Celebrating a milestone …

I was, in literal fact, momentarily speechless.

But more on that shortly.

About 6 months ago, my oldest and dearest friend, Walter Foery, and I started to talk about celebrating a milestone in our long relationship: the 50th anniversary of the year we first met, in 1965. Wouldn’t it be cool, we said, to see how many of our other friends from so long ago could gather in Richmond for a dinner party? We set about seeing if we could make it work.

Walter and I met in 1965 just as summer was about to begin. We learned early on that we were both Virgos. I was born September 11. Walter was born September 19.

Virgos are organized. We make lists. We are analytical, observant, reliable and precise. Our lives are, as much as we can make them, tidy.

So as we began planning an anniversary celebration, Walter -- who now lives in Connecticut -- and I began exchanging suggestions by email. We each brought our Virgo skills to bear.

I’ve learned from experience that any process can take forever if two Virgos reach for consensus. So, since Walter is a much better Virgo than I am, I decided to back off and let him do the heavy lifting. It was a smart decision on my part -- Walter really is better at such things than I am. In the event, that decision led to one of the most glorious gatherings of my life.

The summer of 1965 was worth remembering for any number of reasons. It was my last full summer in Richmond before joining the Air Force. What was to be the Summer of Love a few years later was only a hint of a whisper in the wind. Vietnam was still distant background noise to those of us on the cusp of adulthood.
   
So many aspects of our lives were coming to a head that summer. Martin Luther King had given his “I have a dream” speech two years before, and JFK had been assassinated just a few months after that. LBJ was in the White House.

I was a drive-time deejay at Richmond’s No. 1 or No. 2 rock radio station -- the numbers wobbled back and forth. Walter was selling burgers at the McDonald’s on Broad Street near Libbie.

It was a carefree summer, one of the last we would see for a few years. The movie that was to become one of America’s favorites, “The Sound of Music,” was playing at the Willow Lawn Theater. “Up the Down Staircase” by Bel Kaufman was at the top of the New York Times best-seller list. In July, “Satisfaction” by the Stones reigned over the Billboard Top 40 chart.

For Walter and me and our crew of close friends, it was a summer of pure fun. There were daytime road trips to D.C., and weekends at the Rappahannock River, and nights of partying and dancing in Richmond. Life was wonderful and would remain so endlessly -- or so we thought.

Well, we all know how that turned out.

But back to the present. Walter arranged for 11 of us -- four of us who actually spent that summer together and a small number of family and current friends -- to have dinner at a private room this month at Southbound, a stellar example of the growing number of fine restaurants in Richmond. He picked an excellent menu, the music was perfect (Walter had assembled the hit songs from every week of 1965 and burnt CDs for each of us), and the conversations brought back wave after unending wave of treasured memories of that summer that we hoped would never end. We lingered for hours, catching up.

But back to being speechless.

As Walter planned our anniversary celebration, I would occasionally ask if there was anything I could do, and if there was anything I should be prepared for. His answer was always the same: Don’t worry about it.

As the waiters at Southbound began to clear our entrees and prepare for dessert, Walter stood to make a short speech. He read from his journal, which he began 50 years ago and still continues, about the beginning of our friendship and love for one another. It was an incredibly moving moment on a splendid occasion.

When he finished, I realized that I should say something.

But I was quite speechless, overcome by memories.

Nevertheless, I gathered myself and soldiered on.

I don’t remember one word of what I said.

I do remember that I spoke for about a minute, got two big laughs, and a round of applause when I finished. The rest is still a blur.
   
But I am grateful to my friend for all of the work he did to make the occasion possible. And also for all the work he has done to make our friendship survive for 50 years.

It has been the most important friendship of my life.

*    *     *

(The picture above is of Walter and me at the top of the Schafberg, an Austrian mountain near St. Wolfgang, on one of our many vacations together.  You can read Walter’s account of our recent celebration on his blog.)

Roadtrip IV

It wasn’t a recommendation that pointed Jill and me toward Louisa County for our fourth lunchtime roadtrip last week.

In fact, nobody we knew had ever eaten at the restaurant that was our destination.

What drew us to the town of Louisa, the county seat of Louisa County, was the restaurant’s name: Floozies Pie Shop.

(Note the absence of an apostrophe. Perhaps that means this is not a pie shop owned by floozies but a pie shop for floozies. I forgot to ask.)
   
Who wouldn’t want to have lunch at a place called Floozies Pie Shop?

On a rare, beautiful July day with heat but little humidity, Jill and I drove west on Staple’s Mill Road, also known as state route 33, for about an hour. And there we were. Finding the restaurant was easy. It’s on Main Street, right across from the elegant classic-revival brick courthouse, built 110 years ago.

Floozies sells all kind of pies, whole or by the slice. The restaurant is a cozy place with a few tables inside and several more outside the front door. The interior décor is folksy and kitschy, with lots of knickknacks recalling the 1940s and ‘50s on a wall of shelves.  Admiring them while we waited to be served passed the time quickly. An old-school ice cream scoop brought back memories of riding my bike to the drug store soda fountain on summer Sunday afternoons to fetch a hand-packed quart of chocolate for my mom, my father and my little sister and me.
   
Floozies also sells standard cafe fare at lunchtime -- sandwiches and soups, salads and quiche -- but it’s the pies that take center stage.

A refrigerated display case holds at least a dozen varieties, many using locally sourced ingredients: apple, peach, blueberry and strawberry rhubarb, among many others, were available when we were there, along with one I had to ask the waitress to explain. It’s called Pucker Up and Kiss Me. She told me the secret to the Pucker Up was thin slices of candied lemon. But both Jill and I decided we had to have a slice of the double-crust peach pie. The crust was perfect, reminiscent of my mom’s crusts, and the filling was luscious. We had eaten a big lunch -- so we took the pie slices home with us.

Next time, I really want to try the Pucker Up pie.

