In the summer, in the city

Virginia Museum designers created a T-shirt each year for the museum's summer concert series. Most featured art from the VMFA collection, such as this 1986 version with an image of artist Barry Flanagan's "Large Leaping Hare" sculpture.

Staging an outdoor event in Richmond's notoriously sweltering summers can be tricky, as David Griffith found out back in the early 1980s.

Griffith was the head of public relations at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts when the museum began its highly successful Jumpin' in July series of Thursday-evening concerts in the Sculpture Garden. (Alas, the Jumpin' series, Griffith, and the Sculpture Garden have all since bit the dust.)

The Sculpture Garden, which opened in 1976 and was demolished during the latest expansion project, might not have been the ideal spot for a July concert series: It was a heat trap. Paved in brick, it was sunk one story below ground level. The sun baked the bricks all day long. During days like today, it was hot -- very hot -- and high brick walls and the museum's North Wing blocked any wayward breeze.

If memory serves me, it was during the second season of the series when Griffith came up with what he considered a bright idea. Late on one sweltering Thursday afternoon, he was in the garden checking on the setup. He'd only been out there for a few minutes, and sweat was pouring down his face.

Griffith's masterstroke of genius was to request the museum's maintenance department to use hoses to spray water on the bricks to cool things down.

You're probably one step ahead of the story by now. If so, you're certainly a step ahead of where Griffith was.

An hour later, at 6 p.m. when the concert began, the water had turned to steam, and the Sculpture Garden wasn't just hot: It was a sauna. Jumpin' in July that evening was a miserable experience for performers and audience alike.

The Jumpin' in July series survived, however, and became so successful that it was extended on both ends, into June and August. The museum dropped "in July" from the name, and the series came to be known simply as "Jumpin'" By its third year, and for many years thereafter, most concerts were sold out. As many as 1,800 people packed the Sculpture Garden for each event -- listening to music, socializing, drinking, and dancing.

The museum had to beef up security to prevent gate-crashing and to keep people from sneaking into the garden. (An overweight young man, wearing only the briefest of leopard-print, bikini-style bathing suits, climbed over the north wall one night; he was a fashion disaster, and the museum's security guards had no trouble spotting him in the crowd and hustling him out quickly.) Security fences had to be put up around outdoor sculptures by Aristide Maillol, Henry Moore and Alexander Calder to keep people from setting their drinks on them. Tickets had to be printed with ultraviolet coding to stop counterfeiting. The museum had to contract with a volunteer rescue squad to keep an ambulance on site each Thursday night.

At least one couple met at a Jumpin' concert and married within a year. A Virginia Air National Guard pilot was seriously disciplined for buzzing the garden in his fighter jet during a concert. (That story made the front page of the next day's paper.)

Jumpin' in July was begun as a way to entice younger people to enjoy the museum. It succeeded beyond the museum's wildest dreams. Jumpin' became the place to be and to be seen on Thursday nights.

Within a few years, Innsbrook, the Science Museum and Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden had begun their own summer concert series. But none was quite as successful as VMFA's.

Before I retired, I managed the ticket desk outside the garden gate for every one of the Jumpin' concerts. It was a job I enjoyed as much as any other during my tenure at VMFA.

The Sculpture Garden was destroyed to make way for construction of the museum's new wing, which opened last year, leaving no venue for Jumpin'.

The last concert was bittersweet.

But ... I no longer had to work at the ticket desk every Thursday evening in the hot summer sun. That was a blessed relief.

Patton and me

I had been a medic at Bitburg Air Base for about two weeks when one of my roommates suggested a trip to Bonn to celebrate the coming new year, 1967.

Bonn, a city on the Rhine River, was the capital of what was then West Germany. It was about as long a trip as it is from Richmond to Washington, D.C.

We all piled into a couple of Volkswagens, drove to Bonn, found a small hotel, and enjoyed the city -- which, since we were GIs, entailed the drinking of mass quantities of the excellent local beer.

In other words, we got drunk every night.

On New Year's Eve, after spending the evening drinking too many liters of Bonn's best, somebody suggested, "Let's go piss in the Rhine. Everybody does it!"

It became a raucous venture that started with us trying to find our way on foot to a bridge across the Rhine. I was more than enthusiastic about going along, but I kept asking why it was a big deal to piss in the Rhine. Nobody seemed to know exactly, but I was assured that it was "tradition."

So there we were, as the city's cathedral bells tolled midnight, lined up along the railing in the middle of a bridge, pissing into the Rhine far below. We weren't the only ones, and it was quite a sight.

