Christmas traditions

Everybody has his or her own special Christmas traditions. They come in many forms, and they’re repeated in homes around the world. Others are more quirky.

Some don’t emerge to be recognized as traditions until somebody says, “We’ve been doing this for a long time. It must be a tradition.”

When I was a little boy, the tradition was that the tree didn’t go up until after my sister and I had gone to bed on Christmas Eve. “Santa brings the tree and decorates it,” my parents told us. (It was only later that I realized my parents, children of the Depression who made the most of every penny, knew that trees were discounted late on Christmas Eve.)

But Christmas morning was all the more exciting for us kids because of that tradition. We saw the tree for the first time on Christmas morning, beautifully decorated and lit -- and surrounded with presents.

After all the gifts had been opened and the wrapping and ribbons discarded (into the trash, not the fireplace, my mother insisted), we’d begin sniffing for the aroma of Christmas dinner. (I later learned that the first whiff of the feast to come was of celery and onion sautéing in butter for the stuffing.) The dinner was a set affair: roasted turkey, giblet gravy, cornbread and sausage stuffing, cranberry sauce, a relish tray, candied yams, green beans cooked to death with a chunk of country ham, a Waldorf salad (which was my father’s only creative contribution to the feast) and a choice of homemade pumpkin or pecan pie. Or even a slice of each.

As my sister and I grew to be teenagers, I got involved playing a Roman soldier in the city’s annual Christmas Eve pageant at the Carillon at Byrd Park. Afterwards, the family would have a special Christmas Eve dinner: oyster stew, ham biscuits, baked beans, cole slaw and potato salad. Then we’d open the presents. I took to going to midnight service with friends.

The next morning we’d sleep in and then have Christmas dinner.

The “new” tradition stayed the same until the early 2000s, when the only members of my immediate family who were left were my mother and me.

After she died in 2007, my niece and nephew began inviting me to holiday gatherings, mostly at my nephew’s house where Becky, my nephew’s wife, and Terry, my niece, both cooked for a gathering of about a dozen. Both women are amazing cooks, and I quickly grew to love this “new” (to me) tradition. Becky, like my mother, has a wizard way with homemade yeast rolls, which I dearly love.

In the late 1970s, still another tradition evolved, and I didn’t recognize it as one of my important and even cherished Christmas customs for many years.

A group of us, mostly friends I have known forever, began to celebrate the holiday with a Christmas-night dinner at a Chinese restaurant. If you’ve ever wanted to go out for dinner on Christmas night, you know that most of Richmond’s restaurants are closed -- except for Chinese restaurants. For more than three decades, my friend Jerry Williams has organized reservations for the 12 of us. (He even makes place cards to make sure we don’t sit next to the same people we sat next to last year. Thanks, Jerry!)

Chinese restaurants all over town are packed on Christmas night, and the service is always slow, but that’s become part of the charm.

This year was no exception.

And so this year I pay tribute to this tradition and these old friends, a few of whom I see only several times a year. But I know I’ll always see them Christmas night.

In the picture above (which was taken by the receptionist at Peking on West Broad Street), you can see most of them. From left to right, they are Robyn, me, Jill, Jim, Danielle, Jane, Alan, Jerry, Shenandoah, Mark, John, and Barry.

By the way, there is a reason why Barry looms large at the forefront. He was in the bathroom when the receptionist took the picture of the rest of us. Mark -- who is our photo archivist -- took a separate picture of Barry and then worked some digital magic.

Traditions.

Old or new, you’ve gotta love ’em. They make the holidays memorable.

My James Bond journey

In preparation for seeing "Skyfall," I have set myself the task of watching all 22 James Bond films to see how the series has morphed over the 50 years since "Dr. No" debuted.

That's not such a hard task when you subscribe to Netflix, although the vagaries of the system make it onerous to watch them in their exact order. There's what Netflix calls a "very long wait" for the first two films. ("From Russia with Love" was the second.)

The Bond series is the longest continually-running series in film history.

The British secret agent with a license to kill, created by spook-turned -novelist Ian Fleming, took the world by storm in 1962. I was in college, and we all thought that Bond was absolutely the coolest spy who ever was. We'd line up to see the latest film at one of the downtown movie "palaces." I seem to remember most of them played in those days at the Loew's Theatre on Grace Street, now Richmond's CenterStage.

In the past few days, I've seen "Thunderball," "You Only Live Twice," "Goldfinger" and "Diamonds Are Forever." ("Dr. No" was shipped to me today, and "From Russia With Love" is now at the top of my Netflix queue.)

At this point, "Diamonds Are Forever" is my clear favorite, followed closely by "Goldfinger."

Why?

First off, both have title songs sung by venerable Welsh recording artist Shirley Bassey. (She also sang the title song for "Moonraker," but that was yet to come.) Nobody can belt a Bond theme like Bassey.

Both feature Sean Connery as Bond -- although it must be said that Connery was the only actor to have played Bond at the time "Diamonds" was filmed.

Both feature strong, evil antagonists -- Auric Goldfinger in "Goldfinger" and Ernst Stavro Blofeld in "Diamonds."

And both films feature strong supporting casts.

In "Goldfinger," Toshiyuki Sakata created one of the series most memorable thugs, Oddjob, who famously used his sharpened, steel-brimmed bowler hat to gruesome effect before Bond used that same hat to turn the tables. Oddjob's final scene is one that those who have seen "Goldfinger" will not soon forget.

Both have strong and tenacious female characters whom Bond manages to seduce in one way or another. In "Goldfinger," it's Honor Blackman. In "Diamonds," it's Jill St. John.

But what's come to be so clear to me as I rewatch these old favorites is the punchiness, the naughtiness and the crispness of the dialogue.

In "Goldfinger," when Blackman's character introduces herself to Bond as "Pussy Galore," Bond says, almost as an aside, "I must be dreaming."

In "Diamonds," in which St. John plays a diamond thief, she pops in and out of her first scene in a blonde wig and then as a brunette before confessing that she is a redhead. "Which do you prefer?" she asks. Bond replies, "Well, as long as the collar and cuffs match...."

And when Bond meets a woman at a casino craps table, she introduces herself as "Plenty O'Toole." Bond's reply? "Named after your father perhaps?"

And it's not just the women who have the good lines. And the memorable lines are not all naughty. Some are chilling.

In "Goldfinger," as Bond is strapped to a table with a laser cutter moving toward the family jewels, Bond asks Goldfinger, "Do you expect me to talk?" Goldfinger says, "No, Mr. Bond. I expect you to die."

But what makes "Diamonds" stand out for me is the two inseparable smugglers who might just be the oddest characters in the whole series. Putter Smith plays Mr. Kidd, and Bruce Glover plays Mr. Wint. Neither has ever had a better film role. They play dangerous and quirky bad guys who, from first frame to last, try their damnedest to kill Bond -- in fascinating ways. They meet their own ends at Bond's hands in the final setpiece, in which they try -- but fail -- to bomb Bond with a bombe glacée.

Yep, "Diamonds" and "Goldfinger" are my favorites -- so far.

But it's only four down, and 18 to go. It might be a while before I get to "Skyfall." And I might change my mind about my favorites.

Thanksgiving 2012

What's better than a good walk after a great Thanksgiving dinner?

Maybe a good nap, say I.

But if you're still a kid, who needs a nap? Not Lucy (left), age 2, Milagros, age 5, and Rowan, also 5. They were eager to burn off some calories yesterday afternoon after Thanksgiving Dinner at my nephew's house.

Lucy and Rowan are my great-great-nieces. Milagros is my great-niece. That's Lucy and Rowan's mom leading the kids off for a sunny afternoon stroll.


We all had good reason to feel stuffed.

My nephew's wife, Becky, is a great old-school cook. She roasted a 20-pound turkey to perfection; made yeast rolls along with mashed potatoes, gravy, and green beans; and served fresh pineapple and a good cranberry sauce. (My niece made the excellent stuffing, and even made a separate portion of it with no onions, just for me.) Becky also made four pies -- two chocolate and two lemon chess. I had a slice of lemon chess, and I swear it was the best lemon chess pie I have ever eaten.

My contribution to the festivities was a bottle of wine.