And there will be a next time. The drive to Louisa alone is a treat. Floozies makes the trip even more worthwhile.

And you gotta like the pie shop’s slogan: “Take home a floozie today.”
          

Summer idyll

A beautiful summer day on the Rappahannock River.

A comfortable Adirondack chair in a shady spot on the beach.

Good company and good conversation.

Watching my great-niece and great-nephew building castles in the sand.

What could be more idyllic?

Nothing.

That was last weekend, and I wouldn’t trade the memory for the world.

Roadtrip III

“How about Michie Tavern?”

I was talking with Jill, my companion on this summer’s series of lunchtime roadtrips.

“I’ve never been there,” she said. So off we went to Charlottesville.

Michie Tavern is an hour’s drive from Richmond. It’s part-way up the mountain to Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello. Its location means that it serves lots of tourists who come to pay homage to Jefferson, either before or after a visit to his spectacular home and grounds.  There’s also an old-fashioned general store on the premises, with the predictable tourist souvenirs. An added plus are the Virginia jams and jellies and a wide array of hot sauces, grilling rubs and salsas.

But it’s the food that draws me back time and again since I first visited Michie Tavern in the 1960s: fried and baked chicken, black-eyed peas, stewed tomatoes, hickory smoked pulled-pork barbecue, homemade mashed potatoes with really good gravy, seasoned green beans, cole slaw, whole baby beets, cornbread and biscuits. Oh, yeah, there’s also apple cider.

The food is served at a buffet, and servers in Colonial costume circulate among the diners with seconds on everything.

There are desserts, too, if you’re still hungry. I never am.

The food, in a word, is wonderful.

After stuffing ourselves, Jill and I walked down to the general store, where we bought a few gifts.

Michie Tavern has a long history. Corporal William Michie was at Valley Forge in 1777 when he received an urgent message to return to Virginia.  By the time he reached home, his ailing father had died. William Michie soon began building his tavern by the side of Buck Mountain Road in Albemarle.

The Tavern continued operation until the mid-1800s, at a time when stagecoach travel had diminished.  In 1910, the tavern was sold at auction.  In 1927 the building was rapidly deteriorating, but Mrs. Mark Henderson purchased it, foreseeing a rise in automobile ownership and the development of tourism.  Monticello had been open to the public for several years and was drawing thousands of visitors. Mrs. Henderson decided to move Michie Tavern to a more accessible location. What better site than Carter’s Mountain, one-half mile from Jefferson’s home. The pieces of the old inn were painstakingly numbered, dismantled and moved 17 miles by horse and wagon and by truck.  Success followed, and her efforts ultimately led to Michie Tavern’s designation as a Virginia historic landmark.

That’s all very interesting, I know, but it’s the food that draws people back to the historic tavern on the mountainside down the road from Monticello. It’s good Southern fare.

Jill and I gave it four thumbs up.

Roadtrip II

We came for the restaurant. We stayed for the grocery store.

As Jill and I continue our informal roadtrips for lunch, our next stop was the Iron Horse Restaurant in Ashland.

First, some background. My first paid job in broadcasting, in 1961, was at WIVE, a new AM radio station on Ashcake Road in Ashland. I wasn’t paid much, mind you, but I did get a weekly check for doing what I dearly wanted to do: be a radio deejay. For a time I did the afternoon show while I continued my journalism classes at the University of Richmond. When school let out for summer, I switched to the early-morning shift.

Having a radio station in their back yard was exciting to the people who lived at the Center of the Universe, as Ashland calls itself. WIVE played rock and roll music, mixed with pop standards, so we developed quite a following among Hanover’s teenagers. I made some good friends in Ashland while I was working there.

I learned a thing or two about Hanover tomatoes, too. I spent two days that summer helping a friend pick tomatoes at his father’s farm just outside of town. I did it to help free my friend up for a trip to the beach. Picking tomatoes in the hot July sun is tough work. I gained new respect for the backstory on those fantastic Hanover tomatoes I’d been eating all of my life.

But back to the present day and lunch at the Iron Horse. (The Iron Horse, by the way, was Cox’s Department Store when I first got to know Ashland 50-some years ago. The building sits at Ashland’s main intersection, facing the railroad tracks, on the appropriately named Railroad Avenue.)

I ordered shrimp and grits: four perfectly spiced and cooked jumbo shrimp accompanied by parmesan grits with a piquant sauce and fresh herbs. So simple. So satisfying.

Jill ate lighter. She had a salad. She was also pleased with her choice.

But all through the meal, we kept looking out of a large plate-glass window and across the tracks at the Cross Bros. Grocery store. I thought I remembered it from the 1960s. Our waitress confirmed my memory and suggested that we check it out. After lunch, we crossed the tracks and did just that.

Cross Bros. mixes nostalgia with today. The selection of produce (including Hanover tomatoes), meats and other grocery staples was much larger than you’d expect if you just looked at the store from the street. On one shelf we saw a six-pack of Billy Beer (for display only) and other items that date back to long before the Carter administration. I discovered a package of horehound drops, which are not so easy to find these days. I quickly snatched up a bag. (When I was a kid, they were sold for medicinal purposes, to soothe a cough or a sore throat. Nowadays, they’re sold as candy.) Jill and I spent time wandering the aisles, calling out to each other with each interesting discovery.

I’m a sucker for homemade country sausage. The butchers at Cross Bros. make their own, and I took a pound of it home -- along with a couple of slices (more like slabs) of country ham.

The cheerful, friendly cashier told us on our way out that the store has been in business for about a century. The store is definitely worth a visit, as is the restaurant across the tracks.

Next stop on our summer of lunchtime roadtrips: Michie Tavern on Mr. Jefferson’s mountain in Charlottesville. It’s even older than Cross Bros. Grocery.

Roadtrip!

Years ago, when I was younger, a roadtrip might mean anything from a couple of days at Nag’s Head to a midnight run to West Point -- complete with a six-pack -- to look for the ghost light on the railroad tracks.

