projecter (still works!) that I paid $10 for somewhere on US 1 near Melbourne, the bizzare mug with a flip-top lid that's a plastic head of St. Louis Cardinals Hall of Fame shortstop Ozzie Smith that I think I found in Fort Pierce for a buck or two.

Someday they're going to be going through my stuff, and they're going to wonder why I have these ancient slides labeled "Ruth and Arnold." The answer is, I don't know, they just looked interesting.


So (At Last) We're Back . . .

So after a layoff that was a lot longer than I intended, Drye Goods is back with a new look, coming to you from a new city.

We're now in Wilmington, recently chosen as North Carolina's favorite city in an online survey. The blog's slick new look was designed by our slick young nephew Mike Morrow, a recent UVa grad who's now working in Washington, D.C. We have fond memories of Mike as a nine-year-old kid doing standup comedy on the porch of a vacation rental at Sunset Beach some years ago. Now he's an ambitious, multi-talented young man with a bright future. He's out to make his mark on the world as an entrepreneur. We think he'll soon reach that goal.

I don't know how scientific the survey was that designated Wilmington the state's favorite city, but it's always been high on my list of cities where I'd like to live. For starters, it's a seaport, and seaports seem to me to always be more interesting than most inland cities.

As a seaport, Wilmington has had the world coming and going since 1739--walking its streets and hoisting mugs in its saloons, pursuing hopes and coping with disappointments, chasing the future and running from the past, raising families and burying the dead. During those 278 years, the cultures, cuisines, languages and habits of the world have been deposited here, and while all those influences may not be apparent to the naked eye, they're all part of the city's character, all part of its social archaeology, its ambience.
Wilmington's downtown waterfront on the Cape Fear
River. (Photo from Seagate Boating website)

There are some beautiful neighborhoods--so very Southern--with graceful, lovely old homes on streets lined with oaks dripping Spanish moss. Some of the houses, of course, were built with slave labor. Wilmington has had a few moments of infamy during its long history. And it's not without some modern problems. While the city has the allure of being a seaport and a gateway to the world, it also has a problem common to seaports--drug trafficking.

So it's not a gated community where the bad is shut out. It has beauty and blemishes, charm and ugliness.

We're in a good neighborhood with good neighbors, not far from downtown. And the downtown is lively--in fact I haven't lived in a town with a downtown like this since the old days in Chapel Hill back in the '80s. Front Street is lined with restaurants, art galleries, coffee shops, bookstores. There are restaurants that specialize in the old-style Southern cooking I grew up with, and others offering trendy haute cuisine. The grocery stores run the gamut from Food Lion to the more exotic (and expensive) Whole Foods and Trader Joe's. There are two colleges providing plenty of young, tattooed, pierced and dreadlocked hipsters for the street scene.

There are museums, including the Cape Fear Museum, which features an exhibit about the early days of Wilmington's most famous native son, basketball superstar Michael Jordan. There's also a remnant of the movie industry that was thriving here until the newly conservative state legislature revoked their tax breaks and sent most of the producers and technicians scurrying off to Atlanta, which welcomed them with open arms. Our friends in Raleigh never really explained why they were eager to hand out tax breaks for just about everybody except the movie studios.

I'm getting settled into my Marvin Spencer-designed office, converted from a garage. I'm sharing it with two cats. We get on each other's nerves sometimes and I think they still expect to be going back to Plymouth any day now. But for the most part we've learned to co-exist.

New city, new life, new (sort of) blog. I promise at least a few updates every month. So we're back in business. Stop by again soon.