Becky loaded me up with leftovers as I departed for home and a nap. I had a slice of the chocolate pie last night. Tonight, I'll have Thanksgiving dinner all over again, and I'll finish with a slice of that delicious lemon chess pie.

Thank you Becky for hosting another family Thanksgiving. It was a joy to have so many of us around your table to enjoy the expertly prepared bounty of the season.

Got nuts?

That squirrel peeking out of the yellow pocket would stay there all day if my niece would let him. Which she doesn't.

But Grumpy takes what time he can get nestling in that hand-made pocket. My niece hangs it around her neck and shoulder like a purse.

Grumpy isn't very grumpy at all. In fact, he seems to be a very loving young squirrel. He happily eats corn, broccoli, sweet potato, green beans, sugar snap peas, fruit, pumpkin seeds -- pumpkin seeds are a favorite -- and acorns that are hand-fed to him and his brother. Both also eat squirrel formula from a syringe. I asked my niece when it might be simpler to feed them some sort of dry food. She told me she doesn't think Purina makes squirrel chow. (She says there is something called Henry's Healthy Blocks, which are a total nutrition product for squirrels in captivity if they don't like to eat anything else.)

Grumpy's brother is named Sleepy, and he's not a layabout at all. He scampers all over his multi-story cage, building and refining his nest and exploring. Grumpy and Sleepy were named, it should be noted, by the certified rehab volunteer who had them for two days before my niece stepped up to the plate.

They were about 5 weeks old when she decided she would help her overworked rehab friend and play mother to the squirrels. (Their nest was toppled when a crew cut down a tree following one of last summer's storms.)

She doesn't allow the adolescent squirrels the run the of the house, but occasionally she takes them out of their cage just to cuddle them and love them. I met them yesterday -- and petted them -- when I stopped by the house. They're adorable, really, just as inquisitive as kittens (but way quicker) and totally comfortable with people.

They're about three months old now.

The next big goal will be reached when they can crack a walnut all by themselves. My niece doesn't expect that to be anytime real soon. She thinks Sleepy and Grumpy will be spending the winter indoors.

Once they pass the walnut test and the weather warms up, my niece will return them to her animal-rehab friend. The friend has done this before and has squirrels she raised by hand living in trees in her back yard.

The friend keeps a bowl of nuts on the floor just inside her kitchen door.

Her squirrels use the cat-flap.

The other side of the mic

To celebrate the first anniversary of my "What's Your Story?" series, the folks at the Virginia Voice turned the tables on me.

They assigned another volunteer host, Patty Campbell, to interview me.

Patty stopped by my house on Northside with the station's digital recorder, and we sat in my living room while she asked me many of the same questions I ask other people on my half-hour weekly show. Just like I do, Patty asked me, in essence, who I am and how I came to be who I am.

It was interesting in the sense that I am often the interviewer but rarely the interviewee. As an interviewer, I'm confident and in control. As an interviewee, I felt much more vulnerable and a lot less in control.

But Patty, a radio veteran herself for going on 30 years, made it a pleasant experience.

You can read that previous paragraph to mean something like "I don't think I made a fool of myself."

If you have a half hour to spare, you can hear the interview by clicking here.

A boy child

It's a boy!

Not that a girl would have been unwelcome, you understand. A healthy and happy baby of either type is what counts.

Nicholas Michael was born Sept. 29, 2012, at 7:40 a.m. He weighed in at 8 lbs., 9 oz.

His joyful parents are Melissa and Chris. Melissa is my great niece, my brother's son's beautiful daughter. Melissa says Nicholas is "an angel" and that she and Chris couldn't be happier.

I guess my partiality towards boy babies -- if I have one -- comes from the lack of them on the other side of my family, my mother's side.

My maternal grandmother had one son, my Uncle Joe, my mother's brother. That was it for his generation. All of his siblings were girls.

When my mother's sisters and brother got married, their generation produced a slew of girls and one boy -- me.

A lot of males showed up at family gatherings, but most were in-laws. There were only two males who could trace their roots back to my grandmother, and they were my Uncle Joe and me.

Trust me when I say Uncle Joe and I were pampered, especially by my grandmother. We were a rarity.

Times have changed. Those who did the pampering are long gone now, and so is much of the sexism that focused the lion's share of attention on males, whether on my mother's side of the family or in the world at large.

I'm 70 now, so mark it up to my being an old coot, but I remember my long run as the only male in my generation on my mother's side as fun while it lasted. It never gave me all that much of an edge when I was a kid, but every little bit seemed to count.

I'll quickly add that I am glad times have changed. My nieces and great-nieces and great-great-nieces deserve every opportunity they'll get and, in my biased opinion, then some. As do their brothers. Back in the day, the world, like grading on a curve, was not fair. But it's getting fairer, step by step.

In passing, I'll mention that Melissa and Chris's decision to pick "Michael" for the new baby's middle name made Michael, the new grandfather, beam even more than he might have otherwise. We're going to have to reel him back down to earth sometime soon. He's really flying high.

So, as I've already said privately, congratulations to new parents Melissa and Chris and to proud grandparents Michael and Becky.

And welcome to the family, Nicholas Michael. I wonder how much more the world will change by the time you grow up.

Food and grace in Luxembourg

Crown Prince Guillaume of Luxembourg married Belgian Countess Stephanie de Lannoy this morning. The wedding was billed as the biggest royal event in 30 years in the tiny Grand Duchy.

I don't know much about the Luxembourg royal family. But "tiny" is the right word to describe this congenial country. You can drive the width of it in an hour.

With a population of about 470,000 people, it covers an area of not quite a thousand square miles. Belgium is on the west and north, Germany is on the east, and France is to the south.

Not far across Luxembourg's eastern border is the town of Bitburg, Germany, where I was stationed in the '60s in the Air Force.

I spent a lot of time in Luxembourg. Getting there was nothing -- not more than a 40-minute drive. We'd pile into my 1950 VW bug and head to the border city of Echternach or to the capital city of Luxembourg for a beer or two, a good meal, and some exploring. The country is so compact that we could accomplish all three things in one day.

The food was appetizing. And the rugged landscapes were spectacular-- all forest and mountains dotted by cities and villages with cobblestone streets and medieval architecture.

And then there was the beer.

The food and the landscapes were impressive. The beer was not.

Brewed in Luxembourg and with the unlikely -- and some would say unfortunate -- name Henri Funk, it was a lager that ranked way below the outstanding pilsner brewed in Bitburg. But it was drinkable.

The food was a brighter story. Two things spring to mind when I remember eating in Luxembourg. One was my first taste of fresh lobster bisque. I had never tasted a soup so rich, creamy, elegant and satisfying, even when accompanied by plain hard rolls and butter.

The second memory is of steak tartare. At first, I thought the chef had forgotten to cook it, but I was quickly disabused of that notion by one of my more sophisticated friends. We were at the Café du Commerce, and what had caught my eye on the menu was just the word "steak."

I now know that steak tartare is made from finely chopped raw beef (or, sometimes, horse). My raw steak was marinated in wine, then spiced and formed into a round patty resembling a hamburger, and chilled. It was served topped with minced onions, capers and a raw egg yolk. It was quite an unnerving sight to my naive Southern eyes.

I took the first bite slowly and with some trepidation. The verdict: delicious. I cleaned my plate. And I ate all of the toast points.

Three years in the Air Force in the middle of Central Europe brought many surprises, almost all of them good. In many ways, they were what made time there so memorable.

Had I never donned a blue uniform and gone to Germany, I might never have become such a devotee of travel and never have learned much about other cultures and what they do, eat, and drink. The Luxembourgers, the Germans, the Italians, the Austrians, the Czechs, the French, the Belgians, the Netherlanders, the British, even the Icelanders and the Azoreans -- they might not do things "our" way, but they do them just as well and sometimes better.

Had it not been for travel, I might never have encountered German mayonnaise in a tube (just like toothpaste). There was a certain convenience to it.

I might not have learned how much I absolutely loathe grated raw turnip, which was served to me once as a side-salad at a graceful hillside restaurant in Bavaria. But the jaeger schnitzel (in this case, breaded fried venison cutlet with mushrooms, onions and a cream sauce) was ausgezeichnet.

