I do the Faith and Values feature stories, and I thought this story would be a chance to write something about a different kind of spirituality. Also, I admit I was curious about Lee Bane. I grew up in Sanford, and for as long as I can remember, there has been a black, hand-painted sign on Hawkins Ave advertising Lee Bane as an advisor and psychic. But I’d never actually seen anyone going in and out of the house behind the sign, and lately, the house had begun to show signs of abandonment. (It turns out that’s because it’s the house that belonged to Ms. Bane’s mother. The Lee Bane I talked to owns a business on North Horner Blvd.)

As I was driving to the interview, I was imagining a scene from a storybook: a dark, smoky room, the only light coming from candles; a woman with wild hair draped in scarves, her fingernails long and painted some garish color; a crystal ball and a fanned deck of tarot cards. And cats. Lots of cats, and cat hair everywhere. The kind of place that makes you want to wash your hands as soon as you leave it.

Boy, was I wrong. Lee Bane struck me more as warm and maternal than eccentric. The kind of woman people would open up to, easily spilling their secret worries and problems before they even knew what they were doing. Sitting behind a stylish dining table in her beautifully decorated, immaculate front room, she said she often helps her clients build up their self esteem, talking them through problems like a psychiatrist. She did not have a crystal ball. In fact, the only unusual thing about her appearance was her blue and white polka dotted glasses, and they really just looked cute.

Rather than a crystal ball, she said she uses palm reading to tell people about their own lives. When I asked her to talk about a typical palm-reading session, I wasn’t expecting her to take my hand and read my palm. (Always the left hand; it’s closest to the heart.) I didn’t even know I wanted her to read my palm until she was reading it. I am the worst kind of skeptic, and outside of cracking open a fortune cookie, have never had even a mild desire to have my own future told to me.

Still. There is something terribly appealing about the idea that another person could know you completely. It’s one of the wonderful things about being in a relationship with someone long enough that they truly understand you. I can definitely see why a person would go to a psychic: to feel an immediate connection with another person, with the added bonus that she can see your future. And possibly help you win the lottery. 

The first thing she said when she looked at my palm was that my lines were faint. She showed me her own palm and said her lines were deep, and it was true; the lines in her palm were more distinct. She said my weak lines mean I find it hard to make decisions (true), and I have something in everything (could be true, but it’s open to interpretation). She said I haven’t made up my mind about where I want to go in life (Definitely sort of true. I actually make up my mind pretty regularly. But then I change it.). She said I have a lot of patience (definitely NOT true), and I was going to have one marriage, but I hadn’t met him yet (well, I’m not wearing a ring). But when I do find the right one, I’ll love him with my whole heart (hopefully true). She also sensed something about twins. (Will I give birth to twins? Will I date twins? Will a pair of twins sell me a used car?) Later, as Brooke, fabulous Herald photographer, and I were preparing to go, she told me my future husband’s name would start with a “J.” (Joe? Jeremy? John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt?)

And speaking of Brooke. After taking photographs, she mentioned to Lee Bane that another psychic had predicted she would meet her husband on a certain birthday which she recently celebrated. Ms. Bane then read Brooke’s palm, and sensed that she had been, and would be, hurt many times in love. She used the word “turmoil.” She sensed Brooke is fickle, but has a strong faith. She sensed that Brooke worries a lot. It was all I could do not to laugh as I waited for her to sense that a piano would fall out of the sky and hit Brooke on the head. All in all, I think my own reading was a bit more pleasant.

Wouldn’t it be nice if she really could see the future, the past, the inside and out of a person’s soul? What a strange and wonderful gift that would be.

I love to travel. But I don’t like to drive. And I’m not very good at it. I tend to get distracted and veer off in the direction of whatever I’m looking at: guardrails, billboards, mailboxes, pedestrians… I’m also afraid of merging, parallel parking, driving in the rain, driving in heavy traffic and other cars that get close to my car. I have no sense of direction. Sometimes, while driving, I’m gripped by a sudden, crippling fear that I’m on the wrong side of the road. And since I used to drive a stick shift, but now I drive an automatic, I sometimes get confused about what to do with my feet. 