This summer, my friend Jill and I seem to be taking roadtrips just to have lunch. We didn’t plan this as a series. We just thought we’d take a pleasant drive down to Wakefield (pop. 927) in Sussex County and have lunch at the famed Virginia Diner in the heart of peanut country.

We got lost at one point (due to my inattention) and had to ask for directions at a rural 7-Eleven. Not only did one of the guys hanging out in front of the store tell us how to get back on track. He actually followed us in his pickup for a mile or so to make sure we took the correct turn. When he was sure we were headed in the right direction, he stuck his hand out of his window and waved goodbye.

(We had another offer of help in the parking lot at the Virginia Diner. Jill and I were taking a selfie when a man asked if we wanted him to take our picture. We said yes and handed him the camera. He took one image and asked if we wanted another. We said “sure.” Back in Richmond, I checked the images. Only the selfie appeared. The helpful stranger had apparently pushed the on/off button for the camera instead of the shutter release. Oh, well. It’s the thought that counts.)

Wakefield isn’t much more than a wide spot in the road, the road being US 460. Before interstate highways came along, 460 was the road to the beach, and the Virginia Diner was a convenient place to stop for lunch.

The Virginia Diner was around long before I was born. It opened in 1929 in a refurbished railroad car. Since then, more and more dining rooms have been added because of the restaurant’s popularity.
   
What I had for lunch only confirmed the reason for the restaurant’s continued success: a cup of Brunswick stew almost thick enough to eat with a fork and a kick that was enough to make me sweat, and a fried country ham sandwich. Jill had a barbecue sandwich. We were both happy diners.

On the way out, we stopped in the gift shop, where I bought a bottle of Virginia Diner’s own habanera hot sauce for my nephew. When I gave it to him that evening, we both tasted it and learned exactly how hot the sauce was: the word “blazing” comes to mind. Ouch. It was then that I realized what gave the kick to that Brunswick stew I had for lunch.

The Virginia Diner roadtrip was a winner, so Jill and I decided we’d try to make this a regular thing this summer.

Next up: a trip to Ashland and the Iron Horse Restaurant.

My head’s in the clouds

I’ve never lived in a building that soared above the treetops.

Now I do. And the view is remarkably different.

Instead of being oriented to street level, I’m sky-centered now.

I traded the sights and sounds of the ground for a constant reminder of how much -- and how fast -- the heavens change.

When I sit in my 9th-floor living room with a good book, the skyscape competes for my attention. From my favorite chair, an enormous window to my right looks out on spectacular shapes that seem to morph from white, cottony bunnies to fierce forces of nature, sometimes with shocking speed.

Does that one look like a profile of Abe Lincoln? The one over there looks like a map of Europe with Italy’s boot kicking at the treetops. Still another looks like a chess piece -- is it a pawn, or maybe a bishop?

Sometimes I can get lost in the clouds, pointlessly trying to figure out what animal this one brings to mind or what fantasy another evokes.

It’s a mind game that was familiar to Shakespeare, so much so that he wrote about it in Antony and Cleopatra 500 years ago.

Sometime we see a cloud that’s dragonish;
A vapour sometime like a bear or lion,
A tower’d citadel, a pendent rock,
A forked mountain, or blue promontory
With trees upon’t.

I’m enjoying the ever-changing, crystalline view outside my windows. It’s better than ultra-high-definition, wide screen TV.

Except, of course, when Downton Abbey is on. And that’s usually after dark, anyway.

A lifetime of dogs

Meet Rags, my new friend.

He’s a miniature schnauzer. But he looks to me like an extremely wise and dignified English gentleman. His manners are impeccable. His reserve only adds to his charm.

More about Rags, whose full and proper name is Ragsdale, in a moment.

Now that I am living in an apartment, I am limited to having just one pet. So Cassie is it. She’s the long-haired calico I adopted five years before I sold my house. I love her to pieces. But a cat is not a dog. The love you get is different. Dog-love is unconditional. Proof of that is clear every time your dog senses you need it. A cat demonstrates her love according to her own needs and schedule.

The first dog I remember was Snookie. He belonged to my Aunt Annie and Uncle Bick, who lived near Luck’s Field in Fairmount in Richmond’s east end. My mother and I were living with them while my father was in the Seabees in the South Pacific during WWII. Snookie was black and white. I hazily recall he was some sort of bulldog. I also remember that he would lick my face, much to my delight. I was probably about 3.

Later, after my father came back from the war and we moved into our own home on 24th Street, my father brought home an 8-week-old puppy, a black cocker spaniel with a freshly-docked tail. It was love at first sight for me. We named him Mr. Boh, after the cartoon character in a TV commercial for National Bohemian beer. He was a constant companion during my pre-teen years.

I was the one responsible for adding our next dog to the family. And I had been present for his birth and helped with the delivery.

I was 16 and was working at my first job, as an assistant to the veterinarians at Ambassador Animal Hospital on Broad Street near Horsepen. The owners of a pregnant Airedale had brought her in on a Sunday evening when I was the only one still at work. I made the dog comfortable until the vet could respond to my phone call. He delivered the puppies one by one, and I cleaned them up and kept them warm. Six weeks later, the grateful owner gave me one of the puppies.

I named him Sir Mordred, after the Black Knight from Arthurian legend -- which we were studying in English class -- but we all called him Mo. He lived with us, and slept with me, until I was ready to graduate from college. I came home one day after class to discover he had gotten out of the back yard and been hit by a car. He died in my arms on the way to the vet hospital where he had been born.

Service in the USAF in Germany for four years and a return to an apartment I lived in for 10 years in Richmond meant there was no dog in my life again until 1980, when I bought a house. I moved in with my cat Pusskuss and a newly adopted dog. She was a gift from a woman I worked with at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. I named her Basket (after Gertrude Stein’s dog). Basket looked for all the world like a black lab, although the woman who owned Basket’s mother told me my new puppy was the result of an ... ahem … “unauthorized liaison” between her black lab and her neighbor’s black standard poodle. Basket lived with me for 16 years. She died of a stroke, in my arms, on the kitchen floor.