Today's wedding brought pictures of Luxembourg, the city and the country, into my home on TV. The place doesn't seem to have changed much. It's still picturesque and cozy, full of charm and character, almost timeless.

And the bride and groom made a lovely couple.

So long, Bill's

I had my last barbecue sandwich at Bill's Virginia Barbecue the week before it closed. It was as good as the first one I ever tasted.

The Bill's restaurants closed their doors for good two weeks ago today -- another victim of the times and the economy. I'll miss Bill's, both for the food and for the memories.

I wasn't even born when the first Bill's opened in Richmond in 1931.

I had my first Bill's barbecue as a kid at the store near Boulevard and Broad. With it I had a fresh-water grape-limeade (no fizzy water for me), and a slice of chocolate pie. I was in the car with my family. The curb-service waitress ("Leave Lights On For Service") brought our orders on a tray that clipped onto the car window. It was so good that I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

To this day, I think Bill's made the best barbecue sandwich I have ever had, anywhere. The bun was slightly soppy with the juice from the minced pork. The cole slaw added the matchless sweet and tangy taste. The sauce from the little plastic cup, which I used liberally, made my mouth sting ever so slightly. Salty potato chips perfected the experience.

Bill's barbecue was unlike any other commercial barbecue I've ever had. It was not North Carolina style. And it definitely bore no resemblance to Texas barbecue. It was simple. With not much vinegar and no tomato in it, Bill's barbecue was primarily tender, juicy pork. The sauce, which always came in a small plastic cup on the side, did have a tomato base -- and a kick. I used to buy it by the bottle to use at home. (I once witnessed the explosion of a bottle of Bill's sauce, but that was because I left it sitting in the sun. When I opened it, whoosh! The gathering stopped while I cleaned up barbecue sauce.)

If I do go to heaven when I die, and if dead people still get hungry, I hope there's a Bill's up there. Surely, if there is a god, he will provide what we need.

I had an experience at the Bill's near Broad and Libbie that might have scarred me for life. I was 16, an age when life scars seem like they will take forever to heal but usually don't take that long at all.

I had just gotten my license to drive. My father agreed to let me take the family car -- which, let history record, was a blue 1956 Chevrolet station wagon about the size of the USS Enterprise -- to go on a Friday-night double date with my best friend. I forget who the girls were, but we went to a movie at the Byrd Theater and then decided to go to Bill's. When we got there, it seemed to us as though every other kid from Hermitage High School had the same idea. The lot was crowded with cars full of people we knew, calling out and visiting back and forth. I circled the lot several times before finding a spot at the back.

My new-driver mistake came when I tried to back into the space. I didn't have much choice. If the curb-service waitress were to see our "Lights On for Service," I had to be facing forward. I didn't do a very good job of it. In fact, I crunched the fender of the car next to me.

I had to get out of the car in front of our dates and everybody else in the lot and exchange information with the other driver, who turned out to be an older man who had been blamelessly eating barbecue with his wife.

The worst part was when I had to show him my license: I was such a new driver that it was the temporary version.

The story was all over school by Monday morning: Donnie Dale took his dad's car out on his first driving date and backed into another car at Bill's. It took about a semester to live that down.

One of the bonuses of moving into my present house 32 years ago was having a Bill's within about eight blocks. It was so easy to pop over there on a Sunday evening, pick up a barbecue sandwich (always minced, never sliced, with cole slaw and extra hot sauce) for a quick and easy dinner.

So many years. So many barbecues. Like the poet said, the song is ended, but the melody lingers on.

No dangling allowed

Comes now defendant Tracy Sears of WTVR TV before this session of the Language Court.

Defendant Sears is accused of breaking the English language law against dangling modifiers.

The court must observe that the law exists for good reason. Break it, and one can say something very different from what one means. As an aside, the court must observe that dangling modifiers often make people laugh.

The court draws from its lengthy experience to provide an example of a modifier that dangles outrageously: Turning blue, the chicken wing was stuck in my friend's throat.

Dangling modifiers switch meaning around because they cling tenaciously to the nearest noun that follows. In the example above, the modifier, "Turning blue," demands that it be allowed to grab hold of the closest noun, "chicken." But the court observes that it is not, in fact, the chicken that is turning blue. What the speaker should have said is, "My friend was turning blue because he had a chicken wing stuck in his throat."

The court in its summary judgment turns now to the accusation of battery of the language to be adjudicated in this case -- a risible example, to be sure. On Sept. 26, defendant Sears was voicing a story for the 6 p.m. newscast about Chesterfield school renovations. The record is undisputed on what she said:

Built in 1968 and last renovated 25 years ago, parent Sally Bowles knows Providence Middle School could use a makeover. [The court has changed the name to protect the innocent.]

Then defendant Sears repeated the breach an hour later on the 7 p.m. newscast.

Sally Bowles was not built in 1968. And the court takes judicial notice that whether Sally needs a 25-year makeover is between her and her fashion adviser.

What the defendant should have said was, "Parent Sally Bowles knows that Providence Middle School needs a makeover. The school was built in 1968 and was last renovated 25 years ago."

Pesky things, those dangling modifiers.

The court once had a professor in college who used to say that facts are far too important to be left in the hands of those who write and speak sloppily.

The Language Court verdict in this case: Guilty. The defendant will therefore study the following web page and write for the court a short essay summarizing what she learns: http://owl.english.purdue.edu/owl/resource/597/1/

Next case, please.

At last

Forty-six years ago I first tasted a mettwurst.

I bought it at a street-corner cart in Bitburg, Germany, in December 1966. It was served on a German roll on a flimsy paper plate.

It was dressed with hot mustard in the German style, and accompanied by a side of pommes frites (french fries) with mayonnaise. Yes, I learned to like mayonnaise or even honey on fries in Germany. (I also learned to like beer at basement temperature; it seems there's just more flavor when it's not icy cold. But I digress.)

I left Germany to come home three years later. Since then, the only time I have tasted mettwurst -- did I mention how much I loved mettwurst? -- was about 10 years ago, on a trip back to Bitburg. I ate my last mettwurst, again from a sidewalk stand and again with a side of fries with mayo.

What is mettwurst? I don't honestly know. I suspect it's a pork sausage, maybe with a little veal or beef thrown in, cured by smoke, with the magic being in the combination of spices. If I had to guess I'd say the spices include white pepper, paprika and a few others I can't identify. Grilled is the way I like them, although mettwurst can be cooked in any of the many ways you'd prepare, for example, Italian sausage or knockwurst.

I've never, ever, seen mettwurst on any menu or in any butcher shop or grocery store in the States. Never.

Until today.

Mettwurst might be available in cities with more of a German population, but not until now in Richmond. Believe me: I have asked around for 40 years.

Today I checked out the brand spanking new Fresh Market store in the old Verizon building on Nansemond Street just off of West Cary Street. There, in the butcher shop, was a tray of mettwurst. I immediately bought two of them for $1.29 apiece.

My mouth is watering. I'll have them for dinner tonight.

And if they're good, I'll be going back.

Often. Until I've had my fill of mettwurst.

I am curious about what other goodies this new store offers. Once I saw the mettwurst today, I didn't pay attention to anything else. I just clutched my treasure tightly and headed home.

Just imagine. I only had to wait for 40-some years.

UPDATE:  It's been about two weeks since I bought my first mettwurst at Fresh market. I cooked that first batch with cabbage and potatoes all in one pot (adding the mettwurst about 30 minutes before the cabbage and potatoes were done to keep the mettwurst from exploding in the pot). Delicious! I bought another batch and split them lengthwise, then fried them. I had them with buttered grits and scrambled eggs. Again, delicious!

Walter

Today is my closest and oldest friend Walter's birthday. He's 64.

We have known each other for almost half a century.

I called him today to wish him well. Even though he lives now with his husband in New England, we stay in close touch. We email each other nearly every day. We talk on the phone frequently.

In fact, today was the second day in a row that I called Walter.

Yesterday's call was also to wish him a happy birthday.

I've been off by a day in calling Walter to wish him well for decades. But not by design.

There is a history.