All of this makes a strong argument against driving from Sanford to Washington, D.C. But last weekend, I had to go. Friends to see, Irish holiday to celebrate. So I took the train. I’d recently been reminded that the U.S. has a passenger railway, and after a little research, I decided Amtrak was an affordable option.  

 Round-trip tickets from Raleigh to Union Station cost $86. I estimated that sum to be slightly more than the gas it would take to get me to D.C. and back. But if I had gotten lost (I would have gotten lost), or if I had done any driving in the city, that number would’ve gone up. So I think got a pretty good deal.  The seats on Amtrak, though slightly more weathered than airline seats, were comfortable and roomy. The train was about half-full going and coming, so I had two seats to myself the whole time. And even in Economy Class, every seat has its own wall outlet, so I plugged in my laptop and worked while I rode. 

The Raleigh train station was built in 1950 and retains many of its original charms: wood floors, who am I kidding? I don’t know anything about architecture. It’s pretty, like an old house.

The ticket taker—let’s call him Bob—was doing double duty as a baggage handler. When Bob said I could check my bag, I handed it right over and wandered outside feeling foot loose and fancy-free. How lovely not to have to go through security of any kind, not to have your bags opened and your toiletries inspected, not to remove your shoes to be checked for—I don’t even know what, tiny bombs? Once, waiting at a border crossing in Mozambique in the middle of the night, a security guard going through my bag took out my underwear, pair by pair, to examine with a flashlight. If that never happens again, I’ll be okay. (But here’s a tip: don’t check your bag on a train, even though it’s easy. There is plenty of room for luggage of any size right there in your train car, either in an overhead compartment or at larger shelves at both ends of each car.) 

I love meeting interesting people when I’m traveling. But that doesn’t mean I want to sit with them. One of my traveling nightmares is sharing a seat with somebody who wants to make five straight hours of small talk. I’ve never had any truly horrific things happen to me (unlike my friend Mariel, who was once handed a barf-bag to hold after it had been filled), but I have been bored out of my mind for long stretches of time, and it just isn’t pleasant. But meeting interesting people, in passing, is fine. I’m giving awards for the two most interesting people I met on the train: Brittany and Jeremiah. Brittany gets the Girl Starting Out On Coolest Adventure Award. Jeremiah is Best Dressed. 

1. Brittany: While waiting for the train to arrive, I opted to stand outside and stare down the track. Most everybody else was inside. Outside it was just me, iPod-listening-head-bobbing-smoker-guy with a hackie sack, and a teenage girl wearing a hairnet. Let’s call her Brittany. Brittany was so excited about something, she was literally jumping up and down. I glanced at her and smiled. 

Brittany: I’m trying to keep warm.

Me: It is cold. (Or something)

B: I never rode a train before. I never been anywhere before. (Jumping intensifies.)

Me: Where are you going today?

B: (With a giant, ear-splitting grin) I’m going to New York City to audition for “America’s Next Top Model.”

Me: How exciting!

B: I know, right? I don’t even know where I’m gonna stay once I get there. I guess I’ll just sleep on the sidewalk like they do on TV. I told everybody I was going to my track meet—they all think I’m on the school bus right now! (Squeals) 

2. Jeremiah: Somewhere in Virginia, the train stopped moving. But there wasn’t a station. There were just a lot of trees. After a few minutes, the conductor’s voice came over the loudspeaker saying there was a freight train broken down in front of us and we had to wait for it to be fixed. He made some joke about not knowing how long we’d be delayed. Nobody laughed. The gentleman sitting across from me said to his wife, “This ain’t no midnight train to Georgia. This the midnight train to Northampton County.” And his wife said, “Mmmm-hm.” And he said, “Let’s go get us some hotdogs.” And I thought, hotdog?  

Hot dog!

Being young and spry, I was able to hop out of my own seat before the slightly older and somewhat less spry couple could do the same. I speed walked to the food car.  (Maybe I should say here that I really like hotdogs. I really, really do. People who say they don’t like processed meat are haters. There’s no such thing as a sophisticated taste bud. It’s the same with mayonnaise. And bacon. They’re saying they hate it, but what’s that in their back pocket? Oh, it’s a packet of Hellmann’s.)

