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.)