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."