The Winter of My Discontent

Sirens wail, are you listening
In the Ward, snow is glistening
A beautiful view, 'though me without you
Walking in a winter wonderland

Gone away is the heron
Here to stay solo Karen
No cause for a song as I go along
Walking in a winter wonderland

On Brown's Island, I can see a snowman
And perhaps built to be Parson Brown
He'll ask if I'm married, I'll say no, man
Though Mom says she can't die until I am

Later on, I'll feel dire
Wanting for talk, not desire
To face once again the want of that friend
Walking in a winter wonderland

Sirens wail, are you listening
In the Ward, streets are glistening
A monochrome view, still moi without vous
Walking in a winter wonderland

All alone on the pipeline
Still it feels like a lifeline
Thinking of this song as I go along
Walking in a winter wonderland

In Jackson Ward, I could build a snowman
And pretend that he's the one I seek
I'll have lots to say to Mr. Snowman
Until my neighbors take me for a freak

When it snows, ain't it thrilling
Though my legs got a chilling
We'll talk and we'll play, the fun, brainy way
Walking in a winter wonderland
Walking in a winter wonderland

Never Enough in the Moment

Even bad ears can't mistake loud for anything else.

My ears may have only just recovered from Wednesday's rock and roll extravaganza, but I'd barely started across the bridge to Brown's Island this morning when I noticed how much higher the canal was. And I mean higher than yesterday.

Walking across the island, my ears soon alerted me that James was raging. At first, I doubted them because I'd walked the pipeline yesterday and the river had been the same as it's been for months: low and calm.

Man, not today, though.

Dipping down to the edges of the island, I was nothing short of gobsmacked at how high and fast-moving the river was compared to a mere 24 hours ago.

Places where I knew rapids existed were now tumultuous explosions of water that engulfed many of the rock landmarks the kayakers use. The bases of train bridge supports where I often see birds stading were engulfed in swirling water.

The rock outcropping where Mac and I used to dip our feet (before we saw a snake there and abandoned it) was completely inaccessible, with water completely covering the rocks we use to get there. What the hell?

And although I was alone, I sensed that the James' volume would have prohibited conversation if I had had a walking companion, so I tried talking loudly to no one, only to be drowned out entirely. I couldn't hear my own voice.

It was a startling enough change from yesterday for me to come home and do some research.  Yesterday when I'd walked, the James had been at 3.71 feet, while today it had risen to 5.65 feet. I walk the river practically every day and I'd never seen such a dramatic change in one day: two feet more of water! Craziness.

Also, I can't wait to go back tomorrow to see what's up.

Tonight was about noise of a different nature. Weeks ago, I'd bought a ticket for San Fermin at the Broadberry and while the venue isn't my favorite, I'll take my chamber pop where I can get it.

The evening started at Sabai (park once, party twice) which was understandably hopping given it was prime time Friday night and there was a show next door, with the added bonus of a classic R&B soundtrack of songs like "Brickhouse" and "Whip It."

I was a little surprised that the garage doors were rolled up (and the massive screens in place) given that the temperature had already dropped to 59 on its way to 47 tonight. I was prepared, though, wearing two tank tops, a sweater and a jean jacket. And a scarf for good measure.

But I adjusted, leaving my jacket on throughout dinner, while the screens afforded me a view of the Halloween costume street theater parading by as I chowed down on the Pad Se Ew with chicken recommended to me by the server as her favorite.

Walking in, the Broadberry was surprisingly uncrowded, despite openers Gracie and Rachel taking the stage within minutes. Not only did the blond Gracie wear white, but her keyboards, mic stand and cord were white, whereas brunette Rachel played a violin with the usual black accouterments. Their drummer Ricky used an abbreviated drum set and mallets to punctuate their songs, despite his name not being included in the band's.

"Most of our songs are about death," Gracie announced, not  a huge surprise given the songs' haunting sound. "This next one is as close to a love song as we get. It's about a stalker and it's called, "Run." Even more impressive was their choral arrangement of a former high school buddy and now rapper Kreayshawn's "Gucci, Gucci," a masterful reworking of a rap about basic bitches. Positively brilliant.