I was born on September 11. I have known for many, many years that Walter was born a week or so after I was (albeit in a different year). So, I inevitably reasoned each year, Walter must have been born on September 18.

Not so. He was actually born a week and one more day after my birthday. This thing about me wishing him well a day early got to be funny, but I was always secretly embarrassed.

Last year, I decided to end this egregious series of errors once and for all. I got tired of excusing my day-early call by saying "I just wanted to be the first to wish you ...." Besides, he wasn't buying it.

So I took a sticky note, wrote "Walter's birthday is 9/19" on it, and push-pinned it next to my computer screen. For a year now, I've been seeing that note every time I sit down at the computer.

But it didn't work. Not because I don't now know -- for certain -- what day Walter was born on. But because I actually believed that yesterday was the 19th. As I told Walter, once you're retired, the calendar is not top-of-mind.

As usual, he laughed heartily yesterday and forgave me. Maybe next year I'll get it right.

I don't see Walter as much as I would like. I am particularly enamored of the image above, which I made in Washington two years ago. We had taken to meeting up in D.C. for the Memorial Day weekend. The conversations always picked up just as though we had seen each other last week rather than last year.

I took the picture above on the way to meet Walter for lunch, I think -- or maybe it was for breakfast. I spotted him through the window of the restaurant before he saw me. I liked the composition, and I liked his pensive look. I fired off a couple of shots, one of which -- glory be! -- looked even better than I thought it would. I treasure this image of my friend.

It's true what they say: Old friends are the best. Walter already knows everything there is to know about me, and we can talk in a kind of verbal shorthand. There's no need for either of us to explain the backstory. We've either lived through it together or discussed it in excruciating detail.

So happy birthday, Walter, on today, Wednesday, September 19th.

I'd sing "Happy Birthday" to you, but I know you hate that as much as I do.

That twisted, murky world

When I was young, I never paid much attention to politics.

But then I was thrown into the deep end of the pool.

I was in my 20s, and the ballot for president in 1968 offered three choices: Richard Nixon, Hubert Humphrey and George Wallace. (The latter was a long shot as an independent.) Nixon was a Republican, and Humphrey was a Democrat.

I was working as news director for American Forces Television in Germany when the station manager called me into his office and told me I would be co-anchoring AFTV Germany's coverage of election night.

O-k-a-y. That would be a fresh adventure for me.

We wouldn't be having any live feeds from the States, so Les Jackson, my co-anchor, and I would broadcast in front of a large blackboard map, on which we'd chalk the results in each state. We knew we'd have audio clips of acceptance and concession speeches, but little else.

Les and I had about a month to prepare. Our first stop was the small base library for books on  Nixon and Humphrey. We also pored over the New York Times, Stars and Stripes (an American daily published overseas that operates from inside the Department of Defense, but is editorially separate from it), and the Associated Press and United Press International newswires.

I mean, we really studied.

By the time election night rolled around, we were ready. And we did a creditable job, which was somewhat easier since no analyzing or opinion was allowed on AFTV. It was "just the facts," but Les and I knew the facts cold and made the broadcast work.

And I discovered I had a real taste for politics.

Fast-forward to December 1969. I had just gotten out of the service and was working as a reporter for WTVR TV in Richmond. During my first week, the news director took me aside and told me I would be covering the Virginia General Assembly.

I was flabbergasted ... and scared. I had never paid much attention to Virginia politics. Plus, I had been out of the country for three years. In addition, a deadline loomed: The General Assembly session would start in about two weeks.

I will forever be grateful to two veteran TV and radio journalists who took me under their big wings. John Gilbert had been covering politics for a Roanoke TV station for decades. He allowed me to follow him around the Capitol. He explained exactly how it worked. Within two weeks I was bringing story ideas to the table independently of what John was covering.

My other mentor had been John's competition in Roanoke, Don Murray. Don was news director and anchor at WDBJ for so long that he became known as the dean of Roanoke newscasters. By the time I came along, he had moved to Richmond and was working for WRVA radio news. His thoughtful explanations of the "why" of Virginia politics were invaluable.

I couldn't have had better guides through that twisted, murky world.

The next year, I covered the death of young Lt. Gov. J. Sargeant Reynolds of a brain tumor. "Howlin'" Henry Howell became the Independent nominee to fill the remaining two years of Reynolds' term. A populist, he vowed to "keep the Big Boys Honest." I covered Howell on the campaign trail. He won the election.

In 1972, George McGovern ran as a Democrat against Republican incumbent Richard Nixon. My assignment was the McGovern campaign in Virginia. It was a nasty battle, and there was never any real thought that McGovern would win. Nixon never finished his second term. In the aftermath of the Watergate scandal, he became the first president to resign.

I covered Howell again in 1973, when he ran as an independent for governor. Howell's sole opponent was former Democratic governor Mills Godwin, who had switched allegiance and run this time as a Republican.

It was a tight race. I mean, remarkably tight.

I knew about midway through that wild season that I was really hooked on politics, covering candidates and dissecting positions 24/7, and that I had made a name for myself as a serious political reporter. Two other TV stations, one in Roanoke and another in Norfolk, asked me to do a weekly commentary and analysis of the campaign from Richmond.

I found that I knew enough to do it, to analyze the ebb and flow of that ferocious battle, which Godwin won with just 50.72 percent of the vote.

I stopped following politics quite so intensely when I left broadcasting in 1978. But I never lost interest. Even though I was now working at a fine arts museum, my friends would call me on election day to ask who they should vote for. I'd give them the briefing they wanted, long or short, and they'd head confidently to the polls.

Today, I no longer talk politics in groups or in casual conversation. Sadly, the country is so divided that tempers get out of hand.

There are exceptions. I have one good friend and one relative with whom I can talk about candidates and policies. Sometimes we get loud. Sometimes we disagree utterly. But more often, we find positions to agree upon, despite our broader differences.

Politicians themselves don't seem to be able to do that these days.

More's the pity.

Neil Armstrong, 1930-2012

I've never had much truck with people who are too hastily labeled heroes.

Granted, there are many people who do good things. But very few of them are really heroes.

Their stars shoot across the pop-culture sky for a brief moment. Then they disappear. There's a big difference between fame and heroism, and fame is fleeting.

Neil Armstrong was exceptional. What he did in July 1969 was brave. It took courage. It advanced civilization. As long as history books are written, the first man from Earth to set foot on our moon won't be forgotten.

But here's the difference between Neil Armstrong and so many others upon whom the hero label has been hung for a fleeting moment.

He did his bold and brave, courageous and monumental job, and then he rarely talked about it. And he never capitalized on it.

He didn't write a book.

He didn't start a business.

He didn't endorse a product.

He didn't do talk shows.

And he was very, very reticent about discussing his greatest accomplishment.

He let the act speak for itself.

He retired from the astronaut corps after the Apollo 11 mission, and he became a teacher of aerospace engineering at the University of Cincinnati.

That's not only admirable. In itself, it's also heroic.

So we should do exactly what Armstrong's family has suggested: The next time you're outdoors on a clear night, look up at the moon, and give Neil Armstrong a wink.

And, I might add, think about who your real heroes are.

Hey, kids! What time is it?

Sometimes, on a rainy Saturday morning like we had today, I can get caught up in a search that leads to arcane knowledge. The Internet makes it so much easier: First I click on this, which leads to clicking on that, which takes me clicking much farther afield until I'm into something that bears no relationship whatsoever to what I originally set out to learn.

This morning my journey led me from whether "how do you do" should be hyphenated when it's used to describe a tangled mess, to whether it would be better to use "how-de-do," to what relationship there might be between the phrase and the name of the puppet who was so popular on TV when I was a kid.

That's when I found out that Howdy Doody's original name was Elmer.

Who knew?

I wondered if he was first known as Elmer Doody.

But that's not the case at all.

According to the TVparty website, "The Howdy Doody Show," like many other programs from the early days of television, first started on radio. Bob Smith was host of a program in New York City. He occasionally included (and voiced) a cornpone character named Elmer, who greeted people with the words "Well, howdy doody." Picked to lead a children's program on the NBC Eastern TV network, Smith became Buffalo Bob and brought Elmer with him, turning him into a puppet and renaming him Howdy Doody.