In the food car, there was a long line. It seems breakdowns make people hungry. There was a little boy in front of me. He alternated between hiding behind his mother and jumping out to scare me, saying “Gah!” I acted scared. This encouraged him. It went on for awhile before he stopped and said, “My name is Jeremiah. I’m three years old. I want to hold your hand.” I was impressed with his maturity. So we held hands. He showed me the Emergency exit and the trash can. I admired his red sweater vest. 

Me: I like your red sweater vest.

Jeremiah: My mom made me wear it.

Me: Well, it looks very nice.

J: Thanks.

Me: Did you know there is a song with your name?

J’s Mom: Jeremiah Was A Bullfrog? I hate that song.

Me: Oh…

J: I don’t want to get my hair cut.

J’s Mom: Hush your mouth.

Me: Your son is very well behaved.

J’s Mom: He’s been warned.

J: Is that your daddy? 

I turned around and saw that Jeremiah was pointing to the person standing behind me, who happened to be a young, black teenage boy. He was cracking up.  

There’s not really anything else to that story, except to say that J’s mom seemed to have lost her sense of humor somewhere around the NC border. I got my hot dog and it was bad, bad, bad. (Another tip: Don’t buy train food.) When I got back to my seat, I noticed that the couple across the aisle had brought a pie with them. A whole pie. It could have been a coconut pie or a banana cream pie or a milk pie or a lemon pie. I tried to look hungry so they would feel sorry for me and give me some. But I guess everybody was just cranky, from the delay, which, by the way, lasted an hour and a half. I didn’t get any of their pie. 

But that’s what I recommend, if you’re planning to travel by train, which you should: bring your own pie.

Mark Twain lives

John Chappell’s no-frills stand-up creates believable illusion

Some performers delight in the pomp and pageantry of a grand entrance, insisting on the accompaniment of flashing lights, swelling music, outrageous costumes and the occasional circus animal.

John Chappell is not one of these performers. At the March 9 matinee of “Mark Twain! Onstage,” the lights dimmed almost imperceptibly as the actor batted the curtains aside and stumbled into view. Hobbling into the spotlight, Chappell greeted his audience with a bewildered expression that seemed to say, ‘Who are you people?’

Do not be fooled. Appearing in character as Mark Twain, Chappell’s apparent senility stands in stark contrast to his sharp intelligence and satiric wit. His fumbling gestures and exaggerated frailty are part of his recreation of the well-known, early-twentieth-century author who once traveled the country as a storyteller and humorist.

In a show originally performed by the actor Hal Holbrook, Chappell embodies Mark Twain from the moment he assumes the stage until the final curtain call. He retells the author’s humorous stories about travelling in Europe, exploring the American west and riding a steamboat down the Mississippi River. He pokes fun at politicians, journalists and opera singers, and re-enacts an excerpt from the classic novel, “Huckleberry Finn.”

Chappell’s tales are spun with a writer’s words, a comedian’s timing and an actor’s stage presence. His act is a conversation with the audience, and some members fall so completely for the illusion that they offer answers to Twain’s hypothetical questions.

The show’s modest set consists of a leather armchair, an end table and a podium. A small stack of books sits atop the table beside a pitcher of water and a cup of matches. Chappell alternates between leaning heavily against the podium, and shuffling about in a manner that does little to suggest sobriety. When he pours a glass of water for himself, he slops it over the rim of the pitcher and uses his sleeve to wipe it off.

Other pieces of Chappell’s transformation include a refined Deep South accent; a white three-piece suit, complete with gold pocket watch; a believable-from-a-distance prosthetic nose; and a perpetually lit cigar. He says his doctor warned him against smoking, saying it would take ten years off his life. The actor says the admonition frightened him enough to quit “for a good two or three hours” before deciding those extra ten years wouldn’t be worth living without cigars.

Chappell is an expert in comedic timing. He builds suspense by frustrating his audience, stopping mid-story to begin another, and at one point, pretending to fall asleep in his chair. But even the sighs heard from the audience are those of tolerance, as though Twain were a beloved great-uncle.

A master of the one-liner, Chappell compares Nevada’s landscape to “a singed cat” and calls its Carson River “a moist ditch.” Telling of his arrival in Virginia City, he declares the gold rush town “no place for a Presbyterian, so I did not remain one.”

Playing up the stereotype of the scandal-seeking journalist, Chappell claims to have taken a job as a reporter in Virginia City writing about “street fights, saloon brawls and fires. If there weren’t any fires, I started some.”