They shared that it was the last night of an eight-city tour, making those in the room feel like we got everything they had left at this point. Their set ended on one perfect note and each threw their hands up in the air to signal "the end."

"San Fermin is next and there's a lot of them," Gracie warned us. "They're really beautiful people."

During the shortest of breaks, I spoke to two people - a server at Laura Lee's and a clarinetist/saxophonist friend and both said the same thing: why was this show so pitifully under-attended? Well, first, it had gotten zero advertising and, second, a lot of Halloween events were going on tonight.

Still, a shame given that a band the caliber of NPR darlings San Fermin was playing for a paltry $14 tonight.

Lined up onstage were "a Telly, a Strat and a P-bass," according to a nearby fan (well, you don't think I could tell, do you?) and it was tough to imagine where the musicians would all fit around all the gear.

The band's eight members - baritone sax, trumpet, drums, guitar, violin, keyboards, two vocalists who also both played guitar - came out with no fanfare to demonstrate how easily they were able to move around each other despite how tight it was.

Vocalist Allen Tate completely won over the room with his baritone and casual charisma, eschewing the high drama of his female counterpart Charlene Kaye for sincerity and the occasional beating of his heart with his hand as he sang.

There was a definite sense that it was the last night of the tour and that they were all really enjoying themselves as they played songs off their past two records as well as the new "Belong." It was truly a highlight hearing "Emily" sung live in Tate's seductive tones.

Let's forget about it, oh
Leave it all alone tonight
And we're waiting on a moment when it feels right
Don't want to talk about it, oh, no

All the credit for the songs and arrangements goes to Yale graduate and keyboard player Ellis Ludwig-Leone, who was easily the most low-key person onstage, except that he beamed a lot, as if proud of his efforts doing the geek work.

Meanwhile, the entire band looked pleased when audience members sang along on choruses.

Their encore ended with "Jackrabbit," with Kaye changing the line "When you're lost in the woods" to "When you're lost in Richmond," setting off a frenzy of cheers as the voices and instruments reached a glorious finale.

To my bad ears, they weren't nearly as loud as the river had been this morning. But at the end of the day, San Fermin made for a mighty fine bookend to what James had begun.

I any case, it felt right.

Ogle 'Em If You See 'Em

After yesterday's thunderstorms, today's air felt scrubbed clean.

Mac and I set out for a walk of fairly epic proportions - 6.82 miles, as it turned out - and returned sweaty, smelly and satisfied. How much more can a woman ask of a friend first thing in the morning?

Heading directly to Brown's Island, I had the brilliant idea that we should begin by walking Belle Isle to see what the lower river levels looked like after the recent flood stage levels.

Now that the water has receded, it's clear just how much of the island's edge the swollen water "ate" away during those torrential days and how uncomfortably close the path around the island is to a precarious drop-off now.

Over near the quarry pond, we chatted with a shirtless guy ("Easy on the eyes," was how Mac described him) who works for one of the outdoor companies who host activities on the island. My question to him was when the floating dock was going to be rebuilt on the pond.

Two years ago when the deck came down, a park employee assured me it would be rebuilt during the off season. Two off seasons later, still no dock. The large, square space was ideal for fishing, for watching the climbers on the rock wall opposite and for education, since a sign explained the quarry's original uses.

It seems to me that if the city can't find the funds, surely a Kickstarter by the Friends of the James River Park could raise enough to build a simple floating dock. The guy was a font of information, sharing with us that a canal runs under the island and river water feeds the pond, which actually holds cleaner water than the river despite its constant movement.

He also shared that during their summer activities in the past, they always had the kids jump off the dock into the pond to start their adventure. Apparently the lack of a dock now denies Richmond youth the distinctive pleasure of hurtling into a quarry pond.

We were able to easily get out on rocks near a rushing stream of water and abandon our shoes and socks for a whirlpool foot bath and a fine view of the skyline. After sitting there a minute or so and taking it all in - the sunshine, the cool water, the view of Hollywood cemetery - Mac said softly, "I love my city."

