Santa's name was Brian

Yes, there is a Santa.

And one of his names is Brian.

I was hosting a holiday dinner last night for a few of my family, five adults and two young children. This year we went to Extra Billy's on West Broad Street. We had gnawed the baby back ribs to the bone and were sitting back from the table to continue talking and catching up.

(I host this dinner every year out of love as well as out of enlightened self-interest. These are the relatives who invite me to share their Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner every year. They make sure I'm not eating a turkey sandwich alone in my apartment on these special holidays.)

Our waitress, who had given us special attention during our meal, came our way with the check in her hand and tears in her eyes. We discovered she was overcome by the kindness of a perfect stranger who had already picked up the tab for our entire meal.

She said the bill was paid by "a secret Santa."

We speculated madly among ourselves for a few minutes. Who could it have been?

A few minutes later we had our answer. The waitress brought Brian, who appeared to be coming along reluctantly, from the area near the bar. He was our secret Santa.

Brian said he had watched as we enjoyed what was clearly a special occasion and decided to give us a Christmas present. He choked up a bit but recovered quickly as he explained.

We invited Brian to sit and chat. He stayed for a few minutes, clearly captivated by my niece's two young children. And then with hugs all around and much wishing of "Merry Christmas," he left to rejoin his friends.

Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I was dumbstruck.

Brian, a perfect stranger, had no reason to pick up our tab at all. Except that he was feeling the Christmas spirit in a big way.

I think I can speak for all of us at the table last night -- Mike, Becky, Terry, James, Milagros, Carlos, and me.

We're all feeling the Christmas spirit a little bit more now.

Broken news

My University of Richmond journalism professor, Joe Nettles, introduced us to the concept of making difficult news decisions.

He began by asking us which of the following stories should be the lead in the morning newspaper:

(A) Pope Elopes.

(B) Sun Rises in the West

(C) Quake Dumps California into the Ocean

They're all preposterous. But there's really only one choice. The biggest story is the one that affects the most people. I pick option (B). Such an occurrence would knock our entire conception of the universe for a loop.

That was almost always my criteria when I was in the decision-making game in WTVR TV's newsroom.

Sometimes, all things being equal on a slow news day, I might go for shock or titillation value -- as in option (A). At other times, option (C) might look best -- just think of the amazing visuals you'd have in a live report from the Reno oceanfront.

But 99 percent of the time, I stuck by my guns: How many people does this story affect?

I must have been doing something right. WTVR's news broadcasts were the most-watched in Central Virginia during my tenure.

In the 1960s and 70s, management mostly left our news department alone to do its own thing. In fact, there was a firewall of sorts between the news department and management/sales. The station didn't make any big profits from news. Prestige, instead, was the payoff.

That, clearly, has changed dramatically since this very day in 1977 when I got out of the business.

Nowadays, local TV newscasts -- and network newscasts, too, for that matter -- are heavily influenced by marketing and sales. Petty crime often shoots to the top of the newscast. A titillating story about a flash-in-the-pan celebrity who is famous for nothing more than being famous carries a lot of TV news weight. And video of a tool shed in flames -- if it's really good video -- can work its way to the top.

Back in the day, the possibility of a dusting of snow was covered during the weather segment. Now it's breaking news at the top of the broadcast. Even if it's only a 30 percent possibility.

I remember a seemingly endless telephone conversation with a woman who wanted us to cover an elementary-school pageant. "The children are so adorable," she kept telling me.

At the time I had three reporter/photographer crews out on the streets covering real news. My only other crew was editing a story for the next  newscast. I just couldn't spare anybody to cover her pageant.

"But you have to cover it," she told me. "It's news!"

I was fast becoming exasperated. "It's only news if I say it's news," I told her.

That's definitely an arrogant thing to say, I realized after we had hung up.

But when you come right down to it, that's why I spent four years in college and a decade in TV journalism: to know what a news story was when I saw it.

And that's why I'd have all my crews working on the story about the sun rising in the west.

But in today's TV news business, that children's pageant might still make it into the lineup.

Especially if the station were a co-sponsor of the pageant.

Heck, the pageant might even be introduced as breaking news.

Going, going, gone

For 33 years I called it home.

Now, it's somebody else's home. A family with two young children is moving in.

Closing on my house was two days ago. Today, I got the check.

I might not own a house any more, but I am now the proud owner of a big chunk of cash. That seems fair to me. In fact, considering what I paid for the house in 1980, what I got seems more than fair to me.

Now, if the furnace in the basement stops working when it's 25 degrees outside, it's somebody else's problem.

And when that LBJ bird builds a nest inside the front-porch light fixture, as she did three years in a row, somebody else can clean it out.

People have been asking me if I miss my old house. I miss the good times, but I don't miss the responsibilities of home ownership. I have a great apartment now, and I'm happy as a bug in a rug.

But I might miss that frustrated little bird.

I wish the new owners of my old house well. The house itself, built in 1928, has a great floor plan, good bones and a big back yard. I can picture a swing set under the 30-foot maple tree.

If they're lucky, the new owners will be as happy there as I was. And, perhaps, three decades from now, when their kids are all grown, they can sell it to another couple who are just starting out.

And they can add more memories to a good, solid home.

"It seemed so wrong ..."

It wasn't long before we started playing the "Where were you when ..." game.

It wasn't actually a game. It was therapeutic.

"Where were you when President Kennedy was shot?"

A couple of days ago I sent off an email to a handful of old friends and relatives.

I suppose it's saying something about the age of those in my inner circle that so many were in school.

My niece Terry was still quite young. "I was out on the playground for recess at John B. Cary Elementary School. I was 9 years old and in the 4th grade. The teacher on duty sent me into the school for another kickball. As I walked through the halls, an older student was screaming 'The President has been shot! President Kennedy has been shot!' I forgot all about that kickball ... and ran immediately back out to the teacher and told her what I heard.... She rounded up all the students and escorted us back inside the school where we spent the rest of the day watching the newscasts on TV, some of us in awe and some of us scared and crying."

Terry wasn't alone. There were grownups, too, who were scared and crying.

Terry's brother, Mike, was older. He had stayed home that Friday morning because he was sick, and his grandfather took him to the doctor's office. "We had finished at the doctor's and were going by the drugstore to pick up a prescription when we heard on the car radio that JFK had been shot." Mike was 12 years old.

My friend Walter, an Army brat, was a sophomore in high school in Atlanta. He was about to go to the auditorium for an assembly to mark the end of Democracy Week -- "I have no memory of what exactly that was about," he wrote me -- when the principal put a radio station on the PA system.

"We went to the assembly; I remember nothing of it at all, as I'll wager is true for most of the other students. At the end of the program Sister Mary Whatever, the principal, announced that he had died. We were led in a prayer or two and walked numbly back to get our coats and begin the long trip home (two city buses and about an hour).

"Downtown Atlanta was spooky, weird and quiet. Once I got home I sat, like most Americans, in front of the TV for four days."

My friend John David, with whom I worked at AFTV in Germany in the late 1960s, still stays in touch via email. We haven't seen each other since December 1969. Like Walter, he was a sophomore in high school in 1963.

"Came over the P.A. Teacher was pretty bummed. I was too young to understand the severity of this, but soon after we were all dismissed. I recall my mom and dad were not happy, but no real mourning -- we (I guess I was formative) were GOP voters, ex military dad, college grad mom. I doubt they voted for the man, and I remember being sort of bummed out with the 24x7 wall-to-wall media for a whole week."

