Prince Mural: A Love That’s Gonna Last?

CACKALACK

Sometimes Art Comes and Goes.
In a quiet Southern town, a pair of new murals has shaped the way citizens think about public art.

Of all places, downtown Statesville, North Carolina happens to be home to one of the more inspiring memorials honoring rock legend Prince. The city, a former industrial town in the Piedmont that sits at the intersection of two interstates, has its share of empty buildings mingled in with restaurants and businesses working to revitalize the downtown square.

Virtually overnight this past April the Prince mural, a colorful, spray-painted depiction of Prince on a motorcycle, popped up on the exterior wall of the New South Gallery, an empty store-cum-art space owned by Statesville’s Gordon family that plays host to local artists. Continue reading “Prince Mural: A Love That’s Gonna Last?”

Where Two or Three Are Gathered

Matters of Faith

church dark

Throughout the season of Lent, our Episcopal church in Statesville offers Evening Prayer on weekdays. The service is a rather simple one: scripture, ordered prayer–for forgiveness, for each other, for safety and quietude. It takes about twenty minutes to go through.

I try to volunteer to lead prayer a few times–the offering relies upon lay folks in the church to lead the service. Most times, only a handful of people show up. There have been a couple of instances in which I said Evening Prayer by myself.

My first assigned reading date was this past Monday. It had been a full and hectic day at the office, the kind where unexpected interruptions derail the plans you’d made. Still, I was able to duck out a little bit early to make it up the road–only to drive straight into a heavy rainstorm, which slowed traffic down. I pulled into the parking lot a minute shy of the appointed start time.

Continue reading “Where Two or Three Are Gathered”

Sundays | Those Snowbound Breakfasts

LIFE WITH KIDDOS

Stasis is a powerful thing. Breaking free is even better. 

We eat well when there’s snow on the ground, especially at breakfast.

Before we had kids, Kelly and I had a habit of going to Cracker Barrel for brunch any time it snowed. Something there was about a big, hot breakfast served in the near vicinity of a wood fire. With two kids and a third on the way, the days of sleeping till ten are long gone, and aging into the mid-thirties has thickened our sense of caution and responsibility against driving on icy roads. That, and minivans.

But we did sleep in this morning–thank God for kids tuckered out from sledding the day before–and though last night’s fire was only cold embers, this morning I fired up the oven to fix a pan of biscuits, and got a pound of bacon cooking in the big skillet, and scrambled a bunch of eggs, and pulled out oranges and grapes and honey and preserves. (All the carbohydrates, for you fans of MZCL, were for me.)

Soon, the olfactory trinity of biscuits rising, bacon frying, and coffee steaming filled the kitchen. Continue reading “Sundays | Those Snowbound Breakfasts”