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.