Chuck Minx also worked with me in Germany. He taught me most of what I know about photography. I haven't seen him either since coming home, but we stay in touch. He wrote me from his home in California.

"I was in my dorm room in college and heard shouting downstairs. I found my dorm-mates in agitation in front of the TV. We as a nation used to think that this kind of thing only happened in other countries. Afterwards, we had to face the fact that we were no more stable or less volatile than anywhere else."

My friend Jill, who grew up to be a newspaper reporter and a free-lance writer and editor, was 17. She was a high school senior in Fort Meyers, Fla.

"I was ... coming out of my 5th period Spanish class and encountered my friend Marcia who told me that President Kennedy had been shot. She had been in the high school's administration office and heard the report on the radio. I headed for my next class, physical education. In the girls' locker room, I heard the announcement from the high school's principal that the President was dead. I felt numb."

As did so many of us.

"I had just been to the cinema with my father in the West End of London," wrote my most far-flung correspondent, Christine, who is now an author and indexer. She was a grownup whose memories went back to the Blitz. I thought it would be interesting to get the perspective of somebody who was not American.

"We'd been to see a Garbo film, I can't remember which one. As we were about to descend into the underground station -- I think it was Leicester Square -- we saw a newspaper [display] which announced that President Kennedy had been shot dead. Again, I don't remember the exact wording. My father and I looked at each other in shock and disbelief. Neither of us could speak."

Christine was for all the world like an American in what she was feeling and thinking 50 years ago.

"Kennedy was an unbelievably charismatic figure, the youngest US president to have been elected to office.... He seemed to emanate confidence, optimism, vigour and intelligence," she wrote. "Quite apart from politics, the Kennedys made a strikingly glamorous couple. It seemed so wrong that JFK should have been cut down at such a young age, when he still seemed to have so much to offer. We grieved for Jackie, who was by his side when he was shot. No wife should have to see her husband die in such a horrifying way."

For the record, I was in the announce booth at WTVR TV recording promotional station breaks for that night's prime time. They would never be heard on-air.

Fifty years ago we clung to each other for support. This year, we don't cling. But we do share. We survived. And we have never forgotten that day.

Remembering Topper, Trigger and Champion

I learned to love shoot-'em-ups -- what my father used to call "horse operas" -- at the East End Theater on 25th Street on Church Hill.

I read the other day that they're going to fix up the now-decrepit old building and turn it into an apartment house. Junk trees are growing from where we used to sit in the dark and root for the guys in the white hats. Graffiti is all over the walls and the roof is a mess.

Hopalong Cassidy wouldn't care.

Neither would Roy Rogers or Gene Autry.

But I do. I'm delighted to hear that the building will live again, even if it's not as a magical portal to the land of the cowboys.

The old Art Deco theater first opened its doors in 1938. It was probably no more than a dozen years later that I took to riding my bike from 24th Street to the East End Theater for Saturday morning cowboy movies. I'd leave my bike outside on the sidewalk with all the other kids' bikes.

Yes, it was safe to do that 60 years ago. When the movie ended, my bike was always right where I left it.

On Saturday afternoons, we'd go back home and play cowboys and Indians in somebody's back yard with our cap pistols ablaze. As boys will, we specialized in over-the-top death scenes when one of us got "shot."

Cowboys were a big deal then. Was there a house in my neighborhood without a picture of a kid in the family in a cowboy suit and cowboy hat riding a pony at that "pony farm" on Cary Street?

(I think it cost a quarter to ride one of those ponies and then pose for a picture. Just for perspective, you could buy a six-pack of Cokes for a quarter in those days.)

And Hopalong Cassidy, who wore a black hat -- he was the exception among the good-guys -- and his horse, Topper, fed right into our adolescent fantasies. So did the singing cowboys, Roy Rogers (horse: Trigger) and Gene Autry (horse: Champion).

And that's what they were: fantasies. The West was never like that, and real cowboys didn't pour out their pent-up emotions by singing songs around the campfire.

But those fantasies set our imaginations on fire.

Sometimes there would be a drawing at those Saturday morning cowboy movies for a shiny new bike. I was never a winner, but I once knew a guy who knew a guy ...

So I am glad that the East End Theater will live on.

So will my happy memories of sitting in the dark watching cowboy movies with my friends on Saturday mornings.

Not a clue

Kids say the darndest things.

So, sometimes, do local TV reporters.

Who, come to think of it, are often kids.

"Kids Say the Darndest Things" was the most popular segment of "Art Linkletter's House Party," which started up when I was about 10 years old. It ran every weekday afternoon on CBS TV beginning on Sept. 1, 1952. It ended up as TV's longest-running daytime variety show by the time the plug was pulled in 1969.

Linkletter would interview kids and sometimes get extremely funny -- and sometimes embarrassingly frank -- answers.

Often, the kids didn't have a clue about why the audience was laughing.

I compare some local TV reporters to kids because TV reporters in Richmond are often quite young. Richmond is just shy of being in the Top 50 TV markets in the country. Richmond is where aspiring TV reporters often come to find their first or second TV job. They hope they're on the way up, and they hope that Richmond is where they can build a résumé.

They're easy to spot. Just last week I heard novice reporters from two different stations reporting live when they didn't even know exactly where they were. One said he was on Hanover Street in Richmond's Fan District and the other said she was on Forest Hill Road.

(If they had looked at the street signs they would have known that both Forest Hill and Hanover are Avenues.)

But no matter. "Look, Mom, I'm on TV."

A couple of mornings ago, another newbie reported live from Northside that police had responded to a convenience store robbery. "They got called over here for an attempted robbery attempt."

I can't even get my mind around how somebody could attempt an attempted robbery.

The funniest moment by far recently came this past week in a local report that aired on one of Richmond's major evening newscasts. It was about a stabbing that happened during a video telephone chat.

The young reporter said the victim was "a 9-month old pregnant woman."

Close, but laughably impossible. The fact is that the victim was a grown woman who was 9 months pregnant.

The big problem for local TV news is that when these things happen, credibility flies out the window.

Kids. And local TV reporters.

Sometimes they say the darndest things.

The passing of the torch

I was working on the day that the last of America’s naivete was stripped away.

I spent most of the day behind a microphone -- at WTVR TV, WMBG AM and WCOD FM -- on that Friday in late November when John F. Kennedy was assassinated. I was still working my way through college at the University of Richmond.

Everybody on duty at the stations’ studios under the tower on West Broad Street was pressed into service for the next four days.

I got a break on Sunday, and a group of my fraternity brothers and I decided to drive up to D.C. that morning for the lying in state at the Capitol. By the time we got there, thousands of people were in a line that stretched for blocks and blocks.

As we inched forward, word came from a transistor radio that Ruby had shot Oswald in Dallas. You could see the news flash ripple through the line like a stadium wave.

It grew dark, and we gave up. We never made it to the Capitol building.

I was back at work Monday when the non-stop broadcast coverage turned its focus to the funeral. Later, we all watched on the monitors in the WTVR control room as JFK was buried at Arlington.

It would be 45 years before I visited the Kennedy grave site in person.

What stuck with me from that visit was not the eternal flame but the inscriptions from JFK’s inaugural address that are carved into a low stone wall surrounding the site. I had watched that inaugural address on TV at the student commons at U.R. But I had forgotten much of the speech, which promised hope and unity and seemed to draw the nation together as a whole.