Although nearly a century old, Chappell’s jabs at politicians evoke the mood of the current campaign season. He compares Congress to an insane asylum full of patients who “talked for weeks without ever getting rid of a single idea.” He asserts that George Washington was the only president ever elected for telling the truth, adding that “when you lie professionally, it’s called politics.”

Chappell also pokes fun at American tourists’ lack of sophistication. He recalls visiting Greece, where he stood atop the Acropolis and took in the view of the Parthenon, asking his tour guide, “What’s this going to be when it’s finished? A hotel?”

When Chappell picks up the novel “Huckleberry Finn” to recount a chapter in the first person, he changes physically to play the part-within-a-part. The actor’s posture becomes youthful, and his accent loses its upper class polish. He tells the tragic story of Finn’s betrayal of Jim, a runaway slave. Finn’s internal struggle between what he’s been told is right, and his natural compassion for his friend, is illustrated by his innocent expression and quivering voice. In the silence following his tale, Chappell drops the novel on the end table where he found it. A small cloud of dust escapes and lingers in the air above it.

Chappell’s illusion is so complete that at the end of the show, as he exits stage left, one feels as though the streets of a frontier town might lie just beyond the curtains.

But as twilight fell, it became apparent to this reporter that something was amiss.

At 5 p.m. in the evening, a passerby, who wished to remain anonymous, walked past the empty lot at the intersection of Sussex and Piedmont. Currently, a house is under construction at the site. ‘Bud’ stopped for a moment to peruse the developments on the foundation of the new home. He later remarked that he was surprised they were building on the site, as it was a space he considered “hardly big enough for a garden shed.”

As Bud surveyed the scene, he noticed something unusual. A Portable Toilet, also known as a “port-o-potty,” erected by the building crew for the purposes of convenient relief, was lying forlornly on its side.

According to the Wikipedia Web site, “a portable toilet, usually known as a port-a-potty, is a modern, portable, self-contained outhouse manufactured of molded plastic in a variety of colors… Portable toilets are referred to colloquially or sold under such brands as port-a-john, port-o-let, sani-privy, port-a-san, porta-potty, tidy john, toi-toi, s***-shack, [and] porta-kybo.”

The port-o-potty whose demise was previously mentioned is beige in color, with dove white accents around the door and roof.

“It wasn’t the first time,” ‘Bud’ commented, explaining that the unfortunate potty had been sabotaged at least twice before. He said that on the morning of the first incident, he’d driven past the property, noticed the potty’s misfortune and seen the site foreman “furiously texting” on his cell phone, presumably to alert the authorities. “Man but he had some fast fingers.”

‘Bud’ also mentioned that after the first potty incident, someone from the builder’s organization made the bold move of tacking a “No Trespassing” sign in a prominent position on a tree by the road. ‘Bud’ pointed out that the lettering is neon orange, and hard to miss.

When asked if he’d noticed anyone lurking, Bud shook his head and appeared to ponder the question. Looking into the distance in the direction of the cows, he was heard musing, “Why do they do that?”

A second Forest Hills resident was seen walking his dog near the property. He stopped to speak with this reporter, pulling at his dachshund’s leash as he gazed at the calamity. Chuckling, he remarked, “Man, but you gotta admit that’s funny.”

When asked if he took joy in other people’s suffering, the man declined to comment.

A group of young men was later seen standing around across the street from the empty lot. Sporting hooded sweatshirts with college logos, they stood with their hands plunged deep into the pockets of their well-pressed blue jeans, poster children for virtue and innocence.

When asked if they had seen any suspicious persons on the lot, there were glances of mutual uncertainty, followed by a lot of shrugging. One of the boys remarked that it was getting late and they should probably head home. Then they were off, presumably to play Monopoly, help an elderly woman cross the street or indulge in a refreshing glass of ice cold milk.

A call from a long-time Forest Hills resident later in the evening shed light on the incident.

“I nearly hit a deer coming around the corner up there on Burns Drive,” said the caller. “There’s a whole family of deer live up there on that corner, just waitin’ for a car to come round the bend. You can see their eyes light up at night, like banshees.”

When asked if she suspected the deer to be the perpetrators of the crime, the caller declined to comment.

