July Fourth memories

On July 4th, 1995, I was with my friend Walter on a cruise up the Rhine River in Europe, from Nijmegen to Basel. The spires on the left are those of the Cologne Cathedral. (Don Dale photo, 1995)

I must have spent a week in 1995 searching Richmond malls for a shirt with an American flag on it. I was surprised at how hard the task turned out to be.

I finally found one, a designer T-shirt with a tiny flag on the pocket, at Hechts at Regency. A salesman found it for me in the stockroom. It was outrageously expensive for a T-shirt.

But I needed it.

My friend Walter and I had planned a trip to Europe -- Amsterdam for a few days, then a cruise up the Rhine River from nearby Nijmegen, Holland, to Basel, Switzerland, and then a leisurely drive through the Black Forest and on back to Amsterdam.

We knew that we'd be on a German cruise ship, the Britannia, on July 4th, and I wanted to wear a shirt with Old Glory on it.

That was my fourth celebration of July 4th in another country. I had spent Independence Day in Germany in 1967, '68 and '69 while in the U.S. Air Force.

There's something about being in a foreign country on the day we celebrate independence, something that makes me feel the holiday more keenly, something that makes me feel somehow more "American."

At Bitburg and Spangdahlem air bases, where I lived for three years, the celebrations were almost over the top. Our German neighbors were all invited to celebrate Independence Day on base with us -- with free hot dogs, hamburgers, corn on the cob, baked beans, potato salad, ice cream, live music, games and -- as dusk fell -- spectacular fireworks.

(Two things about our German neighbors at those celebrations stand out in my memory. They loved -- absolutely loved! -- the American ice cream because the butterfat content was so high. But ... they were very leery of the corn on the cob. Corn, to these mostly rural people, was a food for livestock. Once they tasted corn on the cob drenched in melted butter and salt, however, they changed their minds. I understand that the German attitude towards corn on the cob has changed significantly since then.)

Almost thirty years later, Walter and I, as Americans, were a distinct minority on board the Britannia. But our Independence Day had not been forgotten by the ship's German social director. We awoke to find a large "Happy July 4th" banner above the staircase up to the ship's main deck. The Germans and the French, who dominated the ship's passenger manifest, greeted us all day long with exclamations of "Happy July 4th." It was actually quite touching.

For lunch, we asked our waiter if he could arrange for the chef to make us each a cheeseburger. It wasn't the best burger I've ever eaten, but we appreciated the chef's effort. Cheeseburgers, after all, were nowhere to be found on most European menus.

I proudly wore my shirt with the tiny American flag on it for the whole day.

I've celebrated July 4th at backyard cookouts at my parents' house, at picnics with friends at Dogwood Dell, at pot-luck block parties with neighbors, grilling with friends on my own deck (you can see the fireworks at The Diamond from my front porch), and with family at my nephew's place on the Rappahannock River.

But those four Independence Days abroad brought out an extra touch of pride and patriotism in me. Those celebrations are among my favorite memories.

I still have that white designer T-shirt with the tiny flag on the pocket. It's a bit faded, but I still make sure I wear it at some point each July 4th.

Rainbow flags and dead horses

The rainbow flag flew in front of the Federal Reserve building in Richmond throughout June, Gay Pride Month, in Richmond.

Kudos to the Chairman of the Federal Reserve Board for so far ignoring a complaint letter about the Richmond Fed's flying of the rainbow flag in June in celebration of Gay Pride Month.

Delegate Bob Marshall, a Republican who represents Virginia's 13th District and whose politics place him just to the right of James Dobson, continued to flog what was essentially a dead horse throughout the month. Marshall wrote letters to the editor, called news conferences, and complained to the president of the Richmond Fed, Jeffrey Lacker.

And still the rainbow flag flew.

(It's an attractive flag. I thought it brought some much-needed color to downtown Richmond.)