Here are a few excerpts from that speech from a new, young president who had inspired such optimism and high expectations for so many in my generation.

Let the word go forth from this time and place, to friend and foe alike, that the torch has been passed to a new generation of Americans -- born in this century, tempered by war, disciplined by a hard and bitter peace, proud of our ancient heritage -- and unwilling to witness or permit the slow undoing of those human rights to which this nation has always been committed, and to which we are committed today at home and around the world.

Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe, in order to assure the survival and the success of liberty. This much we pledge -- and more….

Let both sides seek to invoke the wonders of science instead of its terrors. Together let us explore the stars, conquer the deserts, eradicate disease, tap the ocean depths, and encourage the arts and commerce.

Let both sides unite to heed in all corners of the earth the command of Isaiah -- to "undo the heavy burdens ... and to let the oppressed go free."

And if a beachhead of cooperation may push back the jungle of suspicion, let both sides join in creating a new endeavor, not a new balance of power, but a new world of law, where the strong are just and the weak secure and the peace preserved.

All this will not be finished in the first 100 days. Nor will it be finished in the first 1,000 days, nor in the life of this administration, nor even perhaps in our lifetime on this planet. But let us begin….

In the long history of the world, only a few generations have been granted the role of defending freedom in its hour of maximum danger. I do not shrink from this responsibility -- I welcome it. I do not believe that any of us would exchange places with any other people or any other generation. The energy, the faith, the devotion which we bring to this endeavor will light our country and all who serve it -- and the glow from that fire can truly light the world.

And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you -- ask what you can do for your country.

My fellow citizens of the world: ask not what America will do for you, but what together we can do for the freedom of man.

Finally, whether you are citizens of America or citizens of the world, ask of us the same high standards of strength and sacrifice which we ask of you. With a good conscience our only sure reward, with history the final judge of our deeds, let us go forth to lead the land we love, asking His blessing and His help, but knowing that here on earth God's work must truly be our own.

I was one of those listening to the new president’s summons on January 20, 1961.

And I believed.

A video wish

The email arrived on Friday a week ago. The deadline was last Wednesday.

The assignment was a tough one: I had to create a short video congratulating two friends who were about to be married. But it got worse: one of the grooms-to-be is a writer and creates commercials and corporate videos for a living. And to set the standard even higher, all of those who had been invited to participate in the project were creative types.

Here's what the email said: "Over the next few days, would you please take a few seconds to create a video wish for that fabulous couple we all know and love, Jerry Williams and Mark Reed? And it's a surprise, so send it to me ... and keep it secret for the next week. On Oct. 25, Jerry and Mark will get married in Maryland. They're keeping the event very low-key, but Shenandoah [Jerry's daughter] and I thought it would still be cool to surprise them, upon their return, with (almost) real-time video wishes from family and a few close friends.

"Here's all you have to do: Grab your phone and use it to record a short video with your wedding wishes for Jerry and Mark. 15-20 seconds is perfect (we all know Jerry's attention span) ... We'll edit everything into one video and put it on a DVD to present to Jerry and Mark for a lifetime of enjoyment."

After I thought about what an unusual and appropriate idea this was, the magnitude of the task hit me. My video had to be good -- damned good -- because of the company it would be keeping. And I had to make it short.

Overwhelmed, I decided to let ideas percolate for a few days. That's essentially how I write. It's rare for me to just sit at the keyboard and knock something out (although I am ashamed to say it might often look that way). I get an idea, then another one, then still another. As the deadline looms, I reject some ideas and work on refining others. By the time I have to actually write something, it's already written in my head.

I should not have been, but when I saw the final cut of the video yesterday, I was surprised at how original we had all been, each in our own distinct way. The result was a really slick tribute, just under four minutes long, celebrating the fact that after 23 years, nine months and 1 week, Mark and Jerry had run off to Maryland to make their union legal.

In the end, the video wasn't about those of us who participated. It was about Mark and Jerry.

And they liked it.

Last night, Jerry sent us all an email: "Thanks to all of you from both of us ... we were both amused and touched by the love and laffs."

If you'd like to see the video, click here: http://youtu.be/NTo1Ln-cQW8

Reflections on a 71st birthday

It's my birthday, at my age a time for reflection. And I've been doing some of that.

I'd like to salute my parents for the gift they both gave me -- my love of reading.

Their interests were irreconcilable: he liked paperback westerns and detective stories. She liked best-sellers.

My mother read stories to me at bedtime when I was a young child. When I was about 12, my dad began passing on his detective paperbacks to me. (I was on tenterhooks waiting for him to finish the latest Perry Mason, Bertha Cool or Nero Wolfe mystery. I wasn't all that interested in the westerns.) My mother began to pass on her best-sellers to me at about the same time. (I vividly remember "The Desperate Hours," "The Diary of Anne Frank" and "The Caine Mutiny.")

Teachers followed up on what my parents started. In 2nd grade, I often got into trouble for being disruptive in minor ways. I'll always be grateful to my teacher, Mrs. Campbell, for diagnosing the problem: I was finishing my classwork early and quickly getting bored. Mrs. Campbell began to allow me to bring my paper to her when I finished, and if I had gotten the assignment right, she offered a reward. I was allowed to choose a book from the stack on her desk and read while the other kids finished their work. Problem solved.

Two years later, I was allowed to start a class newspaper. Mrs. Fry would mimeograph it for the rest of the class. Reading had led me to writing, and a career (or several careers) was born. I was a journalist (of sorts) at the age of 8 going on 9. I remember the first story I wrote: it was about bananas. I don't remember why I decided to write about bananas, but I spent hours in the school library researching bananas six ways from Sunday.

When Eisenhower was inaugurated in 1953, I read every article about him in both daily papers. Then I cut them all out and put them in a scrapbook. (No, I don't know what became of it.)

In high school, I worked my way up to features editor for the school paper. Outside of journalism class, which published the paper, I was still a reading nerd. I remember buying my own copies of "Compulsion," "Peyton Place," "Don't Go Near the Water," "Exodus" and "Advise and Consent." As I look back, I see how eclectic my taste was.

In college, I was still hooked on reading, and in addition to journalism, I took courses in the English novel and American lit. I can remember thinking that classes in which reading novels figured heavily were like a vacation from the hard slogging of courses in science and math.

I majored in journalism with a minor in English and eventually became news editor of The Collegian, the U.R. college paper. And still I could usually be found with my nose in a book.

Even in the Air Force in Germany, I found time to read. In 1967, for Christmas, I asked my parents to send me a copy of "Death of a President." They did.

My time in Germany and a 1989 book, "Pillars of the Earth," shaped the next 20 years of my life. I revisited Europe at least every other year and never missed a chance to visit a Gothic cathedral.

I made two careers out of writing, and I wrote a novel of my own, "Summer Blues," which went exactly nowhere. I think I have a copy of the manuscript in a drawer somewhere.

The ability to read runs like a thread sewn into the very fabric of my life.

My parents were the first to unlock a world of adventure -- both on the page and, in turn, in the life I have lived -- by teaching me that reading was fun.

To them, I shall be eternally grateful.