A star was born.

I also  discovered a few more fascinating tidbits of Howdy Doody trivia.

The puppet-makers created three Howdys. Backstage, the one used for close-ups was called Howdy Doody. The one for long shots was called Double Doody. And the one for photo ops (with no strings, as in the photo above) was called Photo Doody.

Those of us who are of a certain age remember that the redheaded puppet had lots of freckles. But I never imagined that somebody would actually count them.

The Funtrivia website says there were 48, representing the 48 states then in the U.S.A.

Who says there's nothing to do on a rainy Saturday morning?

London's finest hours

Okay, so I'm going through Olympics withdrawal. I'm jonesing for more Michael and Usain and Gabby -- and for more England.

I'm not much of a sports fan, but I am an Olympics fan. Given my career in broadcasting, I'm usually watching as much for the production values of the TV coverage as for the results of the competition.

At least that's what I tell myself each time the games roll around. Then I quickly find myself caught up in the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat.

I mean, how can I not get caught up in the fact that Michael Phelps is amazing, absolutely stunning, the best of the best, the best in the world? Sure, Usain Bolt is somewhat over the top with his poses and posturing, but boy, oh boy, can that man run fast! And watching Gabby Douglas, who hails from right down the road in Tidewater: The wattage of her winning smile could power Phoebus for a day.

The games being in London this summer just added to the pleasure. London is my second favorite city in the world (just behind Richmond). I went there as a kid for the first time in 1967, terribly naive and eyes full of wonder. I stayed in a B&B with a sink in the room and a bathroom down the hall. You had to feed coins into a meter to get hot water for a bath. But all I did there was sleep, so it didn't matter. The breakfast each morning was tasty and plentiful. I even ate broiled kidney. (Actually I had one bite of one broiled kidney and have never taken another bite of broiled kidney since, but let's not go there. Otherwise, I cleaned my plate.)

I have a friend of long standing who lives in London. She wasn't too excited about the Olympics coming to town, and who could blame her? She is definitely not a sports fan, and the influx of tourists for the games complicated her daily life.

She is, however, a big fan of her hometown. Nevertheless, I think she was surprised when I told her how overwhelmingly positive the images of London were as seen here in the U.S. I told her that NBC estimated that the 2012 Olympics was the most-watched event in U.S.A. television history. Some 220 million Americans watched.

NBC is smart enough to know that we're not all sports fans. So they enlivened their coverage with brief travelogue pieces -- the feature story on Stonehenge was one of my favorites -- and even an admirable hour-long documentary by Tom Brokaw on England's "finest hour," the country's survival of the Battle of Britain and then the Blitz. The Brokaw documentary surprised my friend when I told her about it; she lived through it all in Wimbledon and came close to being blown to smithereens when the Germans dropped a bomb on the house across the street.

(She did send me a great picture of a fox she spotted last week in her garden, which we'd call the back yard over here - a cute little red fox, crouched by a lawn chair and looking towards the camera.)

So, the games are now over. But they'll be back in about 18 months when the Winter Olympics start up in February 2014 in Sochi, Russia.

I've never been to Sochi. I don't even know exactly where Sochi is, except that it's somewhere on the Black Sea coast.

But, Lord willing and the creek don't rise, I'll be watching.

Shocked? Really?

When there's nothing important to report from a crime scene, you can always expect some local TV news nitwit to interview a neighbor who doesn't know anything about what happened.

Why do they do it?

Lord only knows. Maybe it's to have a soundbite of some sort when the cops aren't talking. Maybe it's just to stretch out the story and give the reporter more facetime.

"He was such a quiet neighbor," one might say. In fact, they all seem to say it when the guy next door is charged with something like an ax murder.

"Things like that just don't happen around here," another might say. Well, if "things like that" were routine in your neighborhood, we'd have a whole 'nother story to report.

"He was a nice guy, but I only saw him when he was taking out the trash. He didn't have much to say." Well, that was pertinent. You only saw him occasionally. He didn't say much to you. Yet the reporter felt it was really important for you to make that point.

And there's this old chestnut: "I was shocked. I was really shocked." That's not news. It would be news if the neighbor said, "I wasn't shocked at all." That's a story that would make me prick up my ears.

And then there's the comment that drives me up a wall. "I just hope his family finds closure soon."

Closure?

The very idea of closure is naive, a piece of unfounded psycho-babble with no evidence to back it up.

Sure, time helps to make awful events more bearable. You might go from thinking about it every waking moment to thinking about it only occasionally. But pain, loss and tragedy never completely go away. Not so long as memories last.

So whenever I see one of these soundbites on TV, I punch the fast-forward button on my TiVo. Closure is what I'm seeking: closure to this story that is devolving into the realm of the mindless.

On the other hand, for me it makes watching local TV news a much shorter process.

There are few geniuses in jail

My nephew Mike, who is a retired police officer, says the reason it's so easy to catch criminals is because most of them are stupid.

He's got a point.

I sat on a jury a few years back that heard evidence in a particularly gruesome double murder that happened not far from where I live. Our decision hinged on a damning series of cell-phone records that left little wiggle room for the defendant.

Yes, he had left his cell phone in the car in which he had shot and killed two people.

Yes, that was a dumb mistake.

I was reminded this week -- again -- of how dim-witted criminals can be. A handful of young people -- men and women -- have been charged in a series of thefts in Chesterfield and Colonial Heights in May and June. A Chesterfield policeman says it's one of the largest crime sprees by such a big group of young people he's ever seen.

They were caught when a cop stopped them because they were driving a stolen car. A friend of one of those arrested said he saw that she was trying to sell some of the stolen items on Facebook.

Unfortunately she has a baby. One can only hope that the baby's father passed on some DNA that counteracts the stupid gene. But don't count on it. The stupid gene is very strong.

Virginia seems to be rife with brain-dead criminals. I Googled "stupid criminals Virginia" and came up with one that takes the cake. Two men in a pickup truck went to a new-home site to steal a refrigerator. They snatched a fridge from one of the houses, creating considerable damage to the house in the process, and loaded it onto the pickup. The pickup got stuck in the mud, so these rocket scientists decided it was because the refrigerator was too heavy. They put their stolen refrigerator back into the house, and then realized that they had locked the keys in the truck -- so they abandoned it.

The pickup was easy to trace when the crime was discovered.

I suppose this just confirms what Albert Einstein once said: "Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former."

Disconnected

It's good to have a working land-line again. It's great to have Internet access once more. Best of all, I now have my TiVo back.

I've been without FIOS service from Verizon since last Monday's thunder and wind storm, which, I mention in passing, was the scariest storm I've seen in Richmond since Hazel back in 1954. (I was 12, schools were closed because of the hurricane, and I watched from our family's front window as lawn chairs and trash cans sailed down the block, 20 feet in the air, at terrifying speed.)

In last Monday afternoon's short but surprisingly powerful storm, the lightning was continuous. The winds were relentless. For 20 long minutes. Then, the sun came out again. The tree you see in the picture above was felled by the wind. It blocked the street I live on for five days before the city got around to removing it.

A cheery Verizon technician restored my TV, Internet and phone service yesterday morning -- on the sixth day after the storm.

At least I didn't have to break out the flashlights and the kerosene lamps last week. I lost power for only about 10 minutes . (There must be something karmic and essentially fair about that. I was in the dark for 10 days after Hurricane Isabel. This time, I was lucky.)

The thing is, when we lose the basics, meaning electricity or connectedness to the world, so much changes. We have to figure out other ways of doing things, old means by which to meet our basic needs as well as our less pressing wants and wishes.

So I spent a lot of time reading. Or outdoors, cleaning up and doing yard upkeep.

And indoors, watching my tiny, portable, wide-screen, color, digital, backup TV, which I hastily purchased after the last big storm. The screen is about the size of a pocket pack of Kleenex tissues, but it'll do in a pinch. Or even for six days.

Not having a phone was merely an inconvenience; I used my cell phone. Not having Internet access meant I had to look up stuff I wanted to know in real books. I missed email.

But not having TiVo grievously disrupted my schedule. I had to watch programs I like when they aired instead of when I wanted to. I had to watch commercials. I had to watch TV on the local and network timetables, not mine.