It wasn't until a few years later that I discovered why pissing into the Rhine was considered de rigueur.

It was all General George S. Patton's doing. He had promised himself during World War II that he would one day urinate into Germany's most important river.

And Patton kept his promise, in full view of his troops. "I drove to the Rhine River," he said, "and went across on the pontoon bridge. I stopped in the middle to take a piss and then picked up some dirt on the far side in emulation of William the Conqueror."

Patton was nothing if not a colorful character, beloved by the vast majority of his men.

Although I didn't know exactly what we were memorializing on that bridge on December 31, 1967, it was an extraordinary experience. And now that I do know what we were commemorating, I'm doubly glad we paid tribute to Patton, even in our own small and incoherent way.

(Although he was a California native, Patton's family connections to Virginia were strong and went back to before the Civil War. Patton attended Virginia Military Institute for a year before enrolling at West Point, from which he graduated in 1909. He died December 9, 1945, after injuries suffered in an auto accident near Mannheim, Germany. He is buried at the American Military Cemetery in Luxembourg, a place I have visited many times.)

Sultry days and peach ice cream

Niggerfoot.

Even when I was a child the name of the crossroads was shocking.

Peach ice cream made me think about Niggerfoot today.

Bear with me.

Niggerfoot, not even much of a wide spot at the intersection of state routes 54 and 671, was between Ashland and Montpelier in Hanover County. When I was a child, if you wanted to get to the farm where my maternal grandmother lived, you turned right at Niggerfoot. Even in the late 1940s and early 50s, the crossroads was pretty much abandoned. The post office and what was probably a country store were empty and close to falling down.

When I first saw it, the Niggerfoot name was on a black-on-white state sign alongside the two-lane highway.

Once we made the turn to the right, my grandmother's farm was about a quarter mile down a tar-and-gravel road. If you drove a little farther along that road, you'd come to Scotchtown, a farm that dates back to 1717. Scotchtown was where Patrick Henry lived from 1771 to 1778 with his wife and six children, and it was his home during his most influential period in Virginia politics -- when he gave his famous "Give me liberty or give me death" speech at St. John's Episcopal Church here in Richmond and when he was elected Governor of Virginia.

Nobody was living in Henry's old house in the early 1950s, and when we kids would go rambling through the woods around my grandmother's farm, a favorite destination was Scotchtown. (It was still privately owned when I was a kid. It was purchased in 1958 by the Association for the Preservation of Virginia Antiquities, restored, and turned into a tourist destination.)

But back to Niggerfoot.

As a kid, I always wondered about the origin of the name, but that wasn't something I pursued until today. The crossroads sign is long gone. If you Google the name you'll find mentions of both Niggerfoot and an alternate name, Negro Foot, mainly in family histories of people who lived nearby.

The Niggerfoot version of the name appears to go back at least 150 years. It pops up in a passing mention of Stonewall Jackson's well-known Stonewall Brigade, which is said to have marched down the Niggerfoot Road and attacked the Union Army's right flank at Mechanicsville during the Civil War.

But why that name?

Googling leads only to supposition. I found a handful of 18th- and 19th-century references to cockfighting. Some cocks with one black leg were referred to as "niggerfoot cocks." Perhaps somebody who owned fighting cocks once lived at the crossroads. Or maybe cockfights were held there long, long ago.

But what does all of this have to do with ice cream?

It's hot as Hades in Richmond today. On sultry Sunday afternoons more than a half-century ago, my grandmother's extended family would gather in the shade of a great walnut tree near the farm's modest peach orchard. We kids would have picked peaches from the trees in the morning, and after Sunday dinner, the adults supervised as my cousins and I took turns churning peach ice cream by hand. I remember it as being the best ice cream I ever had.

No, I didn't churn peach ice cream today. But I did buy a pint of Ben and Jerry's Peach Cobbler ice cream on my way home from fitness class this morning.

It won't be as good as what we made at my grandmother's farm. But it will be a pleasant treat this evening.

And that's why peach ice cream prompted memories of the little crossroads once called Niggerfoot.

Venturing beyond the strip malls

Broaddus Flats stretches along either side of Route 360 in present-day Hanover County. It was settled by Colonials in the mid-16th century. It takes its name today from a family that purchased the land in the late 19th century. (Don Dale photo, 2011)

I headed east for about an hour on Route 360 Friday on my way to visit an old friend who lives in King and Queen County. It's a beautiful drive once you leave the Mechanicsville strip malls behind.