NOTE: What am I reading now? "FDR's Funeral Train: A Betrayed Widow, a Soviet Spy, and a Presidency in the Balance" by Robert Klara, "Watching the Dark" by Peter Robinson, "Captiva" by Randy Wayne White, "Disturbance" by Jan Burke and "Star Island" by Carl Hiaasen.

FOR EXTRA CREDIT: How many of the books I mentioned in this post have you read? How many have you ever heard of?

Mangled metaphors

Even President Obama gets it wrong sometimes.

In a debate with Sen. John McCain, Obama said: "Senator McCain suggests that I'm green behind the ears."

The president's metaphor was a mashup of "wet behind the ears" and "green," meaning new to the scene.

I had to laugh out loud -- all by myself -- when I was reading the business section of this morning's paper. I was checking out a column about trademarks by an intellectual-property attorney. The writer was discussing the danger, for new businesses, of picking a name that is too similar to the name of an established company.

His advice was to hire an attorney to research any possible trademark conflicts. (Shocking, isn't it, that an attorney writing a column would suggest hiring an attorney? But I digress.)

Here's what he wrote: "As with horseshoes and hand grenades, too close can kill you in the world of trademarks."

Horseshoes? Kill? Nope, that just doesn't work right.

Nature calls

So, I was coming back to my apartment last night after having dinner with my nephew at Carytown Burgers & Fries.

In the lobby, I held the elevator for one of our security guys. I was headed for the 9th floor. He said he was going all the way to the top. I pushed the appropriate buttons.

We rode in silence for about 10 seconds, and then I told him the story of my first visit to the building.

The rental agent, who was a delightful woman to talk to, was showing me several apartments. We entered the elevator on the ground floor, with an elderly gray-haired lady close behind. The agent greeted her by name. "Where are you going, Mabel?"

I heard Mabel answer: "I'm going up to pee."

All was quiet then until the elevator reached the 9th floor. We left, but not before saying a polite goodbye to the little old lady.

As the door closed and we walked away, I said to the agent: "I suppose when you get to be a certain age, you can be fairly relaxed about discussing your personal business."

The agent looked at me for a moment, and then burst into laughter.

When she caught her breath, she told me, "No, no. She meant she was going up to the top floor -- the penthouse floor. The elevator button is marked 'P'."

When I finished telling the story to the security guard last night, he, too, laughed out loud.

I could still hear him chortling as the elevator doors closed and I walked down the hall to my apartment.

The security guard continued his trip up to "P."

It's back ...

There was a great skyscape outside my living room window tonight. The clouds look much more striking from a 9th-floor perspective.

That view was an antidote, of sorts, for the disappointing news that the contract on my old house fell through.

The young couple who were set to buy it apparently got cold feet. They nickel-and-dimed on the post-inspection modifications they wanted to make to the contract. My real estate agent suggested we opt out. I gave my okay.

So the house is back on the market. In fact, there was a showing this evening. And there is an open house coming soon.

Both the agent and I are optimistic. We're hoping we'll soon be getting a nibble or two from a willing buyer who understands that a well-kept 85-year-old house is never going to flaunt herself the way some new young thing might.

As in people, character counts.

Going, going, gone

The picture says it all.

Twelve days after I put my house on the market, we had a firm offer.

Three days later, we had a contract.

I'm awaiting the results of the buyer's inspection. Then will come the appraisal by the buyer's lender. The latter shouldn't be a problem, since a house almost identical to mine on the same block sold this summer, and we priced my house accordingly.

If all goes well, closing should be in early September.

Coincidentally, I bought the house myself exactly 33 years ago this September. I say "coincidentally," because we didn't plan the sale that way. That's just how it turned out.

Several friends have asked if I miss living in the house. I do, but I have no regrets. I miss the deck and the yard most of all. One step out of the kitchen door led me to a yard that the real estate agent called "park like" in her listing. I spent 33 years whipping what was a bare space into shape with plantings of althea, acuba, lilac, hydrangea, deutzia, mock orange and butterfly bushes, as well as exotic lilies, azaleas in a panoply of colors, and dogwood and fig trees. I planted crape myrtle trees that are now blooming in reds, pinks and lavenders.

One of the crape myrtles was only a bare stick with scraggly roots when I bought it at a grocery store 20 years ago for 99 cents. It's about 12 feet tall now. The variety is called peppermint, and the blossoms are each hot pink and white, like a peppermint candy. I'd never seen that variety before, and I haven't seen anything quite like it since.

And now, somebody else will have a chance to enjoy it all.

I'm at peace with that.

Alarming

So I'm having a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper the other evening and this ear-splitting alarm sounds. It was my first fire alarm here in my new high-rise apartment. I knew what to do: I headed for the stairwell and gathered there with other residents to await instructions.

A lot of people were obviously dressed in winding-down mode, although it was still fairly early by my standards. There were some men and women in pajamas and bathrobes. Others of us were in casual clothes -- me in a T-shirt and jeans and flip-flops, others in sport shirts and khakis and sneakers. We chatted for a while, shouting a bit to be heard above the blaring alarm. One of the women in a bathrobe said she was taking a shower when the alarm began sounding. Her wet hair was wrapped in a towel. She was clearly not happy.

There was no smell of smoke in the stairwell. About 4 or 5 minutes passed, and the alarm stopped. We heard voices from the floors above and below us, but nobody seemed excited, and nobody was evacuating from the floors above. The consensus was that it was a false alarm, and we ventured back to our apartments.

Cassie was hiding behind the couch with her ears laid back. She had clearly been really frightened by the loud noise. I sat down on the floor and reassured her, and she settled down, although she stuck close to me as I picked up the newspaper again.

Then came the sound of sirens growing closer, and as I watched at my window (from which I can see the main entrance to the building if I look straight down), a couple of fire trucks, a police car and a fire chief showed up. But nobody was hurrying. There was no laying of hose, no rushing into the building.

Then the piercing alarm started up again, but as soon as I got to my door, it stopped. Still, the scene below my window did not look like there was any emergency. The hallway was quiet; nobody was rushing to the stairwell this time. Firemen stood at the building's entrance, chatting.

I called the front desk to ask what was going on. Since it was after hours, I got a security guard who said he didn't know what was up either, but that I should not be too worried since the fire alarm had stopped and he had not been notified of any emergency. He told me, in essence, to stay alert.

The fire trucks stayed for about 30 minutes and then went away.

A couple of people were chatting in the lobby when I went down a while later to check my mailbox. They didn't know what had happened either. One of them told me that the most common cause of false alarms here is popcorn and microwave ovens. It seems people set their microwaves for too long and the popcorn begins to burn and smoke.

I eventually went to bed without knowing more. Maybe I'll hear something through the grapevine, or maybe from the management, which is fond of leaving flyers and notifications in the little wire baskets on the walls outside our doors.

Evidently it was nothing serious.

I did find out first-hand that there's no way I could miss a fire alarm here. It's really, really loud. And that's reassuring.

Why are there so many songs about rainbows?

I've never before lived in a building more than two stories tall.

Now I'm living in a ninth-floor apartment.

I love the views, from the sunrise most mornings to the sun painting its light across the treetops on clear evenings.

And, like this evening, I love the rainbows that sometimes arch across the firmament outside my window.

I took the picture above at about 7:30 p.m. I was reading a book (Jan Burke's "Kidnapped") and hadn't even noticed that it was raining. But when I finished my cup of coffee and headed for the kitchen, I looked out of my dining room window. There it was: an exquisite rainbow in the eastern sky.