I also had free time to just think. That was a good thing.

One of the things I thought about was infrastructure, how much I depend on it, and how fragile it is.

I thought back to the day right after Isabel, the costliest and deadliest storm of the 2003 season. Almost nobody had power.

On the morning after Isabel, I called my mother and asked how she was doing. She was then 89 and living alone in the house she and my father had bought in 1956. I asked her if she needed anything. She told me a cup of coffee would be nice. After searching far wider and longer than I thought I'd have to, I found a place that was open, had power, and was selling hot coffee.

My mom was happy to see that coffee, but she told me she wasn't otherwise bothered so much by the lack of power.

"I was a teenager before we ever had electricity," she told me. "Back in those days, we got up when it was light and we went to bed when it was dark.

"So don't worry about me. I'll do just fine."

What she said made me rethink the problem.

I did that again this past week.

A most peculiar locution

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
                               -- Circa 1840, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

When poets use it, it can be an effective device: "The smith, a mighty man is he ..."

In the hands of ordinary mortals, however, this grammatical construction sounds archaic and ... odd.

But nowadays I hear it popping up, often several times in the same story, from a couple of reporters on TV newscasts here in Richmond.

"Of course those budget talks, they cannot be ignored." (Jerrita Patterson, WTVR, May 24, 2012)

"The family, they are still out of their home this morning." (Deon Guillory, WWBT TV, June 6, 2012)

"The details, they are still coming in." (Jerrita Patterson, WTVR, May 31, 2012)

"Rescue crews, they're still looking for anyone who may be trapped inside." (Greg McQuade, June 24, 2012)

And those are just the examples I happened to hear while I had a pen and paper handy.

I've taken to calling it the puerile appositive. And the puerile appositive, it is everywhere. (Forgive me.)

The juxtaposition of a noun and a pronoun that mean the same thing, as in "The Richmond School Board, they want to hear your thoughts" (Jerrita Patterson, May 29, 2012) is a waste of words, childlike and foolish. What's the point? Just say what you mean: The Richmond School Board wants to hear your thoughts." What's the point of the pseudo-explanatory "they?"

(We'll leave for a later discussion the fact that the school board is an "it," not a "they." Let's just tackle one problem at a time.)

A friend who knows well how to use words suggests that what I call the puerile appositive is most often used by speakers of English as a second language or by very young children who are still working out how to construct full sentences. Another grammarian told me it is almost, but not quite, a "clitic left dislocation." (I'm not certain what that means in everyday words, so I simply nodded sagely.)

But whatever it is, it's annoying.

Unless you're Longfellow, circa 1840.

And there is no local TV reporter who is even remotely able to use the language as deftly as Longfellow did.

"Impossible!"

Even today it's easy to imagine a Yankee soldier staring up at roughly the same view you see above -- minus the highway and utility lines.

That Yankee would have been a part of McClellan's Union army moving up on Richmond from the east. The major obstacles in front of him were the Chickahominy River (which is not very wide) and the Chickahominy Swamp (a serious obstacle). In the distance was the rugged Chickahominy Bluff, defended by Lee's Confederate army.

"Impossible!" that Union soldier might have said to himself. And he would have been right. The defenses given to Richmond by nature's terrain enabled Lee to drive McClellan more than 20 miles back toward the coast.

The Civil War battles along Richmond's outermost defenses happened in 1862, 150 years ago this month.

It's almost impossible to live in Richmond today without learning more about the Civil War. We're in the midst of the war's five-year sesquicentennial, and we're living in what was the Capital of the Confederacy.

Katherine Calos is doing much of the educating. She's the lead reporter for the local daily's coverage of the 150th anniversary, and she's doing a bang-up job, especially in selecting the daily newspaper clippings from the Richmond paper of 150 years ago that now run in the Times-Dispatch every day. And it seems that each time you pick up the paper she's got another feature story about some aspect of the war.

Most recently, the focus has been on June of 1862 when McClellan made his run on Richmond. The city, which had been on edge for weeks, expected to be invaded any day. The noise of cannon could be heard from downtown Richmond like distant thunder. Lee sent boyish General J.E.B. Stuart and his cavalry on what became Stuart's vitally important ride around the far side of McClellan's army to assess its exact position and strength. Stuart left on June 12 and returned on the 15th. His 100-mile route took him north from Richmond to Hanover Courthouse, southeast past Old Church, south to Charles City Courthouse, then northwest through New Market to Richmond.

I was on my way out to pick up a salad from the grocery store this afternoon when I realized I'd be driving straight toward what was Richmond's outer defense exactly 150 years ago. A short detour took me to the Chickahominy Bluff National Battlefield. It sits at the top of the hill you see above and it was from there and elsewhere that Lee's troops defended the city.

It's a small park today -- just a circular drive and a few information panels. On the other hand, the terrain doesn't seem to have changed much in 150 years. Like that Yankee soldier, I can't imagine how difficult it would have been to struggle through that swamp and up that bluff while under withering fire from above.

After a short stop at the park, and since it was a beautiful late-spring day, I drove a few miles further east towards Totopotomoy Creek in Hanover County. Turning left towards Studley, I felt like I had driven 150 years back in time into a green, vibrant, rural landscape, parts of which haven't changed much in the intervening years.

I found the creek, which stretches maybe 20 feet from bank to bank, and remembered the story of the death of one of Stuart's cavalrymen, William Latane -- the only one of Stuart's men to die during the mission. He was killed by Union soldiers in a skirmish at the creek. The story was immortalized for the South in an 1864 painting by William Washington that depicted Latane being buried at a nearby plantation by women, children and slaves. I have a reproduction of the original steel engraving of the painting on my dining room wall.

After  my sojourn through eastern Hanover, I headed back toward Richmond and my original destination.

As I said, you can't escape the Civil War in Richmond. In the grocery store parking lot sits a quarter-acre site surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. Inside the fence is a preserved breastwork from the inner defenses of the city 150 years ago.

In Richmond, reminders of the war are everywhere.

Say it again, say it again. Louder, louder.

Pithy.

Straightforward.

Provocative.

All things considered, it's a great billboard with an important message.

I am usually embarrassed by Virginia's socially conservative stance against all rights for gay people.

Then, too infrequently perhaps, along comes an organization like MothersAndOthersVA.org, and the future looks brighter.

The billboard was put up a couple of weeks ago in a prominent position in Richmond's near West End and is scheduled to be there for another few weeks.

I wish there were more such messages on many more billboards.

Welcome Home

I haven't been to a parade in donkey's years, but this was one I couldn't miss.

Two friends and I were among a couple of thousand people to turn out yesterday morning for Richmond's first-ever thank-you parade for post-9/11 veterans.

What a glorious morning it was along the Boulevard in Richmond, from Kensington Avenue to the Carillon (itself a memorial to the dead of World War I) in Byrd Park. The weather was perfect. Flags waved everywhere. The marching units were crisply in step (except when parade-goers walked right up to them to shake their hands), and the marching-band music was really -- really! -- good.

When I got back from the Air Force in Europe right before Christmas in 1969, there wasn't much of a welcome back here in the States, and certainly there was no parade. Many Americans were beginning to be fed up with the war in Vietnam, and they were in no mood to celebrate veterans and their service. The welcome I got was from my family and friends, and, for me at the time, that was enough. I was just glad to be home.

But I must admit that yesterday, as we stood in the bright sunshine to enjoy the half-hour parade, wave to the veterans and shout out "thank you," I was proud of Richmond.

And grateful.

About 10 feet from me was a man of about my age, standing alone, wearing a cap that noted his service in Vietnam. He stood straight and tall as he nobly saluted every post-9/11 veteran who passed by.

And they returned his salute.

That's the memory, of a salute of pride and gratitude, that will stick in my mind for a very long time.

The bride and groom

I'm really sorry I missed my grandniece's wedding two weeks ago in Savannah. Judging from the images my niece and nephew sent me, Melissa was a beautiful bride. (No big surprise there!) And her new husband, Chris, looked pretty spiffy in his Coast Guard dress uniform. A military honor guard added to the festivity of the occasion.