A few months after Basket died, a newspaper reporter who covered the museum asked if I would like to have a 4-year-old Australian Shepherd who had wandered onto her deck in rural Hanover. Lollie was the dog’s name. My friend traced it through the only ID Lollie had on her collar, her rabies tag. My friend got the address of the owner from the vet who had issued the tag, but when she took the dog to the owner’s house -- Lollie getting more excited as she got closer -- she found the house abandoned. Lollie raced around to the back door, obviously hoping to be let in. A neighbor recognized Lollie and told her that Lollie‘s family had moved away almost a year before.

Lollie had been left behind. She was emaciated and a bit battle-scarred from fending for herself in the woods for many months.

Once she moved in with me, Lollie put on about 30 pounds and wouldn’t let me out of her sight. She was the most loyal and loving dog -- could she have been grateful? -- that I have ever lived with. She would do anything for me once she could figure out what I wanted. Too soon, Lollie died of cancer at the animal hospital with her head in my lap, looking at me with her brown eyes full of trust.

Lollie was the last dog I ever owned.

So Rags brings me great joy. I see him in the mornings on my way to fitness class, in the early afternoon when he dozes among the potted geraniums on the patio in front of his owner’s ground-floor apartment, or when his owner is taking him for a walk around the grounds. He knows me now. I’m the guy who always seems to have a doggie treat in his pocket. I get a warm welcome when he sees me coming.

Rags is a shy little guy. I’ve known him for months, and he’s only now beginning to take a treat right out of my hand instead of waiting for me to put it on the ground in front of him. And he wags his stubby tail (in fact he wags his whole rear end) when I pet him or scratch behind his ears.

But Rags has yet to lick my face. I miss that most of all.

We’ll get there.

Mine’s the silver one

It’s been about six weeks now since I bought my car, a brand new Camry. I wrote about it here last month. I mentioned then that I was somewhat surprised that the first question almost everybody asked was, “What color is it?”

I told them it was silver, but that I didn’t care much care about the color: “It could have been plaid for all I care.”

Turns out I kinda wish it were plaid.

There are 33,987 new or late-model silver cars in the Richmond Metropolitan Statistical Area. And on any given day, a lot of them seem to be in the same parking lots I use.

Okay. I made that statistic up, but that’s the way it seems to me when I don’t take exact note of where I parked. I spend too much time asking myself, Is that mine? No. That’s a silver Honda. Is that mine? No, that’s a silver Ford.

Then I wind up standing next to a new silver Camry, energetically punching the “unlock” button on my key fob and wondering why the beep sounds so far away. Oh. This is not my 2015 silver Camry. That’s mine over there.

So it turns out that I do care what color my new car is. Silver is just too popular. Finding it is sometimes like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Don’t misunderstand me: I’m more than happy with my new car. I like the quiet ride, the safety features, the conveniences, and, of course, the new car smell.

But I wish I had picked anything other than silver.

                      *   *   *

Congratulations to Mike and Becky for being the first to identify the image in Part 15 of the recently completed Where am I? series. That interesting garage is at the corner of Dooley and Floyd in the Museum District. Mike and Becky live not too far from there and had spotted it on one of their strolls. My thanks to all who participated. It was a fun contest, and it kept me busy staying one step ahead of you, trying to find not-too-obscure locations that fit the bill of being interesting or significant places and landmarks in Richmond.

Where am I? (Part 15)

Much to your relief, I’m sure, this is the last installment in our series about Richmond landmarks and other places.

The image above is not of a landmark. It’s not even public property. But the place sure is interesting. I probably took notice of it for the first time three decades ago. It’s a corner property. Your job is to tell me what two streets intersect at that corner.

You’ll either know or you won’t know. I doubt that the Internet will be of much help to you. But I could be wrong.

If you think you know, click on the word comments below to give your answer.

Becky got the answer to Part 14 right. The image is of the statue atop Jefferson Davis’ grave at Richmond’s Hollywood Cemetery, one of the most handsomely landscaped and serene places in Richmond. I set out last week looking for a different grave to photograph, but I came across the Davis plot and changed my mind.

The life-size bronze statue of Davis, created by George Julian Zolnay, was placed on the gravesite on Davis Circle in 1899. Zolnay, who died in 1949, was a Hungarian-American artist who was known as the sculptor of the Confederacy.

Hollywood Cemetery, however, is not the first place that Davis was buried. He was first interred in New Orleans, where he died in 1889. In 1893, His widow, Varina Davis, had his remains dug up, brought to Richmond, and reburied here.

Unlike other former Confederate officials, Davis was not a U.S. citizen when he died. He was specifically excluded from U.S. government resolutions restoring such rights after the war. His citizenship was not restored until 1978. In signing the law, President Jimmy Carter referred to the measure as the last act of reconciliation in the Civil War.

If you’re new to this exercise on how well you know Richmond, you can start from the beginning by clicking here.

Where am I? (Part 14)

Now, back to the game.  Take a good look at the image above. Who is he? Where is he?

If you think you know, click on the word comments below to give your answer.

Okay, it’s time to bring you up to date. My nephew Mike got Part 13 right. It’s Dogwood Dell in Byrd Park, a place where I’ve spent many a summer evening both on-stage and in the audience. As a teenager in the 1950s, I was in the cast of a play about Daniel Boone (I played his son Israel), and I played one of the Dromio twins (I forget which one, either Ephesus or Syracuse) in Shakespeare‘s “Comedy of Errors.” 

Dogwood Dell has long presented summer concerts and theatrical events. It’s probably best known for its annual July 4th concert by the Richmond Concert Band that concludes with the 1812 Overture, complete with cannon fire, carillon bells, and a fireworks display.