Practical people accept the scientific explanation for rainbows: they're caused by the reflection of light in water droplets in the atmosphere acting as prisms. The more whimsical amongst us think that leprechauns hide their treasure at the end of rainbows. The Judeo-Christian belief is that after the Great Flood, a rainbow appeared as a symbol of God's promise that he would never send another.

Perhaps all of the explanations are true.

Whatever the reasons for their existence, rainbows are ... well ... just enchanting.

I took the picture above with a 8.0 megapixel Canon PowerShot A630 camera.

I took the headline for this post from a song sung by Kermit the Frog.

For sale

I deliberately did not drive by my old house today.

When I went by yesterday to sign a check for a contractor, the house looked so good that I almost wanted it back.

The hardwood floors downstairs have all been refinished, there's a new floor covering in the kitchen and pantry, and the pine floors upstairs are naked and gleaming for the first time in more than three decades. There's a new range and hood in the kitchen, the walls throughout have been painted a benign beige, and the trim is now a warm white.

Outside, the curb appeal has been improved with a couple of pots of caladiums and some mulch and by ripping out some ivy. (I took the picture above a few months ago to capture the azaleas and tulips in bloom.)

It all looked fresh and new.

Now there's probably a "for sale" sign out front. The two agents who are handling the sale, Erin Barton and JoanElaine Justice, told me yesterday that there would be an open house today from 4 to 6 p.m.

So I stayed clear of my old street -- even though I was curious -- because selling a house is not for amateurs. I'll make the decisions and write the checks (and eventually deposit a big check in my own account). Now it's time to let Erin and JoanElaine do the heavy lifting.

Little things ...

As I settle into my new space, it's the little things that are keeping me busy now.

A new shower caddy for my bathroom. A new bathmat for the guest bathroom. A trash can for the den. The list is a long one.

But I'm getting there.

I like the new apartment a lot. But I haven't developed the patterns and pathways yet. Coming out of the kitchen, I have to think about which way to turn to get to the linen closet. If I'm in the dining room, I have to stop for an instant and plot the way to the coat closet.

These things will become automatic -- quickly, I hope

But no matter where I live, there are touchstones in my life that go back to my boyhood.

Those of you who live in Richmond or have lived here know what a cause for celebration it is that Hanover tomatoes are beginning to come in. (Hanover is a county north of Richmond that is famed for its tomatoes; it has something to do with the soil.)

For lunch today in my new apartment, I had a Hanover tomato sandwich with Duke's mayonnaise on white bread. The first taste of the season's local tomatoes is an experience almost like ecstasy. When I was a child, my father taught me the ritual. We'd take a salt shaker out to the backyard garden, pick the first ripe, warmed-by-the-sun tomatoes from the vine, salt them and eat them right there on the spot. Does anything ever taste so delicious?

When I grew up and had my own garden, I continued to eat the season's first tomato in just that way.

Alas, I no longer have a backyard. But this year's first tomato, bought from a farmer's stand here in town, was just as good.

The little things can also bring great satisfaction.

Not yet the end

Last night was the first I spent here in my new apartment.

I slept well.

But the big adventure is not over.

Not by a long shot.

The picture is of the corner of the living room that looks the best tonight.

The art, which you can see stacked under the window, will be hung Monday afternoon. I'll have some expert help with that. It'll make a big difference in the way the place looks.

But there will still be a big empty space in the middle of the dining room. I have yet to buy a table; the table I used to have was too big for the space. Maybe I can go shopping next week. Right now, the "look" is spare. Or perhaps I should call it Minimalist.

The packers, movers and unpackers did a great job. They took photographs and kept records of where every item -- large or small -- was and ought to be. At one point I counted six people from the moving company at work in the apartment. They even brought the remote control to the alarm system at the old house and put it on the exact table in the precise spot here in my new home. I took it back to the old house today.

As they were leaving, the guys that handle the furniture turned around and came back when I decided I wanted a chest of drawers moved to a different spot. And this was at the end of a l-o-n-g day.

I'm finding everything I need. Sometimes it takes me a few minutes. It took me a while last night to find the bag of cat food. But once I stopped and thought about where it ought to be, I found it -- in the closet closest to Cassie's food bowl.

Speaking of Cassie, she's been busily exploring, apparently in 20 minute bursts. Then she'll settle down on my lap or near me until some sound or noise beckons, and she's off to investigate.

The cable installer came today, and was extremely knowledgeable about how to connect my TiVo, add a new cable card, reset the TiVo for a new cable system, and set up my wireless router to provide Internet service for my PC and my netbook.

But there are still so many little things to do before I sleep tonight.

And tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, too.

Out of here

This will be my last post from the old house.

It's 9:30 a.m. on Wednesday, June 19.

I'll miss it ... but not too much.

Five people are here, loading all of my earthly possessions onto a truck for the move to the new apartment.

They're actually waiting for me to finish up at the computer desk, and then that too will go out the door.

That's why this post is so short.

It's working as planned

And so it begins in earnest.

As I write this on Tuesday morning at 11:39, two very efficient women from Door to Door Solutions are carefully and scrupulously packing everything in preparation for tomorrow's move.

They're good. Really good.

They also have all the supplies they need to do it right. In the past week, I've already moved about six boxes of stuff to the apartment on my own. I did not have the right supplies. I was not as organized as these two women are. My bad.

It's disconcerting. There are boxes everywhere. I keep having to look for a pencil or pen to jot things down. The fridge has a bottle of soda, half of a sandwich, and a container of yogurt in it. That's all. I'll be on my own for dinner tonight. It'll probably be a double cheeseburger from McDonald's.

They're not packing the coffee maker. I'll definitely need that tomorrow morning.

Hiring a company that packs, moves, and unpacks my belongings has made this so much easier than it might have been. Hiring a designer, who came up with an imaginative floor plan and will be on site tomorrow to supervise placement, was also a smart idea. A friend -- a former curator at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts and a colleague for three decades -- badgered me into using a designer. Thanks, Maggie!

Tonight I'll have my TV and my computer, a bed, a lamp, and a chair to sit in while I read, and my morning supplies: toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, shaving cream, mouthwash, shampoo and soap.

Everything else will be packed, wrapped, secured, boxed or padded, and waiting for the movers at 9 a.m.

Sure, I'm stressed. I expected to be.

But the move is going exactly as planned.

And that's the good news on Tuesday, June 18, 2013.

The countertop to-do list

There might be a better way to do it.

In fact, I'm sure there must be a better way. Perhaps I should set up a spreadsheet, with check boxes, on my computer.

But I've chosen to use sticky notes on the kitchen counter.

Decades ago, my friend Walter "officially" inducted me into the Virgo Tidy Corps. Virgos like us want our lives to be neat, orderly and organized. We both fit the description.

I'm getting even more organized now because the big move is just a week away. I'll be going from homeowner to apartment dweller.

And there are so many things I have to remember to do in the next week. I've gotten a lot done already, but it seems like every few hours I think of one more thing I have to do.

So I started jotting my to-do list on sticky notes and putting them in a spot that I look at a lot -- next to the Mr. Coffee machine on the countertop in the kitchen.

(I'm not sure I could get through this without coffee. Or my sticky notes.)

They change daily, sometimes twice or three times a day. I remember something I have to do, I write it down, and when it's done, the sticky note goes into the trash.