But this reporter has her own suspicions. Late in the evening, under the cloak of darkness, she drove through the neighborhood herself to engage in some amateur sleuthing. The aforementioned deer were “waitin,” just as the caller had predicted, on the aforementioned corner. Indeed, their eyes lit up, their skittish manner reminiscent of crack dealers, car hijackers and other blights upon society. If nothing else, revenge was in their eyes.

Cheryl Light, Joan Womble, Jeannie Buie and Meghan’s mother, Sharon, are models of grace and courage. It can’t be easy to send one’s child out into the unknown.  

When I spoke with Meghan, she’d just received her letter of medical clearance, and I could hear her smiling over the phone. Her excitement embodied the innocence and joy of beginnings.  

Throughout my service, I wrote endless letters and emails to friends and family, and filled notebooks with scribbling. During my second year, I kept a blog through Elon University’s e-cast Web site. Recently, I wrote an article of reflection for the “Magazine of Elon.” And now that I’m home, in a constant test of everyone’s patience, I’ve become skilled at working Namibia into conversations on any topic: “Oh, you work in real estate? I lived in a house in Namibia.” “You like Italian food? I ate food in Namibia.” 

In the midst of all this reflection, my conversation with Meghan made me think of my own beginning.

When I found out I would be going to Namibia as a Peace Corps Volunteer, I was in a kayak on Lake Union in Seattle. It was a perfect September day: still water beneath a cloudless blue sky; Gasworks Park crowded with families flying kites; and me, bobbing around in the lake, wishing I hadn’t paddled quite so enthusiastically, or so far away, from the dock. 

Visiting Washington, I was trying my best to stay busy and not think about the letter of invitation that was supposed to arrive at my home in North Carolina. I’d jumped through every legal, medical, and otherwise Peace-Corps-application-process-hoop—a process that, for many applicants, drags on for years—and was waiting for the letter that would reveal my destination, and my assignment, in November.  

My cell phone rang, and my mother told me the letter had come and I’d been invited to a program in Namibia as an Education volunteer. Our conversation went something like this: 

Mom: It says here ‘Namibia.’ 

Me: Nambia! 

Mom: Yes! Wait, no. Na-MI-bi-a. There’s a syllable in the middle there. 

Me: Na-MI-bia! 

Mom: That’s right! 

Me: Namibia! Wow. Namibia. So, um, that borders…what, Kenya? 

That’s right. I didn’t know where it was.

Months later, I would stay up late to gaze at the stars of the southern hemisphere with the other volunteers in my training group, the 25^th to serve in Namibia. We would talk for hours, trying to learn as much as we could about one another before we finished training and left for our respective towns and villages all over the country. Through these conversations, I would learn that I wasn’t the only one who’d never heard of Namibia. I would even learn that one volunteer opened his assignment letter and thought Namibia was in the Pacific Islands. 

But on that September day in Seattle, my future was the blank first page of a new journal: I had yet to cram it into my backpack beneath an unfortunate wheel of Gouda and crate it through Fish River Canyon; to fill its pages with stories of the countless times my students made me laugh when I was trying so hard to be a figure of authority; or to press the tip of my pen against its pages, watching an ink blot spread as I realized some of life’s tragedies are best left unwritten. 

I rambled incessantly in this blog through the end of my first year, and all of my second in Namibia.  

Click here to get some fast facts about Namibia. 

Click here to read about Amber Light’s ongoing adventures in Cameroon.  

It was interesting to watch Steve edit my recording with his fancy editing software. By looking at the sound waves on his computer, he added small pauses and took out others to make it fill a 30 second time slot. I had a lisp when I pronounced “Communities,” and he somehow made that sound normal, too. Listen to the ad here:

CIS Radio Spot

Steve (whose last name I carefully wrote down on a piece of paper, and then lost) recently returned to Sanford after working for a radio station in the Caribbean for several years. I immediately got a mental image of him in aviator glasses and a Hawaiian-print shirt, watching surfers catch waves through a studio window while he read the weather report.

The 103.1 studio is on the third floor above the Shops of Steele Street downtown.