Speaking of which, my favorite memory of being in the audience at Dogwood Dell is from the July 4th concert in 1976, our bicentennial year. My friend Walter organized a group of us for a picnic in the amphitheater before the concert. Not just any picnic. Sure, we had the usual foods (including champagne, which is verboten at Dogwood Dell). But Walter served our picnic on china plates with silver and crystal. He even produced a white tablecloth from his voluminous picnic basket. It was a splendid evening of good food, good friends and rousing music.

Now to Part 11 of this exercise, the part that nobody got until I offered a big clue: it’s a school. In fact, it’s Franklin Military Academy at 701 North 37th Street, on the eastern edge of Church Hill. Like Tee Jay, the building is imposing. The image I showed you in Part 11 was a detail of the south corner of the façade. Mike got it right.

Long before the building opened its doors as Franklin Military Academy, it was known as East End Junior High School. Shortly after students started attending class there in 1929, it was called the most adequately equipped and artistic junior high school in the state. The architect was Charles Robinson, who also designed Tee Jay. East End Middle School, as it was later known, closed in 1991.

East End Junior High is where I learned how to be a teenager. I was a student there in 1954, 55 and 56, for the 7th, 8th and 9th grades. I loved that school. It was there that I truly began to learn, especially about myself. The teachers at East End Junior High planted so many seeds of knowledge that quickly bore fruit. They affected the way I saw the possibilities for my own place in the world. I owe them a debt of thanks.

If you’re coming in during the middle of this exercise on how well you know Richmond, you can start from the beginning by clicking here.

Here's to you, Uncle Joe

Let me take a brief pause in the middle of our game -- which, by the way, is coming to an end soon -- to remember my Uncle Joe.

Joseph Nichols was my mother’s younger, and only, brother. They were deeply fond of one another as children and stayed so when Uncle Joe returned from World War II and for the rest of his life. (For some reason, his pet name for my mother was Teddy; my mother never told me how that came about.)

Uncle Joe wanted to see the world, so he joined the army before the war began. His first duty station after basic training: Corregidor, the island at the tip of the Bataan Peninsula in the Philippines. That didn’t work out so well.

Today marks the day in 1942 when about 15,000 Americans and Filipinos surrendered to Japanese forces who had swooped down the peninsula. Uncle Joe spent the rest of the war in unspeakable conditions in a POW camp in Japan.

A big, healthy man before the war, Uncle Joe came home weighing 85 pounds in 1945. He had a tough war.

Uncle Joe lived to be 65 and died on Christmas Day 1981.

So this evening I will raise a glass of something appropriate in his honor.

Where am I? (Part 13)

Here’s another softball for you. Where was I when I shot this image last week?

If you think you know the place, click on the word comments below to give your answer.

Congrats to Jenny again for knowing the landmark in Part 12. Working only with an architectural detail, she correctly identified the building as Thomas Jefferson High School. Tee Jay, as students and alumni call it, opened its doors at 4100 West Grace Street on Sept. 11, 1930.

Both the exterior and interior reflect the art deco style. The impressive building was designed by Charles Robinson and is now designated a Virginia Historical Landmark. Robinson was also the architect for the theater formerly known as The Mosque, Albert Hill Middle School, and Cannon Memorial Chapel at the University of Richmond, as well as other major local landmarks. He was born in 1867 and died in 1932.

By the way, the landmark building in Part 11 remains unidentified so far. I did offer up a clue in my comments response to Jenny earlier today. Here’s what I said: “Now, since we've done Albert Hill Middle School (Part 10), and Tee Jay High (Part 12), does that give anybody a clue as to what's in Part 11? ...  Does it help if I say Part 11 also shows a Richmond school?

(If you’re coming in during the middle of this exercise on how well you know Richmond, you can start from the beginning by clicking here.)

Where am I? (Part 12)

Here’s another image of a Richmond landmark. What is it?

If you think you know the building, click on the word comments below to give your answer.

Now, let’s talk about Part 11. Nobody has come up with the correct answer since I posted the image on Friday. You’ve had the whole weekend to think about it, drive around Richmond, and study Google images.

So this marks the first time I’ve stumped you. That’s 1 for Don and 10 for my readers. Great job!

Congratulations go to my nephew Mike who correctly identified the architectural detail in Part 10 as being from Albert H. Hill Middle School at Patterson and Roseneath. It’s a fine building, dating from 1926, a time when city officials built schools in an architectural style that reflected the dignity and importance of what goes on inside.

Albert Hill Middle School was named for the city’s school superintendent from 1919 to 1933. The Spanish-influenced building was designed by Charles M. Robinson. You can learn more about its history by clicking here.

(If you’re coming in during the middle of this exercise on how well you know Richmond, you can start from the beginning by clicking here.)

Where am I? (Part 11)

So you’re having a little trouble identifying our last image? Well, here’s another one (above) that’s also not so obvious. Have fun with it!

If you think you know the building, click on the word comments below to give your answer.

So far, nobody has come close to identifying the image in Part 10. That’s okay. I’m not going to give you the answer right now. Soon … but not right now.

I’ll give you a little more time to think about it.

Enjoy!

(If you’re coming in during the middle of this exercise on how well you know Richmond, you can start from the beginning by clicking here.)

Where am I? (Part 10)

The test of your knowledge of Richmond continues, and this time, I suspect, it won’t be so easy.

Or maybe it will. So far, somebody always gets the right answer -- and quickly.

Check out the architectural design element in the image above. Do you know what building it adorns? You might, if you’re particularly observant.

If you know, click on the word comments below to give your answer.

Walter, my oldest friend, and Mike, my nephew, came up with the correct answer just minutes after I posted yesterday’s image in Part 9. Walter beat Mike to the punch by a hair’s breadth. The image shows the western entrance to the tunnel under Church Hill that collapsed in 1925, killing a handful of laborers and burying a work train and its locomotive.