Sure, it looks amateurish.

But it works for me.

And it's very satisfying to complete a task and toss the note away.

We Virgos are like that.

But always lurking in the back of my mind is the fact that my membership in the Virgo Tidy Corps is at risk.

I'm certain that Walter would be using Excel.

Hat trick

Home is where you hang your hat.

So the first of my worldly stuff that I took into the new apartment today was one of my hats. It's now hanging in the big closet in what will be my bedroom.

The process of moving continues, and the pace is picking up.

Tomorrow, somebody with far more taste than I'll ever have is taking a look at the new space and will offer suggestions on furniture placement.

This is a good thing, because I'm not as visually literate as you might think I'd be. If you know that I worked at an art museum for three decades, you'd think I might have at least metabolized something about the visual world. Not true. I'm in my comfort zone with words more so than with images -- ergo Cogito.

This is not to say I am devoid of ideas for this new place where I will be hanging more hats in days to come. But a small voice keeps whispering in my ear: Your design sense is pedestrian. So, I'm looking forward to expert suggestions.

I spent about a half hour in the apartment today, checking on little things and getting comfortable with the layout. I determined that both front door keys worked, the mailbox key works, and -- yes -- there really is as much closet space as I remembered, probably more than I have in my two-story house.

And one more thing I checked: The windowsills are wide enough for Cassie to sit on.

She's more visual than I am. She'll relish the view from the 9th floor.

The two big questions

Now that word of my decision to sell my house is leaking out, there are two questions that I am almost inevitably asked.

"Are you going to have a house-warming party in your new apartment?"

"What does Cassie think about the impending move?"

I'm not planning to throw a big housewarming party. I don't do big parties. I'm neither fond of going to big parties nor of hosting big gatherings.

I plan to have friends over -- in small groups -- to see my new place. It'll take a while to get everything organized, but they will be invited.

One thing I have to do is find a new dining-room table. The one I have now is too big and ungainly for the new space. It's been in the family for close to six decades, and it's a beautiful piece of furniture. I hope I can pass it on to a relative or a good friend. It has served the Dales well for two generations, but it's time for it, too, to find a new home of its own.

And to the extent that a house-warming party is one to which those invited bring gifts to "warm up" the new space, no, thank you. I'm downsizing, not upsizing. I have more stuff than I want or need already.

(Anybody need a staple gun? Mine has been sitting in a cigar box in the basement for at least 20 years. I haven't used it since my black lab ran away from home in 1996 and I tacked up notices on the trees in the neighborhood. I found my dog and haven't used the staple gun since. Or how about a perfectly serviceable suitcase? I have four, and three of them are in the giveaway pile in the guest bedroom. Each brings back warm memories of trips to Europe. Also up for grabs is a Zippo lighter that belonged to my late sister. It has a Washington Redskins logo on it. What with the fuss about the Redskins name, that might soon be a collector's item. Maybe I should hang on to it.)

As for questions #2, I haven't told Cassie about the move yet, although I suspect she thinks that something is afoot. (Do cats think? Cassie doesn't appear to ponder much beyond her next meal and the availability of a warm lap. Oh, and a good place to take a nap.)

She's taken some interest in the giveaway pile, especially since it's encroaching on her favorite space to snooze.

She'll like the apartment. It's on the ninth floor, and that will give her new windowsills to sit on and the opportunity to view the world from a perspective she's never experienced before.

Cassie will be just fine. Her food dish, water dish, litter box and cat toys -- especially the red felt mouse she positively venerates -- will be there when she arrives. She'll no doubt spend a week or so exploring every fresh nook and cranny. I'll tell her to look at the move as an exciting adventure. She might not pay attention, but she is, truth be told, along for the ride whether she approves or not.

She won't worry long, if at all. She's easily distracted, wherever she might be and whatever her mood. All I have to do is toss a crumpled-up sticky note.

Or her red felt mouse.

She'll throw herself into play mode and forget all her cares.

Would that life could be so simple for the rest of us.

Sorting ... sort of

This picture was taken by my mother on September 11, 1943, my first birthday.

Sorting. Deciding. Eliminating.

And, best of all, discovering.

As I get ready for the big downsize from a house to an apartment, the biggest chore is choosing what to take with me, what to give away (or sell), and what to toss in the trash.

But there are also discoveries.

I found something Sunday that I had never seen before: A letter to me from my father. It was tucked away in a box of papers and photographs I had found in a closet when I was cleaning out my mother's house, getting it ready for sale in 2006, the year before she died.

The letter from my father was dated July 18, 1943. It was addressed to Master Donnie Dale.

I was less than a year old.

He probably wrote it either on board a ship headed for the South Pacific or in New Zealand where the Seabees staged for their part in the bloody but ultimately successful effort to take the strategically placed Solomon Islands away from the Japanese.

The short letter, written in ink and in my father's clear cursive style, was in response to a letter my mother had sent him that purportedly was from me. Of course she had written it; I was too young to talk much, let alone write a letter.

It's difficult to describe how I felt when I found the long-forgotten letter. I was touched by how sweet it was. I imagined the turmoil he was going through so far from home on the eve of a dangerous campaign. I was so very glad I had found it. And I was astonished that it had survived for six decades.

Here, for the record, is what he had to say:

Darling little fellow,

Daddy got your letter and read it several times. Between the lines I read that you love me. And Daddy loves you too, you and your Mamma. So you be a good little boy for me and look after your mother until I get back, for you are the only man in the family there at home now. And you kiss Mamma good morning for me every morning.

Daddy

P.S. Daddy loves you both.

Next: another closet

My, how the time does fly.

Thirty-three years ago, I moved into my house.

In another couple of weeks, I'll be moving out.

When I first contemplated it, the task of moving from a house and into an apartment was daunting. But now that I've done all of the research -- into real estate agents, moving companies, new apartments -- it seems less complicated.

But it's still going to be a tough row to hoe.

I interviewed three real estate agents. I looked at a half-dozen apartments. I talked to moving companies.

The solution appears to be throwing money at the problem. But selling the house will more than cover that -- and probably cover me for as long as I am on the right side of the grass.

I'll also save money. No more yardman. No more housekeeper. No more property taxes. And the list goes on.

They key to the process is to take it one step at a time. Today, I'll do this. Tomorrow, I'll do that. As the ancient Chinese writer Laozi said, "A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step."

The first step is weeding out the junk. Over the past three decades, I have accumulated so much stuff. I've adopted a flexible guideline: If I haven't used it, read it, or needed it for five years, out it goes.

Family and close friends will have first dibs on books, tchotkes, unneeded furniture, etc. The next step will be to call Diversity Thrift.

Anybody need a 1950s wicker picnic basket, complete with checkered tablecloth, early-plastic plates and cups, and an unopened package of paper napkins? There are even slots in the plastic plates to hold the plastic cups. Sixty years ago, the family often used that picnic basket. It's been all over our neck of Virginia, from Natural Bridge to Yorktown. I've had it since my mother died and have never used it.

I spent the past weekend cleaning out two closets and the attic. I bought a 10-pack of yard-waste bags for the throwaway stuff. I used them all, as you can see in the picture above. The trash men hauled it all away this morning.

I have another closet and a pantry to handle next.

One step at a time.

There are lots of small things I'll move myself. If I weren't taking a fitness class five mornings per week, I'd never have the energy to do this.