A few minutes after you pass the last of the suburban hodgepodge, the road becomes increasingly rural. Then you reach the top of a hill that offers a breathtaking view of a flat stretch of farmland, studded with trees, that reaches some miles to the east, almost as far as the eye can see.

I've loved this view from the top of the hill almost all of my life. When I was a small child, I knew that when we reached that hill we were truly on our way to the Rappahannock River near Center Cross, where we spent summer vacations away from the heat and noise of the city. Once, as a young adult, I rode my Kawasaki motorcycle from Richmond to that cottage on the bluff overlooking the river -- and then back -- which once and for all showed me the wisdom of making the journey by automobile.

It wasn't until the 1980s that I learned the name of the flat expanse of farmland at the bottom of that hill. I was talking about what a beautiful stretch of 360 it was while I was having coffee one morning with a friend in the Café at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts.

"Oh, you mean Broaddus Flats," my friend said.

Since then I've learned that Virginians have been farming there since just a few decades after the first Englishmen arrived at Jamestown in 1607. In the 1990s, archaeologists began uncovering a mix of both Native American and Colonial American artifacts at digs in Broaddus Flats. (Native Americans lived on this plain adjacent to the Pamunkey River for thousands of years before Europeans arrived.)

The area has had a number of names over the centuries. It was purchased in the late 19th century by a planter named Rowland Broaddus, hence the name by which it's known today.

But even before I knew the history of the place, I knew that the commanding view from the top of the hill always gave me peace and even joy. It marks the end of suburbia and the beginning of a quieter, nobler part of Virginia.

As I reached the top of the hill Friday, it struck me that in all my 68 years I had never taken a picture of Broaddus Flats. I began to scout possible locations where I could stop the car safely and grab a few images of even a small part of this verdant countryside. I spotted a likely place, but it was on the other side of the four-lane highway that bisects Broaddus Flats. I made a mental note that this was where I would stop on the way back home.

After a pleasant visit with my friend in King and Queen County, I headed back to Richmond. The threat of rain hung all about, but only scattered drops fell. I stopped at a roadside stand and brought fresh local tomatoes, a few ears of just-picked corn, a handful of new potatoes and some yellow squash. (Friday night's dinner alone was worth the drive.) As I passed into Broaddus Flats, I drove more slowly and began to look closely for the location I had spotted earlier. There it was, near the long gravel and dirt road leading to the Old Church Hunt Club.

With darkening clouds racing above and raindrops falling intermittently, I finally took pictures of a portion of Broaddus Flats. They're decent images, but they don't do the place justice. I'll try to do better next time.

July Fourth memories

On July 4th, 1995, I was with my friend Walter on a cruise up the Rhine River in Europe, from Nijmegen to Basel. The spires on the left are those of the Cologne Cathedral. (Don Dale photo, 1995)

I must have spent a week in 1995 searching Richmond malls for a shirt with an American flag on it. I was surprised at how hard the task turned out to be.

I finally found one, a designer T-shirt with a tiny flag on the pocket, at Hechts at Regency. A salesman found it for me in the stockroom. It was outrageously expensive for a T-shirt.

But I needed it.

My friend Walter and I had planned a trip to Europe -- Amsterdam for a few days, then a cruise up the Rhine River from nearby Nijmegen, Holland, to Basel, Switzerland, and then a leisurely drive through the Black Forest and on back to Amsterdam.

We knew that we'd be on a German cruise ship, the Britannia, on July 4th, and I wanted to wear a shirt with Old Glory on it.

That was my fourth celebration of July 4th in another country. I had spent Independence Day in Germany in 1967, '68 and '69 while in the U.S. Air Force.

There's something about being in a foreign country on the day we celebrate independence, something that makes me feel the holiday more keenly, something that makes me feel somehow more "American."

At Bitburg and Spangdahlem air bases, where I lived for three years, the celebrations were almost over the top. Our German neighbors were all invited to celebrate Independence Day on base with us -- with free hot dogs, hamburgers, corn on the cob, baked beans, potato salad, ice cream, live music, games and -- as dusk fell -- spectacular fireworks.

(Two things about our German neighbors at those celebrations stand out in my memory. They loved -- absolutely loved! -- the American ice cream because the butterfat content was so high. But ... they were very leery of the corn on the cob. Corn, to these mostly rural people, was a food for livestock. Once they tasted corn on the cob drenched in melted butter and salt, however, they changed their minds. I understand that the German attitude towards corn on the cob has changed significantly since then.)