The story has a personal connection for me, as many of you who read this blog know already. You can refresh your memories by clicking here.)

(If you’re coming in during the middle of this exercise on how well you know Richmond, you can start from the beginning by clicking here.)

Where am I? (Part 9)

Take a look at the image above. Click on it to enlarge it. Do you know what it is? You’re a real Richmonder if you know this one.

If you know, click on the word comments below to give your answer.
   
Congratulations to my niece Annette, who correctly identified the image in Part 8 as a portion of the defense line around Richmond during the Civil War. The odd thing -- to me, anyway -- is that this miniature piece of history sits in a very modern parking lot. You could walk the perimeter of the site in a couple of minutes. Its very close neighbors are a tire shop and the parking lot in front of the Martin’s grocery store at 5700 Brook Road.

A parking lot might be an unusual place to encounter history. On the other hand, we preserve our history where we can. Wanting to know more about our past in Richmond is what also leads me to favor archaeological research in Shockoe Bottom. I can only imagine the wealth of information that lies just below the surface there.

(If you’re coming in during the middle of this exercise on how well you know Richmond, you can start from the beginning by clicking here.)

Where am I? (Part 8)

Richmonders are passionate about preserving history. Do you know where this particular part of the past (in the image above) is located?

If you know, click on the word comments below to give your answer.

My niece Terry has been nailing the last couple of images, correctly identifying them. She did it again, letting us all know that the image posted yesterday was of the former Home for Needy Confederate Women, now known as the Pauley Center at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. The image showed the façade of the building, which faces Sheppard Street on the west side of the museum’s sculpture garden.

After spending several million dollars renovating the building, the museum opened the Pauley Center in 1999. From then until I retired in 2010, my office was in the north wing of that building. The Confederate ladies who once lived there, mind you, could not bring themselves to call it the north wing. Since the building is symmetrical, with wings to the north and the south, it would seem logical to have called them the north and south wings. But the Confederate ladies defied logic and called them the east and the west wings. Their husbands, fathers and brothers had, after all, fought for the South.

My job, of course, was to write for the museum, and here’s a portion of what I wrote as VMFA was preparing to move into the refurbished building. I offer it because I enjoyed doing the research, and it gets the facts straight.

The Home for Needy Confederate Women was chartered in 1898 by the Virginia General Assembly to provide a home for needy widows, sisters and daughters of former Confederate soldiers. The home originally operated at 1726 Grove Ave until 1904 when it moved to 3 E. Grace St.

After a fire in 1916, the home’s Board of Managers decided to build a fireproof structure. The substantial Sheppard Street facility was built in 1932, and the architect, Merrill Lee, modeled it after the White House in Washington. The dignity of the structure was meant to suggest that its occupants should be regarded with respect by society and to provide the residents with pride in their home.

By 1989, only nine women remained in the home, which was no longer economically feasible to operate. The residents were moved to a special wing of Brandermill Woods nursing home in Chesterfield County and control of the building reverted to the Commonwealth of Virginia. Shortly thereafter the property was conveyed by then-Governor Gerald L. Baliles to the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts.

(If you’re coming in during the middle of this exercise on how well you know Richmond, you can start from the beginning by clicking here.)

Where am I? (Part 7)

You guys who read this blog are too good! I’m running myself ragged from one end of Richmond to the other to take pictures as I try to stump you.

Maybe the image above will slow you down. What is it? Where is it?

If you know, click on the word comments below to give your answer.

Terry quickly identified the image I posted yesterday. The task was to identify the location of an old Uneeda Biscuit advertisement. Terry correctly said it’s painted on the side of a building at the southeast corner of 25th and Broad streets.

Uneeda Biscuits, which were actually crackers, first showed up on the market in the late 19th century, a product of Nabisco. It was touted as a cracker that was flakier and lighter than competing versions. It was the first to be packaged in what Nabisco called its “In-Er Seal” package to preserve freshness.  Before the Uneeda Biscuit hit shelves, crackers were shipped in barrels and sold in paper bags. In 2009, Nabisco discontinued the Uneeda Biscuit, saying the product was no longer sufficiently profitable.

I haven’t been able to determine when the advertisement was painted at 25th and Broad.

(If you’re coming in during the middle of this exercise on how well you know Richmond, you can start from the beginning by clicking here.)

Where am I? (Part 6)

How long has that Uneeda Biscuit advertisement been on the side of that building? I don’t know, but it was faded even when I first saw it many decades ago. There used to be a lot more such advertisements back in the day. This one seems to have survived long enough to qualify for permanency.

I drove by it again today. Then I circled the block and came back to shoot a few photographs.

So that’s today’s question. Where is it?

If you know, click on the word comments below to give your answer.

Congratulations to Becky and Terry for correctly naming our last location: The Azalea Gardens at Bryan Park. The park itself is named for Joseph Bryan, the founder and publisher of the Richmond Times-Dispatch. It was a gift to the city from the Bryan family in 1910. The azalea garden was begun by volunteers in 1952.  In the next 15 years, those volunteers planted some 450,000 azaleas in 50 varieties.

When the azaleas are in bloom, as they are now, the garden is a beautiful sight.

(If you’re coming in during the middle of this exercise on how well you know Richmond, you can start from the beginning by clicking here.)

Where am I? (Part 5)

After yesterday’s difficult question, here’s a softball for you. I took this picture (above) Thursday afternoon. Where was I?

If you know, click on the word comments below to give your answer.

Now here’s news about our last winner. My niece Terry deserves an E for effort for researching the name of the figure atop the Jefferson Davis Monument on Monument Avenue: The figure is Vindicatrix, but post-bellum Richmonders took to calling her Miss Confederacy. The imposing monument to the president of the Confederacy was designed by two Virginians, Edward Valentine and William Noland. It was said that 200,000 people attended the unveiling, which was a highlight of a Confederate Reunion here in 1907.

(If you’re coming in during the middle of this exercise on how well you know Richmond, you can start from the beginning by clicking here.)