Undeterred by the fact that his horse, much like himself, had no measurable brain-wave activity, Marshall continued to flail away. And then it appears that he over-reached himself. He sputtered out a complaint to Ben Bernanke, the Chairman of the Federal Reserve Board.

Bernanke, perhaps with more pressing matters on his mind, has not yet responded.

The point is now somewhat moot.

The rainbow flag flew on.

It would be so easy to mock Marshall's letter, analyze it, and deconstruct it. Not being one to pile on, I'll just say that the letter speaks for itself.

June 24, 2011

Dear Chairman Bernanke:

I write you as a senior member of the Virginia House of Delegates regarding the decision of the Federal Reserve Bank in Richmond to fly the homosexual, bisexual and transgender rainbow flag, along with the American flag, at its Richmond offices during June.

This act appears to violate the Richmond Fed's own political advocacy policy: "Federal Reserve Banks have a unique need to protect their independence from the political process ... an employee may not engage in political activity while on duty or on Bank premises, and must be extremely cautious to avoid any suggestion of Bank sponsorship or support of such activities."

In the Richmond Fed's June 16, 2011 public response to me, Mr. Jeffrey Lacker first reported that this decision "generated considerable public reaction," but then disputed that flying this rainbow flag was a "political or social statement." His response failed to explain how this decision to fly the rainbow flag was arrived at, other than to say employees requested it.

Mr. Lacker also failed to address how the Fed made its decision or how it would handle future requests from other employee groups. However, a reporter later told me that a Fed spokesman had said it would be a non-starter if an employee group requested the Richmond Fed to even consider flying a Christian Flag or a Flag of the Sons of the Confederacy.

The New York Times reported (6-10-11) that, "Jim Strader, a spokesman for the bank, said the bank had fielded hundreds of phone calls and as many e-mails about the flag. ... One of the most popular arguments by the flag's opponents was that the bank is a government institution ... Mr. Strader's response is that the bank is in fact privately owned, as are all regional Federal Reserves, and that it considers requests by employees ... but not the general public."

As chairman of the Federal Reserve System please advise me of the following:

(1) Did the Richmond Fed violate its own non-partisan directive? If so, what steps will you take to ensure that it does not happen again.

(2) Regardless of whether the flag flying violated the Richmond Fed policy, should the Federal Reserve, and/or its 12 regional banks, use Fed money to take such public advocacy positions?

(3) Mr. Strader's comments about the status of the Richmond Fed are problematic. Was Fed spokesman Jim Strader accurate when he told the New York Times that the Fed's 12 regional member banks are privately owned, and not governmental in nature? I look forward to your response.

Sincerely,

Delegate Bob Marshall
R - 13th District of Virginia

And the rainbow flag flew on ... all the way through Gay Pride Month.

In praise of local tomatoes

(Don Dale photo, 2011)

Forget the imperfections. They can be trimmed away. Instead, glory in the taste of the first of summer's most-anticipated bounty -- the locally grown tomato.

My grandmother Nichols always told me that you could expect the first of your home-grown tomatoes to ripen in time for July 4th. I used to grow my own in the back yard, but I gave it up after several droughts, a few losing battles with squirrels, and the realization that I could always depend on the kindness of neighbors.

But I found some genuine Hanover tomatoes several days ago at my favorite roadside vegetable stand. I spent about $4.50 for five beautiful specimens, knowing full well that the price per pound would fall dramatically as the season wears on. No matter: The first is always the best.

I've been told that it's the soil in Hanover County that makes Hanover tomatoes so delicious. Whatever the reason, they're one of the many precious gifts that come from living in Central Virginia. I remember bringing home at least a bushel basketful in the 1960s when a friend of mine and I spent several backbreaking days picking tomatoes at his parents' Hanover County farm. But the effort paid off because we could stop to eat as many as we wanted, ripe and warm from the sun and right off the vine, as we sweated our way up and down row after row.