So congratulations to you both, Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Tamburello. Here's to a long and happy marriage. And here's to more great-great-nephews and -nieces.

As far as the pulled/strained/torn muscle in my upper back is concdrned, I'm still in physical therapy twice a week, but I'm not out of the woods yet, although the improvement is noticeable. Life will be so much easier when I can sit up straight and keyboard without paying the price in lingering pain.

But Melissa and Chris's happiness is clear, and my troubles are just temporary.

A joyous day

I'm breaking my long silence here -- more on that in a moment -- to offer my very best wishes to my grandniece Melissa and her new husband, Chris, who were married yesterday in Savannah.

The rest of the family is today on the way back from Savannah, so I don't have all of the details of the ceremony yet, but I can tell you that Melissa and Chris make a great couple. Melissa is a determined, intelligent and, perhaps most important, kind young lady. Chris is a fine young man who proudly wears his country's uniform.

I look forward eagerly to the day when I can congratulate them in person.

Just for the record, I would have been in Savannah this weekend but for a pulled/strained/torn muscle in my upper back -- the diagnosis isn't all that specific -- about 6 weeks ago. That makes sitting up in a straight-back chair more painful than I'd like it to be, but it seems to be getting better, whether because of three weeks of physical therapy (with more to come) or just because time is doing its thing.

Or maybe I'm just getting accustomed to the pain.

No, to be truthful, I seriously think it's getting better.

When the process of writing this blog becomes a bit more manageable, I'll be back. But in the meantime, I'll look forward to posting at least one of the real wedding pictures as soon as the family gets back to Richmond.

In the interim, my heartfelt best wishes again to the bridge and groom.

The hands of time

We'll all be moving our clocks ahead tonight as we spring forward into daylight saving time.

Which reminds me of the General Assembly.

As a reporter for WTVR TV, I covered the state legislature for a few years back in the early 1970s. Things were different then. Conservative Democrats controlled both houses at the Capitol, and there were so few Republicans that they could have caucused in a closet.

Relations between the factions at the General Assembly were slightly more civilized. Senators and delegates prided themselves on being gentlemen and in behaving in a gentlemanly manner. (In 1970, there were no female senators. If memory serves, there was one woman delegate, Mrs. Eleanor Sheppard, who represented Richmond.)

But more to the point, they got things done on time.

Almost always.

On several occasions that I recall, one house or the other just couldn't finish its business by midnight on the last day.

So someone would turn back the official clock in the House or the Senate by an hour or so in order to preserve the fiction that the rules were not being violated.

Think about that. A General Assembly session might be extended by as much as an hour or two.

Nowadays, we're lucky if the legislature doesn't extend its work by a month or two. Today was the day the current session was supposed to end, but there's no state budget for the next two fiscal years yet in sight.

So both houses have agreed to a special session in order to hammer out a spending plan. Lord knows how long it will take them.

It's no longer sufficient to turn back the hands of the official clock.

Now they have to rip whole days from the calendar, or weeks or -- heaven forbid -- months in order to preserve the fiction that the House and Senate are capable of meeting a deadline.

The road to Toledo

I was introduced to the fine arts by accident, through my high-school Spanish textbook.

(That says a lot about the state of art education in public schools then, and now.)

The book was "El Camino Real" ("The Royal Road") and it was what we used in Señora Kersey's class at Hermitage High School in the late 1950s.

Inside the front cover was a full-page color reproduction of an oil painting, "The Burial of the Count of Orgaz." It was a dense Spanish Renaissance work by El Greco, which we knew meant "The Greek."

Leaving aside the obvious appeal of any word vaguely resembling "orgasm" to a high school kid, the painting intrigued me because I didn't understand it, because I had no clue as to who the Count of Orgaz was or why his burial was being commemorated, and because I knew next to nothing about El Greco.

I saw the picture of the painting every time I opened my Spanish textbook.

As the months progressed, I learned more. The Count of Orgaz was a pious knight who lived in the Spanish town of Toledo in the 14th century. Legend has it that Saint Stephen and Saint Augustine descended from heaven to help with his burial. One of the Count's bequests was to the town's church.

Fast-forward 200 years, to the 16th century: The church in Toledo finally got around to honoring the Count by commissioning a painting as part of a project to refurbish his burial chapel. They picked El Greco, a Greek immigrant, to execute the commission. The Spaniards called him El Greco because his real name, Doménikos Theotokópoulos, was more than a mouthful.

El Greco put himself into the painting. That's him, one of the mourners, just to the left of center, looking directly at you.

The painting, which still hangs in the church of Santo Tomé in Toledo, is considered to be one of El Greco's finest works.

Fast-forward again, this time to the 1960s. I saw the original painting.

I went to Spain with my friend Bobby Harris, who was a fellow Air Force medic when I was stationed in Germany. We spent a week in Madrid and Barcelona. Not far south of Madrid is Toledo. I decided to go see the actual painting of the Count's burial.

So Bobby and I boarded a bus on a warm, sunny morning.

Toledo which dates back to the Bronze Age, is a picturesque small city, and its winding, cobbled streets are crowded with tourists. My first sight of the city was breath-taking. It sits on a hilltop, bordered by a river below. When we slowed down on an adjacent hilltop, Toledo looked from afar as though it hadn't changed much over the centuries.

Once in the city, Bobby and I made our way to the church, Santo Tomé. And there it was, hanging on the wall: El Greco's painting of "The Burial of the Count of Orgaz." It was tucked away in a side chapel, in need of a good cleaning, and badly lit. But it was nevertheless a magnificent sight -- and far bigger than I had imagined.

I spent a good quarter hour studying it, and then Bobby and I walked back out into the brilliant sunshine.

It would be another 20 years before I went to work at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, where I learned more than I ever expected to about art and artists during a 33-year career.

They say you never forget your first. And I have never forgotten "The Burial of the Count of Orgaz," from that first look at it in my high school Spanish textbook to the first time I saw the original in a church 10 years later in Toledo.

It was the first time I fully realized that true fine art wasn't just in books. It was real.

Random observations

I usually don't care much for the political cartoons, rants and pithy observations my friends send me via email. But one caught my eye yesterday. It featured an image of Virginia's governor with these words: Republicans want to shrink government until it can fit in your uterus.

I am about to go to the grocery store. When my cart is full, I'll no doubt be stuck once again behind one of those women who hangs her purse from her left arm while holding her keys in her left hand and then unloads her cart using only her right hand -- all while carrying on a conversation with the cashier. It used to drive me mad. Now I just use the time to daydream.

I wish I could come up with a practical reason to buy an iPad. They're so cool. They're also so expensive. I can easily afford it, but my parsimonious gene holds me back. Aside from the cool factor, what would I do with an iPad?

I've found a tattoo artist to interview for my "What's Your Story?" radio series on the Virginia Voice. That should make for an interesting half hour. My dad got tattoos on his upper arms when he was in the Navy during World War II. When he came back home, he never again wore short-sleeve shirts in public. Attitudes sure have changed.

Speaking of "What's Your Story?" I interviewed a woman the other day whose Mexican father was instrumental in rewriting the history of the Alamo. He came across a memoir written by one of Santa Anna's lieutenants who said Davy Crockett and his Tennessee compatriots did not die fighting at the Alamo. He maintained they surrendered and were later executed. Still, Texas historians aren't eager to accept the new evidence.

What with the recent disasters on board the Carnival cruise ships Costa Concordia and Costa Allegra, Carnival's marketing people are facing a mammoth task. I cruised on a Carnival ship back in the 1970s. Crew members were already calling it "the Kmart of the Caribbean."

Today, March 1, was a gorgeous day -- a taste of spring to come. If it's true that when March comes in like a lamb, it goes out like a lion, then god help us at the end of the month.

"Casablanca" is one of my favorite movies. It's beautifully directed and well acted, and the lighting is especially lovely on the Ingrid Bergman close-ups. It was made in 1942, the year I was born. It won Best Picture at the 16th Academy Awards. I watch it at least once a year. "Here's looking at you, kid."

My second favorite political line of the season: Barack Obama and Rick Santorum are both praying for the same thing -- that Rick Santorum will be the GOP nominee.