Where are we? (Part 4)

In Parts 1, 2 and 3 of this Cogito series about Richmond places and things, you readers have been really knowledgeable about the city.

So let’s make it a little harder this time.
   
Look at the picture of the Roman wearing a toga in the picture above.

Who is she?

Yes, she actually has a name. Don’t ask me how I know this bit of trivia. But I do.

If you, too, know (remember that Google can be your friend if you use the right search words), click on the word comments below and let me know.

(If you’re coming in during the middle of this exercise on how well you know Richmond, you can start from the beginning by clicking here.)

Going back to yesterday’s image and question, my nephew Mike got it right -- both times. The Bill’s Barbecue that had stood on that now-empty lot for decades is gone. The company shut down its operations in 2012. And Mike was right when he said the restaurant was called Virginia Barbecue before it became a Bill’s Barbecue.

I should point out that Mike and his wife spent some time in their kitchen creating their own version of Bill’s famous sauce. They worked backwards from the ingredients on the label of a bottle of the real thing. The label didn’t list proportions. But after much experimenting, Mike and Becky came up with a version so good that I can’t tell it from my memories of the real thing. They shared bottles of it with the family. I still have half a bottle in my fridge. I’m using it sparingly to make it last.

Thank you, Mike and Becky.

Where are we? (Part 3)

Jenny wins again in Cogito’s series asking readers to identify well-known Richmond places and buildings. She was the first to say that the Part 2 image was of the 124-foot tower of Boatwright Memorial Library at the University of Richmond.

She even included in her comment a link to a Web page with lots of info about the UR library, in which I and others in the family spent many hours studying for our undergraduate degrees.

Now, here’s an easy one for Part 3 of this fun exercise. And it’s a bit different. Clearly, in the image above, an empty lot is in the foreground. Here’s the question: What used to stand on that empty lot just a couple of years ago? It might not fit the standard definition of a landmark, but it certainly was one for more than a few generations.

(If you’re coming in during the middle of this exercise on how well you know Richmond, you can start from the beginning by clicking here.)

Where are we? (Part 2)

Congratulations go to Jenny for correctly identifying St. John’s Episcopal Church despite all of the scaffolding in yesterday’s photo. Walter followed close behind with the same correct answer.

St. John’s is Richmond’s oldest church, founded in 1741. In a speech Patrick Henry made to the Virginia Convention in 1775, he encouraged rebellion against King George III by proclaiming “Give me liberty or give me death!”

(I delivered Patrick Henry’s “liberty or death” speech as a 13-year-old -- complete with period costume -- center stage at what was then known as The Mosque. It was a citywide schools program, if I recall correctly. I forget what occasioned the production. My parents were inordinately proud of the fact that I got it right, with no stumbles. Lord knows I must have driven the family crazy with my declaiming in the weeks leading up to the performance.)

Today’s image (above) is one that disguises its subject by showing merely a portion of it.

Who’ll be the first to identify this Richmond landmark?

Where are we? (Part 1)

Okay, let’s shake things up a bit.

I’ve been losing some of my regular Cogito readers lately. And it’s my fault.

Back before Christmas, I had a kidney stone extracted the hard way. About a month or so later, I had the flu. I lost some of my old energy for a while. But now I’m back on track and determined to offer up enough fresh blog posts to get back into the swing of things. So let’s have some fun.

As a native Richmonder, I love the city. I love discovering places I’d never known about, and I love the city’s architecture, its history and the way Richmond continually changes and adapts. Living in Richmond is like rowing a boat: We’re moving forward, and we’re always looking back at where we’ve been.

So let’s see how good you are at recognizing the city.

The image above presents a landmark in a way you’ve perhaps never seen before. What is it? Where is it? (Click on the picture to see a larger image.)

If you think you know, click on the word comments below and offer your answer.

I’ll be posting images of places in and around Richmond every couple of days for a while.

There’s no prize. The fun will be in knowing and learning more about Richmond.


   

A dream deferred

For the better part of my junior year in high school, I looked forward eagerly to the annual Spanish class senior trip to Havana.

It never happened. Fidel Castro came swooping down from Cuba’s mountains and overthrew Fulgencio Battista and his government.

(I was always enamored of Battista’s first name: Full-HEN-see-oh. It rolls off the tongue so fluidly.)

The class ahead of me at Hermitage High School -- the class of 1959 -- was the last to make the trip, by train and boat, to visit a country where the populace spoke Spanish and the students could practice their own language skills.

A year later, when I was a high school senior, all trips to Cuba were off. Castro’s government effectively closed the island.

I had been seriously looking forward to going to Cuba. The trip would have been packed with new experiences. I had never ridden a train before. I had never been on a boat larger than a rowboat. I had never been out of the country. It was to be a trip full of new adventures. I was to be the first in my family to travel abroad.

I didn’t quite know what to expect. I had my fantasies -- based on what returning seniors had told us about their trips -- but there was nothing in my life at that point to base those speculations on. I so wanted to do and feel and live such an exotic experience. But it was not to be.

Now, today, 55 years later, it looks like it might just be possible after all for Americans to take a trip to Cuba in the not too distant future.

That travel experience I never had as a 16-year-old kid was probably the spark in coming years behind my desire to know what it was like to visit and even live in other countries, a longing that grew and matured by the time I was in my early 20s. Since then, I have been to London and Amsterdam dozens of times. I have lived in Germany and traveled extensively in Italy, Spain, France, Belgium, Luxembourg and The Netherlands. I have visited most of the Caribbean islands and enjoyed the foods and colors and wonders of crowded Caracas.

It’s been quite an experience, one I never expected to have and would not trade for all the tea in China.

But I still haven’t been to Cuba.

Now, it’s a possibility. Would I book a trip tomorrow if it were possible?

I don’t know. I am 72 and travel isn’t as easy and breezy as it once was. I can still do it, but travel has become more and more of a pain in the tuccus since 2001.