Hanover tomatoes are the best, but backyard-garden tomatoes come close. When I was a kid, my father used to eat the first one of his vine-ripe tomatoes, from our backyard, much like he'd eat an apple, while standing over the kitchen sink with a salt shaker in his free hand. I didn't grow tomatoes myself this year, but I did eat the first Hanover tomato I purchased while standing at the kitchen sink. It was akin to a religious experience.

I sliced the second tomato, spread two slices of white bread with mayonnaise, and made a sandwich.

Since then, I have had sliced ripe tomatoes with balsamic vinaigrette, roast chicken sandwiches with tomato slices, tomatoes cut into chunks and topped with blue cheese, and salt-and-peppered tomato slices with scrambled eggs and bacon. Tonight, I'll have chopped Hanover tomatoes, shrimp, minced garlic, butter and Parmesan cheese over pasta.

This is my paean, my song of joyful praise, to the Hanover tomato. There is none -- none! -- better.

Going home again

Built in 1940, this is the first house I remember living in. It looked far different when I lived there. (Don Dale photo, 2011)

Last week, I drove by the first house I remember living in. It looks somewhat shabby now.

I've spent the past few days trying to decide what that ought to mean to me.

We moved there in 1946, when I was 4. My father had just gotten out of the Navy after service as a Seabee in the South Pacific during World War II. Ten years later, our family, like so many others, moved to the suburbs as part of the "white flight" that followed the 1954 Supreme Court decision in Brown v. Board of Education.

When I was a kid, there were red azaleas along the front of the house, a boxwood hedge surrounded the front yard (how I hated having to help trim that hedge), a huge maple tree with a swing dominated the back yard, and deep purple hydrangeas flanked the house.

My mother loved gardening (something I never appreciated until I had a house of my own). Her brick-edged flower borders stretched the length of both sides of the back yard, with tulips, daffodils, irises and lilies in the spring, followed by sweet williams, petunias, hollyhocks and verbena in the summer.

Our next-door neighbors, the Adamses, had a damson plum tree that overhung the fence, and we kids would enjoy those plums right from the tree until we got thoroughly sick of them. My mother would make damson preserves every year.

The Schwartzes, who lived on the other side, kept bantam chickens in a coop on the fenceline -- one rooster and one hen. Mr. Schwartz would sometimes let them out to peck in his yard and let me come over and play with them. They were quite tame, and neither Mr. Schwartz nor the bantam chickens seemed to mind my chasing them. As I recall it, I was not yet quite old enough to catch them.

Across the alley behind us, a neighbor had a grape arbor that we were allowed to ravage when the fruit was ripe. The dark purple grapes were a treat on a hot summer day. Running barefoot across the alley one afternoon, I stepped on a nail that went right through my foot. It hurt like hell, but the rest of the neighborhood kids kept asking me to take off the bandage so they could see the hole. It was my morsel of glory that summer.

Essie Taylor and her husband lived two doors down from us, on the corner. Essie -- she encouraged us to call her by her first name -- was my favorite neighbor. Childless herself, she seemed to me like a doting, loving aunt. I adored her dog, a liver-spotted pointer named Pierre, whose tail would begin a frenzied wagging each time he saw me. I spent many a splendid summer afternoon playing with Pierre in Essie's back yard.

Later, when I was about 8, we got a black cocker spaniel of our own, and he was my boon companion. My father named him Mr. Boh, after the character in the TV commercials for National Bohemian beer. My mother used to clip his long ears up with a clothespin when he ate to keep them out of his food dish.

(Mr. Boh, an enthusiastic if indiscriminate epicure, once ate an entire box of Crayolas that my sister had left on the back porch -- 48 crayons, including aquamarine and cotton-candy pink. To the extreme delight of me and my friends, Mr. Boh left a rainbow of colorful deposits in the yard for several days.)