Almost thirty years later, Walter and I, as Americans, were a distinct minority on board the Britannia. But our Independence Day had not been forgotten by the ship's German social director. We awoke to find a large "Happy July 4th" banner above the staircase up to the ship's main deck. The Germans and the French, who dominated the ship's passenger manifest, greeted us all day long with exclamations of "Happy July 4th." It was actually quite touching.

For lunch, we asked our waiter if he could arrange for the chef to make us each a cheeseburger. It wasn't the best burger I've ever eaten, but we appreciated the chef's effort. Cheeseburgers, after all, were nowhere to be found on most European menus.

I proudly wore my shirt with the tiny American flag on it for the whole day.

I've celebrated July 4th at backyard cookouts at my parents' house, at picnics with friends at Dogwood Dell, at pot-luck block parties with neighbors, grilling with friends on my own deck (you can see the fireworks at The Diamond from my front porch), and with family at my nephew's place on the Rappahannock River.

But those four Independence Days abroad brought out an extra touch of pride and patriotism in me. Those celebrations are among my favorite memories.

I still have that white designer T-shirt with the tiny flag on the pocket. It's a bit faded, but I still make sure I wear it at some point each July 4th.

Rainbow flags and dead horses

The rainbow flag flew in front of the Federal Reserve building in Richmond throughout June, Gay Pride Month, in Richmond.

Kudos to the Chairman of the Federal Reserve Board for so far ignoring a complaint letter about the Richmond Fed's flying of the rainbow flag in June in celebration of Gay Pride Month.

Delegate Bob Marshall, a Republican who represents Virginia's 13th District and whose politics place him just to the right of James Dobson, continued to flog what was essentially a dead horse throughout the month. Marshall wrote letters to the editor, called news conferences, and complained to the president of the Richmond Fed, Jeffrey Lacker.

And still the rainbow flag flew.

(It's an attractive flag. I thought it brought some much-needed color to downtown Richmond.)

Undeterred by the fact that his horse, much like himself, had no measurable brain-wave activity, Marshall continued to flail away. And then it appears that he over-reached himself. He sputtered out a complaint to Ben Bernanke, the Chairman of the Federal Reserve Board.

Bernanke, perhaps with more pressing matters on his mind, has not yet responded.

The point is now somewhat moot.

The rainbow flag flew on.

It would be so easy to mock Marshall's letter, analyze it, and deconstruct it. Not being one to pile on, I'll just say that the letter speaks for itself.

June 24, 2011

Dear Chairman Bernanke:

I write you as a senior member of the Virginia House of Delegates regarding the decision of the Federal Reserve Bank in Richmond to fly the homosexual, bisexual and transgender rainbow flag, along with the American flag, at its Richmond offices during June.

This act appears to violate the Richmond Fed's own political advocacy policy: "Federal Reserve Banks have a unique need to protect their independence from the political process ... an employee may not engage in political activity while on duty or on Bank premises, and must be extremely cautious to avoid any suggestion of Bank sponsorship or support of such activities."

In the Richmond Fed's June 16, 2011 public response to me, Mr. Jeffrey Lacker first reported that this decision "generated considerable public reaction," but then disputed that flying this rainbow flag was a "political or social statement." His response failed to explain how this decision to fly the rainbow flag was arrived at, other than to say employees requested it.

Mr. Lacker also failed to address how the Fed made its decision or how it would handle future requests from other employee groups. However, a reporter later told me that a Fed spokesman had said it would be a non-starter if an employee group requested the Richmond Fed to even consider flying a Christian Flag or a Flag of the Sons of the Confederacy.

The New York Times reported (6-10-11) that, "Jim Strader, a spokesman for the bank, said the bank had fielded hundreds of phone calls and as many e-mails about the flag. ... One of the most popular arguments by the flag's opponents was that the bank is a government institution ... Mr. Strader's response is that the bank is in fact privately owned, as are all regional Federal Reserves, and that it considers requests by employees ... but not the general public."

As chairman of the Federal Reserve System please advise me of the following:

(1) Did the Richmond Fed violate its own non-partisan directive? If so, what steps will you take to ensure that it does not happen again.

(2) Regardless of whether the flag flying violated the Richmond Fed policy, should the Federal Reserve, and/or its 12 regional banks, use Fed money to take such public advocacy positions?

(3) Mr. Strader's comments about the status of the Richmond Fed are problematic. Was Fed spokesman Jim Strader accurate when he told the New York Times that the Fed's 12 regional member banks are privately owned, and not governmental in nature? I look forward to your response.

Sincerely,

Delegate Bob Marshall
R - 13th District of Virginia

And the rainbow flag flew on ... all the way through Gay Pride Month.