In a rebuke to all the ridiculous stuff - kittens and deer bonding, personality quizzes, baby pictures - people post online, the intrepid Holmes has been posting a page a day from his diary as a 13-year. Imagine a newly-minted teenager on a two-month trip to Europe with the 'rents and brother.
Best of all, it's 1965 and the whole crazy cultural and sexual revolution is unfolding before his virgin eyes.
August 14, 1965
There I bought Thunderball for 3 and 6 (49 cents)...We went to eat dinner at the hotel (boy, there is one good looking girl there).
So when it came time to head out tonight, he was the first person I thought of and we made plans to meet at Amuse.
Arriving first, I staked out three stools, trying to stretch my belongings to indicate "taken." A guy at mid-bar raises an eyebrow about my attempts and suggests the stool next to him so I could guard the other two. "Are they always late?" he asks.
Thinking about it, I couldn't say that they were habitually tardy, but as I pointed out, I probably hadn't noticed their punctuality because my evening wasn't dependent on their arrival. "What if they stand you up?" he asks.
What if they do? I'll still drink Rose and eat something, I'll still admire the Manet-like view of the pink and blue sunset in the back bar's mirror, I'll undoubtedly still talk to strangers. Business as usual, with or without them.
"Being late is one of my pet peeves," he shares. Life will go on if I have to wait, I tell him.
"Tell me your story," he insists and I give him a bulleted summary in record time. "Wow," he says, clearly unprepared for an efficient delivery of key points. "Tell me more."
When he finds out I write about art, he responds with "I love art!" Call me dogmatic, but doesn't everyone love some kind of art? It's like those stupid "I love mountains" bumper stickers. Are there really mountain haters out there? Art haters, too?
What's funny is when he wisecracks and I can't help but laugh. "So that was funny, hmm? I made you laugh." He says it as if he's proving something to me.
When Holmes and Beloved do arrive, the man next to my new friend leans in and tells him loudly, "Now you're going to have to talk to me." He's eager to find out if this is true.
We took our bags to room 19 and then went down to lunch. After lunch, I listened to the radio. "Help" is no. 1 in Scotland at the present.
My attention turned to my friends because after seeing "Help" for the first time last night, I wanted to talk about it. Holmes had seen "Help" in London on opening night, so the film holds a special place in his adolescent memory.
The bartender was new but perfectly capable of delivering a bottle of J. Mourat "Collection" Rose, although we did enjoy a bit of "who's on first" when we asked about specials. Everyone behind the bar claimed to be unable to recall what they were until someone actually checked and found that there were no specials tonight.
The subject of the diary came up and Holmes cracked me up when telling me, "Tomorrow Dad crashes the car." It was like a "coming attractions" for his diary.
Amuse bouches arrived, one perfect bite of shrimp salad on summer tomato, as we talked about the Eastern Shore with the hostess. Once the three of them got off on old Richmond stories, though, I was lost. From here, I do not come, as Yoda would say.
After that I went swimming. The water was very cold and the only other person swimming was Sheila Boyd. I think Sheila must be around 14. Instead of dinner, I had high tea. After high tea, I watched TV.
Holmes had ordered the last rack of lamb in the house, but mussels and sausage were plenty for me while the little lady had truffle fries and fried oysters. Another bottle of J. Mourat benefited us all.
Our dinner travelogue came courtesy of one of the staff who shared his upcoming plans to move to Maui. He's currently living in a packed box-filled apartment and planning to fly first class so he can take extra baggage without a fee.
In the time since he made the call to move, he said he's not yet wavered in his resolve to go. "I have lots of attachments here but nothing keeping me here. I can always come back here and be happy."
If not now, when? My vote was to embrace the new.
From tonight on, I shall start locking this diary.
It was during a trip to the loo that a woman came in and I complimented her hair as she sailed into a stall. From behind the door, she thanked me.
"I've got some gray and it's curly," she said, as if these were bad things. Within moments, we were engaged in a deep philosophical discussion about learning to accept yourself and having a style of your own, all without actually being able to see each other.
By the time she emerged, we were pondering whether our 25-year old selves would have taken any advice from wise old broads like us (unlikely).
I think I'm developing a crush on Sheila. Right before bed I found out her room was no. 15. I accidentally walked into the wrong room.
After introducing himself to my friends, I couldn't help but notice that the guy next to me had begun casually draping his arm on the back of my chair, sometimes even brushing my shoulder or back when he was making a point.
Glamour magazine used to call this a "don't". I did, too.
Someone asked him what this guy did for a living and we discovered that he was an antiques dealer with a sprawling storefront in Hanover County housing millions of items (Holmes guessed one, he claimed six). He often supplies pieces for film shoots. That's when it hit me.
Beloved has a house and three garages full of almost 90 years of family stuff, none of which she needs or uses. Here was a man whose business bought stuff from
How old is your oldest furniture, I asked of her pointedly.
"Some of it's from the 1890s," she said. "But he's not going to want that." The hell he isn't. Although he tried to hide it, I saw him react to the prospect of some pristine antique furniture. Beloved asks how to contact him and he wisely writes down his name, store name, phone number and e-mail and hands her the piece of paper.
He also slides an identical sheet under my silverware, presumably thinking I have antiques to sell as well. I don't.
We then got in the car and drove to the university and the museum. I saw three Rodins at the museum.
When Mr. Punctuality goes to pay his bill, he cracks to the new bartender, "Well, that was an amusing meal." Barkeep groans and says, "Gee, I haven't already heard that too many times."
Holmes has missed the exchange and asks for a summary. I say he told a corny joke the bartender's already heard a bazillion times. "Corny?!" he says to me as if affronted. As Kansas in August, mister.
We have a three-way for dessert, sharing the towering triple chocolate cake - mousse, ganache, cake- with a high hat of laced chocolate, raspberries and blackberries, but Holmes has something different in mind.
We then proceed along the A85 until we reach the town of Oban.
Fifty years ago today, Holmes was in Oban, although at such a tender age, not yet a Scotch drinker. He decides to toast that memory with Oban single malt 14 year malt scotch, neat of course, offering to buy me one but I decline.
I do take his glass and inhale deeply, trying to imagine how wondrous a 13-year old Richmond teenager would have found Scotland in 1965. One thing that's already apparent in his writings is that Holmes' brain was already that of an accountant.
Diary entries include conversion rates from pounds to dollars and references to route numbers, distances, movie ticket prices, even room rates.
I got my first jip, a 10 cent Pepsi for 25 cents.
He may have been jipped monetarily in his young eyes, but it's hard to feel sorry for a kid who spent his thirteenth summer on the Continent.
Walked to a shop and then bought three firecrackers.
I've yet to have high tea. I didn't see "Help" until yesterday. Never read "Thunderball" or any Ian Fleming for that matter. Teenagers could buy firecrackers?
We then came home, watched the "Addams Family" and went to bed.
Well, kiss my arm, Gomez. Thirteen-year old Holmes is my hero.