I had an abundance of playmates my age. Buddy lived across the street. When we were old enough to ride bicycles, he and I would roam far and wide through Fairmount, from the Luck's Field playground to the edge of Woodville. In the winter, we'd make snowmen in my front yard and throw snowballs -- and stay outside until our fingers grew numb and our lips turned blue.

Just down the block was my friend Jerry. His father had died in Normandy during the war. His mother had remarried, and Jerry had a younger brother who was about my sister's age. Jerry and I would ride our bikes over to Oakwood Cemetery, about a mile away, and catch tadpoles in the creek under the old stone bridge and explore the markers on the graves of Confederate soldiers. The dates on their gravestones seemed to us to belong to a faraway time when the world was much younger.

In the hot summers, after dark, we'd all gather under the weak glow of the streetlight at the end of our block and catch fireflies in mayonnaise jars or play ring-a-levio, a highly stylized and complex game of tag that involved competing teams. The game would end with cries of "olly olly oxen free" as our parents began to call out into the night for us to come home.

Remembering those days brings to mind a time when the world was simultaneously finite and limitless. The future was as far away as the stars, and the adults all seemed to be wise and loving guardians.

As I look at our old house now, with its front windows boarded up and the yard unkempt, I know once more the truth of what Thomas Wolfe wrote: You can't go home again.

The physical space might remain. The time, however, no longer exists. Except in memories.

But the passage of more than half a century and a picture of a boarded-up house cannot dim my recollections of that childhood full of golden light and freedom from all responsibility.

Don't pet the cat, Donnie

A grocery store still exists today at the corner of 22nd and X streets in Fairmount. (Don Dale 2011 photo)

I've loved pets all my life. But when I was about 5 years old I met a cat who didn't love me back.

She was a grocery-store cat, not exactly feral, but accustomed to making her own way through life, living behind the small grocery store about two blocks from my house. The shop's owner fed her, giving her scraps from the butcher counter at the back of the store, and made sure she had fresh water. Her life, though, was spent completely outdoors.

She was a sleek, fat tabby, her glossy coat reflecting the fact that she ate well. She had probably lived there since before I was born, and my mom always stopped when we saw her behind the store to let me pet her.

On one fine, sunny, spring morning, my mom was chatting with the store's proprietor when I piped up: "Where's the kitty-cat?"

"She's taking care of her new kittens. She's with them out back in a cardboard box. But don't try to pet her, because she's very protective of her babies."

As we left the store to walk home, my mom holding my hand, I begged her to please let me see the kittens. "Okay," she told me, "but you mustn't try to pet them or she'll bite you."

The cardboard box was just outside the back door of the store, and inside was the beautiful tabby cat and her kittens, their eyes not yet open. Before my mom could stop me, I reached down to pet them.

The mama cat bit me good, quick as a flash -- right through the web between my thumb and my index finger. Her sharp teeth went all the way through.

My mom told me much later that I didn't cry, but that my eyes got as big as saucers as blood dripped from my hand. We hurried home, and she cleaned the wound with peroxide and applied iodine and a bandage. I was lucky that the wound didn't get infected.

I have been bitten again by animals since then. I snagged my first job at the age of 16 working for a veterinarian. One of my duties was to hold dogs and cats while they were being examined, and a few expressed their extreme displeasure by chomping down on me. I quickly learned to wear the heavy leather gloves -- more like gauntlets -- that were always available. Those bites are long forgotten.

But I'll never forget the grocery-store cat who bit me good when I was 5 years old.

I don't get back to Fairmount much any more. It's a long way from my house on Northside to the old neighborhood. But an errand took me back last week, and I couldn't resist driving by the old grocery store.

And the memories came flooding back. Memories of buying kites, grape Popsicles, Yoo-hoos and Duncan yo-yos. Memories of the colorful feed sacks stacked in a corner. Memories of that long-handled clamping device that the grocer used to fetch items from the top shelf behind the counter.

And memories of being bitten by that beautiful cat who lived just outside the store's back door.