I finished my own service in Namibia in December of 2007, where I taught grades 5-7. This first addition is three very short videos that make me smile. I took them at my end-of-year class parties. One of the many wonderful qualities Namibian children possess is an utter lack of timidity when it comes to dancing and singing. At the party, as soon as I announced that my friend and fellow volunteer Elizabeth had brought her laptop to play music, they were all stuffing their cupcakes in their mouths and jumping out of their seats to stand close to the speakers.

In this first video, Elvis, Michael and Mornie are dancing to “Bobo,” a song by Namibian artist Stanley, who is very popular with my kids. He speaks and sings in their native language, Khoekhoegowab, which is a language with clicks. The refrain in the song is “Everybody bobo,” and “The Bobo” is a dance. So, that’s not confusing at all.

In this video, Gilldy is the little girl in the black shirt who clearly knows how to get down. Dancing with her are Juanita, Irene, Melody and Elizabeth. They are also dancing to “Bobo.”

And finally, the whole grade 5 class doing the kudu dance to a Raphael and Pele song. Raphael and Pele are also Khoekhoegowab speaking, and in February of 2007, they visited our school and gave a concert in the cafeteria and all the kids got to meet them. Anyway, I think it’s called the “kudu dance” because the kids put their hands on their heads like antlers and kind of hop around. When they wanted me to play the song, they would say, “Miss, play for us the kudu!”

Well. Kandinsky’s painting, “Red Yellow Blue,” is at the top of this blog. I didn’t ask him if I could use it, because he’s dead. Plus, when he was alive, he lived in Russia. I’ve never been to Russia, but I considered going once. While studying in London in college, my roommate and I consulted an atlas to see how far away Russia really was, and whether or not we could reach it by train. We were young, and geographically unsophisticated. We ended up in Italy. But that’s not the point.

I borrowed this painting because I’m a fan. I saw an exhibit of Kandinsky’s work at the Tate Modern in 2006. His most well-known works are the abstract masterpieces he created toward the end of his career, but what’s fascinating to me is the way his career evolved. When he began studying art, his work was distinctly impressionistic, but he painted buildings that looked like buildings, and people who walked on the ground. Only later, as he grew as an artist, was he able to express himself in the abstract. Rather than attempting to present a mirror of life, like a photographer, Kandinsky’s work has been compared to that of a musician. His paintings depict emotion with color, shape and movement. While gaining confidence as an artist, his artwork became increasingly open to interpretation and devoid of recognizable objects.

I used to hate abstract art. There is an abstract sculpture in the North Carolina Museum of Art in Raleigh that used to make me angry every time I saw it. It looked, to me, like a human heart and some other internal organs that had been gnawed on by angry animals. I couldn’t understand why an artist would bother to create something that didn’t appear to be anything. Also, it wasn’t pretty. Back then, I wanted Renoir’s girl with a watering can, Monet’s lilies, pretty things I didn’t have to think about.

I still like pretty things, but as I’ve grown older, I’ve begun to appreciate more and more an artist’s prerogative to present his own particular vision of the world, whether that vision is one of lovely children frolicking in gardens with bunnies, or geometric shapes and squiggles.

As a North Carolinian, I feel privileged to live in a state rich with art and artists. A state in which there are endless opportunities for artists to cultivate, and share, their craft. A few weeks ago, I visited the ArtStudio in downtown Sanford to interview Tyrone Street and cover the opening of his show. Although the space has been open for some time now, it was new to me, and the experience of going there was similar to opening an ordinary wardrobe and finding a secret world. The gallery is in a beautifully restored space in a historic building on Steele Street, and Lisa Mathis and the other talented artists who have studio space there are working hard to develop the local arts scene.

On Sunday, March 2, I took Old US1 north to Pittsboro to interview Gwen Higgins, the new Gallery Manager at the Chatham Arts Gallery.  Luckily for me, March 2 was First Sunday in Pittsboro, a day when local artists and vendors line the main street and sell everything from handmade crafts, to tutus and dress-up clothes, to locally-grown-and-hatched chickens and eggs. The Gallery was hosting a Pottery Invitational to show off new works by area potters. My first favorite piece on display was a heart-shaped platter in a matte, speckled cream glaze that was as light and thin as a china saucer. My second favorite piece was a color photograph of a red chili pepper.

The pottery show will remain at the Gallery until the end of March, and a story about Gwen will run in the Herald on Monday, March 10.

Kandinsky’s painting will remain on display for the foreseeable future.