Moving day is about three weeks away.

I suppose I'd better buy some more big plastic bags.

Tasting the weather

There's a whole lot of "little accumulation" on my deck as of 6:47 p.m. on this Sunday, March 24.

Sleet fell for most of the afternoon, but it started snowing later, not long before 5 p.m. This is what accumulated in just a couple of hours.

It's a pretty snow -- fluffy and wet and making lacy sculpture out of the everyday stuff of life outdoors.

This will likely be the last snow of the season for Richmond. We've been lucky so far this winter, although I wouldn't say that if I were 10 years old. The snowfalls we had this winter were light and manageable -- and mostly gone within hours. As this one is forecast to be.

Loving unusual winter weather is for the young. I had Sunday dinner with the family today, and my young great-niece Milagros pestered me mercilessly until I agreed to go outside with her so she could "play in the sleet." She bundled up and ran out into the backyard, dancing with joyful abandon. She delighted in sticking her tongue out as far as she could, trying to catch ice pellets so that she could see what they taste like.

I stayed on the porch, under cover.

Were I still her age, I'd have been right out there tasting the sleet with her.

It seems like only yesterday

I think it must happen when you pass 60 years old.

You'll see a published list of memorable events or movies or whatever, and you think, I lived through that!

One good thing about hanging out with people my own age is that we all remember the same things, even the stuff we'd like to forget. Like pink shirts and black knit ties. Or truly dreadful lyrics, like "Julie, Julie, Julie, do ya love me?"

(For the record, the title of the song was "Julie, Do Ya Love Me." It was by Bobby Sherman, and it made it to No. 5 on the Top Ten list in 1970. You can listen to it by clicking here. Remember, you've been warned.)

But I digress. I'd rather talk about good memories.

I was reminded of how long I've walked the planet this week when the Library of Congress announced that it was adding 25 more songs, albums and other audio recordings to the National Recording Registry for preservation.

I'm familiar with a lot of the new entries -- not all, though, since some predate even me. But two of them stuck out: "The Twist" by Chubby Checker and "The Sounds of Silence" by Simon and Garfunkle.

Both have sticking power. If you're at least a teenager today, you probably know them. One was memorable because it made a dance form de rigueur with young people in the early 1960s, and the other was memorable for the artistry of its music and the poignancy of its lyrics at a time when the 1960s were becoming the Sixties.

It was "The Twist" (1960) that was responsible for the dance craze that bears its name. People danced the twist at fraternity parties, in church basements and at country club soirees for several years. My memories of the twist originated at Phi Delta Theta parties at the University of Richmond. The carefree exuberance with which we threw ourselves into this simple dance was fueled by warm nights, perhaps too much bourbon, and sheer youthful enthusiasm.

On a Saturday evening, you could walk the length of Fraternity Row and see people in every house dancing the twist with wild abandon. It was a young person's dance. Older people just couldn't seem to let go of their inhibitions. "The Twist" deserves to be remembered, if only because of its brief but pervasive influence on party culture.

"The Sounds of Silence" (1966) couldn't provide more of a contrast. It was originally released by Simon and Garfunkle in a purely acoustic version on their first album, which didn't sell so well. A Columbia Records producer, without telling the artists, took another listen to the song and overdubbed the acoustic version with drums, electric guitar and electric bass.

The title of the remixed song was changed to "The Sound of Silence," and it was released as a single. It was a surprise hit. You couldn't listen to radio without hearing it.

The two songs illustrate the dramatic shift that took place in popular music between the early 1960s and the mid-1960s. The bubble-gum sounds and lyrics of those earlier times were replaced by lyrics that spoke to a frustrated generation that was beginning to recognize itself as an instrument of change.

It was the difference between "We're gonna twisty, twisty, twisty, till we tear the house down" and these lyrics written by Paul Simon and Art Garfunkle:

And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming ...

Both songs say so much about their times, and they tell us about a generation that was at times dissolute and at times courageous.

By the way, this week also marked the 50th anniversary of the U.K. release of the Beatles' first album, "Please Please Me," in 1963. I remember it well.

Like the hits, the recollections just keep on coming. And they keep reminding me that what seems to me to be current events is really history.

TV news graphics knead a spell chequer

The people responsible for the words you see on screen during local newscasts are not dumb.

They’re just doing too much work in too little time. The evening news starts at 6:00:00 p.m., not at 6:00:30 -- whether you’re ready or not. And when a deadline is seconds away, there’s not always a dictionary at hand.

That said, however …

They do make misteaks … um … mistakes.

Take the full-screen graphic I spotted (see above image) on the WTVR evening news on Feb. 24: “IN THE WEE AHEAD.” That just sounds creepy. What happened to the missing letter? Is there a “k” shortage, and nobody told me? Here are a few, just in case somebody needs them: KKKKKKKKKKKKKK

Then there was the graphic on the 6 o’clock news on WWBT on Feb. 2: “HOSTAGE SITUTATION.”

Or how about another one from WTVR on Feb. 5 in the 6 a.m. newscast: “HISTORICAL SOCIETY WANTS MORE MOMENTOES.” They’re “mementos,” not “momentoes.” The word is from the same Latin root as “remember” and “memory.” Try not to forget.

Sometimes the fingers fly across the keyboard so fast that things just get all jumbled. When the city announced new rules about trash cans being left out in the alley or front walk too long, we got this on WTVR: “RICHMOND TO FINE RESDIENTS $50 PER DAY.” Resdients might have to pay that fine, but will us residents?

The same station recently gave us “PRINE WILLIAM COUNTY.”

There must be something about princes that flummoxes WTVR. Three days later, we got “RINCE GEORGE COUNTY” on the evening news.

Or maybe it’s counties, not royalty, that are tripping up the much-maligned graphic artists. When it snowed last week, Channel 6 brought us a live report from “HERNICO COUNTY.”

The so called “grocer’s apostrophe” is making its way to our TV screens, too. You know what that is. Signs in grocery stores often seem to reflect confusion about how you make a plural out of a singular noun. So we get signs that say “BANANA’S ON SALE.” There ought not be an apostrophe in the plural of “bananas.” Just add an “s” and be done with it. No need to make it complicated. Instead, on the local news one night last month, we got “POLICE FOUND ESCAPEE’S IN HER HOUSE.”

Sometimes, it’s not the graphics but the pronunciation that trips up TV broadcasters. The deadlines are tight, and they just bluff their way through. That’s no doubt what happened recently when Mark Holmberg blew it, big time.

I like Mark Holmberg’s work. He goes places where other reporters are afraid to go -- under bridges at night to talk to the homeless or into the thick of the action on the streets to work a crime scene. He seems fearless. But it’s clear he’s never worn a military uniform.

His heart was in the right place last week when he reported at 11 o’clock on Channel 6 about the line-of-duty shooting death of a Virginia State Trooper. “State Troopers are a different breed...” he told us, “more like the Marine Corpse, really.”

By now I’m sure uncountable Marines have told him that the “p” and the “s” in “Marine Corps” are silent. It’s pronounced “Core.” (His report is preserved for posterity on the Internet. You can see it by clicking here.)

Deadlines: I love the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.

It reminds me of the old saying about work product: “You can have it fast, right, or cheap.”

Pick any two.

Snow days

I was looking out of my dining room window at the snow swirling sideways last Wednesday morning when I remembered what an important job my brother Jimmy Jr. had back in the 1960s and ‘70s.