A walk with Carol

Carol Amato

I came close to quitting my job at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts in 1995.

Carol Amato, the museum's Chief Operating Officer, talked me in from the ledge.

The full story of why I was set on leaving VMFA is a long one, so I'll try to reduce it to a paragraph. A public promise that had been made to me by the museum's director was broken by one of her subordinates without her knowledge. I found out about the broken promise in a public situation. My supervisor's supervisor, an assistant to the director, made the surprise announcement, in a meeting of senior staff, that a special project had been completed. The project, which I had earlier been promised I would be involved with, was the creation of a videotape to be sold in the museum's shop in connection with a major Faberge touring exhibition in 1996.

The surprise announcement of the broken promise infuriated me. I was as angry as I had ever been during my time at VMFA.

After the meeting I confronted the assistant director, privately, in his office, and vented my fury. I called him a coward, a charlatan and a few other names that don't bear repeating. It was a short but turbulent meeting in which all he could do was stammer a response that he, himself, knew was inadequate.

I left his office, my fury unabated, and headed for Carol's office. Her assistant, perhaps correctly interpreting the look on my face, said Carol was in her office and I should go right in.

Carol was sitting at her desk. "What's wrong?" she asked.

I told her about the promise, which she remembered the director making. She told me that she didn't realize it had been broken, and that she was certain the director didn't know either.

She got up from behind her desk, put her arm around my shoulder and said, "Let's take a walk."

For the next 20 minutes, we walked -- from the museum's staff entrance along Grove Avenue to Sheppard Street, over to Kensington Avenue, then to the Boulevard and back to Grove Avenue, almost a mile. I talked, and Carol listened. She didn't interrupt or ask questions. She just listened.

When I eventually ran out of steam, she told me I had two choices as she saw it: I could quit and throw away a career, or I could stay and take solace in the fact that, although I had been wronged, I was a valued member of the VMFA staff. She encouraged me to take the latter option.

That, to me, was the essence of Carol's managerial style. She could quickly assess a situation and articulate alternative courses. Above all, and throughout her lengthy career in state government, she put people first. "The people who work here are the museum's most important and valuable resource," she often said.

Carol's skills with people were her greatest talent. An arm around a shoulder. "Let's take a walk." Showing respect by listening. Those things might seem inconsequential, but they were powerful tools in her kit.

She came by those skills in more than 40 years in state government. Governor Linwood Holton appointed her as a Commonwealth Intern in 1970. She served as Commissioner of the Department of Labor and Industry under three governors before becoming COO at VMFA.

Two hours after Carol and I walked and talked, the assistant director came to my office and abjectly apologized. A few days later I got a handwritten note from the director expressing deep regret that her promise to me had been broken by a subordinate without her knowledge.

Carol's doing? I don't know, but I suspect so.

I did decide to take the latter course. I stayed at the museum for nine more years before retiring. Carol remained a close friend, and my respect for her grew as I watched how she handled other staff challenges -- and there were many.

Within a few years, the assistant director had moved on, as they say, to pursue "other opportunities."

My dear friend Carol Amato, who retired from VMFA last year, died of pancreatic cancer June 1. She was 66 years old. I will miss her a lot.

Coffee with Cassie

(Don Dale photo 2011)

I make no apologies at all. Call me a simpering, sentimental ailurophile. I plead guilty, your honor.

I signed up for Snapfish because a friend of mine who lives in Louisville shares pictures of his vacations and his two spaniels via the site. Now I get emails from Snapfish with offers "you can't refuse."

I've been quite capable of refusing them.

But I got an offer a few weeks back that I really couldn't turn down. The company said it would send me a free coffee mug with a picture of my choice on it. All I needed to do was submit the image and pay the postage.

I sent off an image of Cassie. A week later I got the mug you see above. I love it. (The postage was negligible.)

So each morning now I have coffee with Cassie.

Pretty cool, huh?