In praise of audio engineers

My "What's Your Story?" radio series on the Virginia Voice would be far different were it not for Alex Childress.

Alex is the studio manager for the station. For me, he's an audio wizard and a godsend.

"What's Your Story?" is my half-hour interview series for the Virginia Voice, which is a nonprofit organization that broadcasts readings of news and information for those with blindness, vision impairment or physical disabilities that limit reading. "What's Your Story?," which has been plugging along for almost a year now, features interviews with ordinary -- and extraordinary -- people. It's based on the premise that everybody has a story to tell; all you have to do is ask.

I conduct the interviews "on location," using a small, portable digital recorder. You have to have a special radio to receive the broadcasts, but all of the interviews are posted online, and you can listen to them by clicking here.

It's a volunteer job for me, one which keeps me engaged and lets me practice the broadcast skills I acquired over a lifetime.

Alex takes the raw recordings and turns them into polished radio broadcasts.

Most of what he has to do is a result of the on-location aspect of the program. A half hour is long for a one-on-one interview. Phones ring, people cough and clear their throats, people lose track of their thought or struggle to find the right word, dogs bark, clocks chime, doorbells ring. Alex smooths it all out, editing out technical glitches and making us sound good.

It can be hard work: It takes much longer than 30 minutes to edit a half-hour program.

Most of the time, my guests and I record our interviews straight through, just as though we were doing a live broadcast. But on some occasions, it just doesn't work that way. I remember one guest whose husband interrupted us to offer a bowl of candy -- each piece wrapped in noisy cellophane. I did one interview in front of a fireplace with a backdraft that filled the air with the smell of creosote, which clogged us both up. We did that 30 minutes in three parts, if I'm remembering correctly. We'd record for 10 minutes or so, then stop to hack up creosote. Then there was the time when the batteries died right as we got to the good part. We stopped, changed the batteries, and tried to pick up where we'd left off.

Alex takes the bits and pieces into the control room and laboriously performs his audio wizardry.

I've never had to suggest what he should do; he just knows. I've never listened to the final product and heard an edit I didn't like. He just seems to divine what was in my mind -- and in my guest's mind.

During a lifetime in broadcasting, I've run across maybe two or three audio engineers with Alex's perception and skills.

God bless them for knowing exactly what to do and how to do it. Because they know what they're doing, they make us sound like we know what we're doing.

Catching up

I blame my recent silence on having a really wicked cold. Not only did I feel bad, I was staying home, so nothing much happened to me worth writing about.

But now that I'm feeling somewhat better, there are a few brief items that deserve a paragraph or two.

You'll recall that I wrote right around Christmas about the Ghost Kitty. She was an apparent stray who was hanging out on my deck, looking for a little love and some food. You can read more about her and see a picture by clicking here.

With the help of a neighbor, we managed to get the Ghost Kitty into the hands of a volunteer with CARE, who sheltered her, loved her and readied her for adoption. I stayed in touch by email, and the reports on the Ghost Kitty's progress were all good.

Last week, I happened to run across a notice in the want ads in the daily paper. The Ghost Kitty, now renamed Daisy, is officially up for adoption. The ad featured a picture of Daisy, looking well fed and happy. I hope she finds a great home. She certainly is a great cat.

But back to my cold. The biggest problem is boredom. I've been staying home so as not to pass on the virus. I've made a few quick trips to the grocery store (and to Hunan East and Five Guys for take-out when I just didn't feel like cooking). But mostly I've been trying to find ways to entertain myself.

I like to read, so that's been one way of passing the time. Two books -- both non-fiction -- have held my attention for the past week. One was the riveting and largely unknown story of the men in uniform who helped to save Europe's cultural treasures during World War Two.

"The Monuments Men: Allied Heroes, Nazi Thieves and the Greatest Treasure Hunt in History" by Bret Witter and Robert M. Edsel isn't dry history. The authors wisely focused on the major treasures and a handful of the hundreds of American and British museum directors, curators, art historians, and others who followed the front-line troops and rescued some of the world's most important cultural objects. Among the art they saved were works by the greatest names in Western art history: Vermeer, Rembrandt, Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael, Renoir and too many more to catalogue.

I met one of the Monuments Men a few years back. He was Sherman Lee, the father of Katherine Lee, who was at the time the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts director. Sherman Lee isn't featured prominently in "The Monuments Men" (he served in Japan right after the war ended), but I had a rare chance for a day or two to read and digitize his typewritten memoir about his work.

George Clooney is working on a movie about the Monuments Men. I hope it's as good as the book.

Friends who know I read voraciously will sometimes ask how I choose books. I picked the second book I've been reading because I saw it sitting on a shelf behind Charlie Rose on the set of his new CBS TV morning news broadcast. It's "Air Time: The Inside Story of CBS News" by Gary Paul Gates," published back in 1979. So far as I could tell, it was the only book on the shelf, which was mostly filled with other decorative objects related to the network's storied past.

Why was that particular book on the set? I didn't know. I've not finished it yet, but it focuses on the CBS news operation from the years right after World War II up through most of Walter Cronkite's tenure. It's not a vanity book. In fact, there are those who were at the network who might be offended by some of it. Now I suspect I know why it's featured on the morning news set. Charlie Rose's new broadcast is, in fact, putting the "news" back into its morning news show. Rose's new show would likely make Cronkite smile at his network's return to basics.

What else have I been doing since I've been stuck at home? Well, I rearranged my Netflix queues, both the DVD queue and the streaming-video queue.

What difference does that make in my life?

Not much. But a guy's got to stay busy, even when he has a wretched cold.

Back to 1312

My friend John has picked up on my "Stench and stained glass" post from earlier this month and come up with an interesting question.

If I were to be transported magically back to 1312, what five things would I take with me?

John had some interesting ideas. I'll get to them in a bit.

I've been pondering the question for a few days. Would I adopt the "Star Trek" prime directive? Those of you who were fans of the TV series in the 1960s will remember that one of the major rules for the Enterprise crew was that they should not do anything to substantially influence alien cultures. It's an outgrowth of the Hippocratic Oath: First, do no harm.

It's a good guideline. But I'm sure I'd violate it somehow, sooner or later.

John also decided that, for the purposes of his question, the length of stay would be a year.

That sent me scurrying to Wikipedia to see when the Black Death first appeared in Europe. Well, that was a relief: The first wave peaked between 1348 and 1350. (It popped up again and again until finally disappearing from Europe in the 19th century.)

John also assumed that he'd be safest if he remained undetected and hid out in a forest glen. I'm too curious to do that. I'd want to get to know the people and how they lived.

So, by adapting John's suggestions and adding a few of my own, here's what I'd take with me to 1312.

1: A good supply of broad-spectrum antibiotics. I might not encounter the Black Death, but even a small cut can be fatal, and I suspect I'd be walking barefoot at some point through soil contaminated by heaven only knows what bacteria for which I have no natural immunity in my 21st-century body.

2: A digital device of some kind, loaded with encyclopedic software, including a few good treatises on folklore medicine, and enough long novels to last a year. I think I'd also load my digital device with music and spoken-word recordings. Being able to produce sound seemingly from thin air and to record and play back the voices of those I met would make me seem like some sort of wizard or minor god. That could have its benefits.

3: Some sort of hand-cranked power generator or solar device to recharge batteries.

4: Some seeds. This was one of John's suggestion that hadn't occurred to me. He thinks that introducing 21st-century hybrid crops could, indeed, change the course of history. Present-day standards of crop rotation and irrigation could also transform agriculture.

5: John suggested a weapon, either a firearm or a bow. I'm not keen on introducing modern weapons into 1312 Europe. A bow would be helpful, but archery was already established in 1312, so I could probably pick one up. Instead, an LED flashlight is what I'd pick. Light up the night. Amaze the natives.

This is, after all, just a frivolous exercise, but an interesting one. What would I really miss most if I were transported back 700 years? I don't know. My most valuable asset would probably be my own 21st-century mind. What I'd miss most would probably be the last thing I'd think about.

I'd hate to live in a world without TiVo and Netflix and computers. I'd definitely miss them. But perhaps what I'd really miss would be something as simple as a pencil and paper.