Cuba, however, would complete the circle. It would be the journey that never was.

What color is your new car?

I forged ahead from 1999 to 2015 last week.

For the first time in 16 years, I bought a new car. Brand new. It had a total of 32 miles on it, most of that from other car shoppers who had taken it for a test drive.

“Don’t you just love it?” the salesman asked me.

“No.” was my response, and he looked crestfallen. “I like it, but I don’t love it. I love my cat. I love my family. I like the car.”

I have never been one of those guys who truly believe that a car says something about themselves. It’s a means of transportation, nothing more. It’ll get me from Point A to Point B. And with any luck, it’ll do that safely and reliably for many years. I don’t much care if it makes me look cool or manly. I just want it to get me safely there and back.

I did my due diligence, learning as much as I could about safety and reliability in new cars. ABS? Check. Stability control? Check. A real spare tire? Check. And so on. Consumer Reports was my main guideline. I used Internet research and discussion lists to learn more. Comfortable to drive? Check. Good sound system? Check. Enough trunk room? Check.

Then I made my choice. I negotiated well, and I met my price point. I am satisfied that I got the best car I could at a price that was good.

The whole process, from starting my research to writing a check at the dealership, took about five weeks -- research occupying the vast majority of that time.

What surprised me most was the first question -- without fail -- when I told friends I had bought a new car. “What color?” each one asked.

Color wasn’t even on my radar.

It could have been plaid for all I care.

But silver is nice.

And the interior smells really good, too.

LLAP

I watched the debut of the Star Trek series on NBC in 1966 in Wichita Falls, Texas.

Why was I in Wichita Falls, Texas? I was at Sheppard AFB for training on my way to becoming an operating-room medic. After long days of classroom instruction and mock operations, the Airman’s Club at Sheppard was a big draw for most of us.

Those of us who gathered around the color TV in the Airman’s Club on September 8, 1966, were immediately drawn to Star Trek. We were accustomed to a diet of movies and TV about space exploration that consisted of programs like the poorly animated Clutch Cargo series or the ridiculously childish Lost in Space.

Star Trek took deep space stories to a whole new level: plausible, literate sci-fi television.

(Did you know that the series was almost called Wagon Train to the Stars? No kidding.)

We liked Captain Kirk, Lieutenant Uhura, Dr. “Bones” McCoy and engineer Montgomery Scott. But it was Mr. Spock that most intrigued us.

He was implacably and resolutely logical.

Spock was the human-alien First Officer on the Starship Enterprise. He had pointy ears and hailed from a planet known as Vulcan. He could probe others’ minds and efficiently and quietly disable humans with a squeeze on the shoulder.

Spock defined cool in 1966.

Leonard Nimoy played Spock for all three seasons of the show. Nimoy died Friday at the age of 83.

Star Trek gave us much more than three years of entertainment. I believe the series gave those of us who were coming of age in 1966 permission to object to what our governments were doing. As the war in Vietnam was ramping up, it reinforced our desire to speak up and protest.

It was all summed up in the prime directive for the 23rd-century guiding principles of the United Federation of Planets: Starfleet personnel are prohibited from interfering with the internal development of lesser alien civilizations.

The emphasis of the prime directive, which was first specifically introduced in a 1967 episode titled The Return of the Archons, reminded Starfleet personnel that it was particularly dangerous to use their superior technology to impose their own values or ideals on undeveloped civilizations.

The appeal of the series to young adults of the time, I think, was that it dealt with vexing problems in deep space in mature and compassionate ways that reflected the ideals we wished our present-day world might adopt. It buffered Captain Kirk’s occasional tendency towards aggression and value-imposition with Spock’s absolute logic.

“We could do that here on Earth,” our young minds concluded.
   
Now, we mark the passing of an icon of our youth.

The best tribute possible to Leonard Nimoy I think -- at least from my 21st-century perspective -- was offered, appropriately, by astronaut Terry Virts, who is right now circling Earth on the International Space Station. He tweeted the image you see above. 

If you’re a fan of the series, you know what it means.

The most miserable month

February really is the nastiest month on the calendar. Thank goodness it’s our shortest month.

The Romans were late in even naming February. For a long time, they considered the winter months to be nameless. Eventually, they named February after the Latin term februum (purification) because of an ancient purification ceremony held during the month’s full moon.

But knowing why February is called February doesn’t make the month any less harsh. It’s still 28 days (or sometimes 29) of nasty, cold weather that brings us ice, sleet, snow, freezing rain and misery. It’s a month splashed in grit and slush.

If, as I do, you live below the Mason-Dixon Line, nobody seems to have any sympathy for complaints about February. My best friend of 50 years lives in Connecticut. If I moan about 7 inches of snow, all he has to do is look out his window and see five times as much. His back porch temperature might be as much as 10 or 15 degrees colder than what I’m feeling in Richmond. It makes me want to just give up on being grouchy. What’s the point, when so many have it worse?

I like the fact that Richmond has four distinct seasons. But winter is my least favorite, and February is winter’s apogee.

Oh, did I forget to mention the flu? Where is it written that flu season and brutal weather have to go hand in hand?

A short anecdote about how much I despise icy cold weather. I went to New York a couple of years back to see the Thanksgiving Day parade. We bundled up and grabbed a good spot along the parade route. The wind was blowing and the temperature was just below freezing. Within 30 minutes, my nose was running freely and my fingers were stiff. My ears felt brittle, and I knew that if I touched one, it would fall to the pavement and shatter into a dozen pieces.

I gave up and went back to my warm hotel room, fixed a toddy and watched the rest of the parade on TV.

And that was in November, a month before winter starts.

Every year at about this time, I wonder if I will make it through to spring and live to experience another February. I have mixed emotions as I ponder that.

Now it’s snowing again – or is that sleet mixed with freezing rain? – and I have to bundle up and go run a few errands.

If you see me, don’t touch my ears.