He was the man who could close Henrico County schools.

Jimmy was by then Director of Construction and Maintenance for Henrico public schools. When snow was falling he’d brave the weather and drive the roads of the county -- which was much more rural then -- to determine whether school buses would be able to make their runs safely.

I talked to Jimmy’s daughter, my niece Terry Dale Cavet, this morning about what it was like to live with such an important personage. Ironically, Jimmy lived in the city, in what is now the near West End, and his decisions didn’t affect Terry, who was a teenager attending Albert Hill Middle School in Richmond.

“In those days, he was much more conservative than they are today. He’d only close the schools if there was an absolutely obvious danger,” she told me.

“Might be,” she said, “was not a good enough reason.” He would, however, keep a close eye also on what other local school jurisdictions were doing.

Those test drives of the Henrico county roads mostly happened when it was snowing late at night, just before Jimmy went to bed, although sometimes snow would begin to fall overnight and he’d have to get up to make his test drives very early in the morning.

Jimmy was well-qualified to make the decision. He had a degree in building construction from VPI and a master’s in education from U.Va.

And he had a driver’s license and a car.

Terry lobbied hard for Henrico students, even though she lived in the city. She pleaded with her father to shut down the schools on those occasions when the decision might go one way or the other. I doubt that he took her requests for a school-free “snow day” in Henrico into account.

Jimmy stayed on the job for Henrico schools, making those hard calls, until the day he died, at age 48.

Terry reminded me that when Jimmy died, the county school system flew its flags at half-staff. That was in late October of 1974. On the day he was buried, the high temperature was 82 degrees, and it did not snow.

Time and a quirky film

Forty-two years ago, two friends and I were talking about movies. I said something that has haunted me since.

First, a little setup. One of the friends was, even then, a movie snob. Except he would never call them movies. They were films. The other was decidedly less so, although he did and still does approach movies with more reverence and attention than I give them. I think his secret is watching more closely and analytically while still losing himself in the plot.

The first friend, the snob -- and he was a condescending person in many other ways, as well -- went on to study, teach and write about film.

Me? I usually just let a movie wash over me. Unless, over the years, I find myself drawn back to it. Only then do I start to notice the hows and whys, the lighting, the acting, the direction.

For example, I have gone back again and again to movies such as "Casablanca," most anything by Hitchcock except his early British efforts, movies in which Cary Grant plays Cary Grant, "Charade," "It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World," "How to Steal a Million," "Gone With the Wind," "Gosford Park," "Nashville," "The Best Years of Our Lives," "To Kill a Mockingbird," "The Russians Are Coming, The Russians Are Coming," and "High Society."

That's not a complete list. Although it shows that my interests range wide.

But I digress.

Forty-two years ago, I told my two friends that I had seen and liked "The Sterile Cuckoo," a 1969 movie starring a then almost-unknown Liza Minnelli and directed by Alan J. Pakula (who would later direct "All the President's Men" and "Sophie's Choice").

They laughed and mocked my taste. They said my judgment was frivolous and unstudied.

Minnelli was nominated for Best Actress in a Leading Role for "The Sterile Cuckoo." (She lost to Maggie Smith in "The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie"). Critics said Minnelli's performance was commendable, but that the direction was flawed. I thought she was very young, talented, awkward, and gangly -- perfect for the part -- yet she had an un-self-conscious elegance and grace.

My opinion of the movie became a joke, and it continued over the years. I might say something at dinner or at a party, and one of those two friends would say, "But you liked 'Sterile Cuckoo'!" It always got a laugh, eventually even from me: I learned to play the non-sophisticate in their game.

Recently, one of the friends took the joke up a notch and sent me a DVD of -- you guessed it -- "The Sterile Cuckoo." I was nearly afraid to watch it. Would I still (gasp!) like it? Or this time would I look at it as a waste of time?

Eventually, I popped the DVD into the player.

Here's a slightly edited version of what I wrote later via email to the friend who sent it to me:

I think what I identified with at the time was the neediness in Minnelli's character. Always feeling like an outsider, unsure but determined to appear confident. A tendency to latch on to people. An inclination to exaggerate stories to make an impression. A lack of self-esteem. "Yeah, I know what that's like" was something I said to myself a lot on first seeing the movie.

But it held my interest 42 years later. Watching it today, I was still filled with compassion for the character and for the me that found something relevant in the movie in 1970.

It's quite a daring story for its time. Boy meets girl. Both are virgins. They have sex. In the end, he walks away. It's not a difficult plot. But remember the times and remember how young love was most often depicted in movies in those times.

Minnelli, about whom I knew little then ("Cabaret" hit the big screen two years later), demonstrated her remarkable presence and potential.

The male lead was as dull as dishwater.

Today ... well the movie is an artifact, not all that memorable but interesting as Minnelli's first major movie role. I am not at all embarrassed for having liked it a lot ... in 1970.

I'm glad that a movie that I liked long ago still holds something for me.

"The Sterile Cuckoo" has met the test of time. For me, anyway.

Snow again

When snow falls -- even as little as we had yesterday afternoon -- I stay home, where it's warm and safe.

Sometimes I build a fire in the woodstove just because watching the flames reminds me of my childhood, when snowfalls made everything seem somehow more special. My mom used to slow-cook a soup or a stew and make yeast rolls or cornbread, because she thought it warmed her family. She was, I think, correct.

Sometimes I do the same. You can get creative and make a soup or stew using most anything you have on hand. The secret is in the broth (a slow process) and the simmering of the whole concatenation all day in a big pot on the back burner. The aroma that fills the house is almost as good as the taste of whatever eventually comes out of the pot. Almost.

I stay at home because I don't like being on the streets and roads. What worries me is not my driving. I'm troubled by all the other drivers.

Richmonders don't know how to drive in the snow. Not even with as little snow as we had yesterday afternoon. Some don't slow down much. Most fail to plan ahead or anticipate what other drivers might do. There's a litany of things Richmonders don't know about safe driving when the streets are snowy or slushy or icy.

Yesterday afternoon, I had an appointment in Carytown, and it started snowing while I was inside. By the time I walked out 90 minutes later, snow covered the streets and was falling hard. You couldn't go six blocks without seeing some driver who had run into something, either another car, a ditch, a tree, or a lamp pole. Local police reported 60 snow-related accidents in three hours.

I made it home safely. But slowly.

I lived in a German mountain village for three years in the late 1960s. I learned how to drive in the snow and ice because the roads were snowy or icy all winter.

You can see a live image of the streets of that village, Bitburg, by clicking here. As I write this, it's the middle of the night in Bitburg. There's snow against the village gutters and the streets look icy. The temperature is 27 degrees.

Summers were glorious in the Eifel Mountains in Germany -- while they lasted. We always thought we were lucky if the temperature reached as much as 80 degrees on July 4. It reminded me a lot of the Appalachian region of Virginia. But the winters were cold. Very cold.

By the time I got home yesterday evening, it was dusk. The temperatures were falling further below freezing. It was good to walk into a warm house.

It was even better to have a bowl of rich beef, carrot and tomato stew. (I used a few of my home-frozen bags of Hanovers from last summer.) I made the stew the night before with a heavy hand on the garlic, basil and oregano.

I built a fire in the woodstove.

Life felt almost as good and safe as it was when I was a child.

Almost.