Ditto, girlfriend. What neither of us could comprehend was the young woman sitting nearby, her ears encased in headphones that surely blocked out the life-affirming sound of rushing water.

Crossing back over Brown's Island, we headed directly for the pipeline walkway, where yesterday I'd seen kayakers hot-dogging in the rapids, rolling underwater and back over, and a clutch of young Mennonite-looking women in long dresses and head coverings who asked me to take a picture of their inaugural pipeline adventure.

Today's interaction was with a trio of fishermen - one missing a lot of teeth, but this is the South - who were pulling up a fishing line heavy with 4 or 5 one and two-foot fish, according to them, catfish, bluegills and something else that got swallowed in translation.

Their dilemma was how to get this bounty of fresh-caught fish up the ladder that wraps the pipeline, with one angler asking if we knew where they could get a mini-crane to aid the cause. Corny, yes, but I cut him slack since pride and male hunting and gathering were involved.

Further along the pipeline, we got more eye candy when a young guy in slacks and a button down white shirt stripped to the waist, draped his shirt on a tree branch, pulled out a fishing rod and went from businessman to fisherman right before our eyes.

"Ooh, plaid boxers!" Mac observed, ogling again as we walked by him on our return leg across the pipeline. Plaid, we decided, is a deal-breaker for neither of us.

Everywhere we went, enormous magnolia trees were full of blossoms fresh and fading and Queen Anne's Lace bloomed in profusion, providing a classic Southern summer tableau.

Just not quite as titillating as half-clad guys.

Take Me to the River

James, is that you I hear?

When I headed down to the river today, it was with the expectation that the river would be high, brown and fast-moving, just like it was yesterday on the T Pot Bridge when I'd watched enormous tree trunks, branches akimbo, bobbing along like toothpicks.

That was child's play compared to what I found once I got down to the pipeline walkway today.

When you descend the metal ladder to access the pipeline, the water all around tends to be shallow, nearly still and many feet below. It's a popular place for ducks to paddle around and bob for food.

Not today. I was gobsmacked to find that the raging James is already swirling maybe barely 18" below the walkway. Completely under several feet of water were my favorite beach as well as the bikini beach and the fisherman's beach.

It was completely disorienting to have all the signs of land missing with only treetops breaking the surface of the water.

The first set of rapids you usually see when walking west are so far underwater that they're no longer recognizable as rapids. Pshaw, it's just another maelstrom in a fiercely fast river. The second set, a favorite of kayakers whom I've seen careen over it and then intentionally flip themselves 360 degrees, looks downright terrifying in James' new state.

Powerful brown waves crash and circle a vortex of some sort, a huge and unnatural-looking hole in the water where rapids should be.

It was impossible even to get to the end of the walkway without waves hitting the pipeline with such force (and a mere foot below walking level) that my legs and shoes kept getting wet. The river itself was completely over top of the pipeline beyond the walkway, and not just covered in water, but with waves rolling along it.

Herons perched on old bridge supports and tucked themselves into the northern shoreline, one nabbing a fish from the river while a group of us watched. A woman with a telephoto lens captured arresting pictures of the herons going about their business on a day on the river where it was anything but business as usual.

I paused to speak to a couple who'd come down to walk and then have a picnic lunch. Holding up the little cooler that housed their food, the wife said, "I don't know where we're going to picnic now!"

My suggestion was Libby Hill Park for a completely different kind of view of the James in action. Surely that historical glimpse of the famous bend must be breathtaking now from so high up. They loved the idea, saying they'd never have thought of it.

What they'll lose from up there, unfortunately, is my favorite part: the roar of the James and today its volume and dynamism rival that of an ocean, a roar made up of fast-moving water and waves crashing in every direction.

Intellectually, I know such force is the sound of danger, but emotionally, the sound of water translates to a relaxed, almost meditative state for me. I attribute it to my parents first taking me to the beach when I was 14 days old.

I could stand here all day listening to you rage, James. And honestly, I don't mind getting a little wet to do it.

The Halcyon Pre-Machete Days

The third time was the charm on the T-Pot bridge.

My first two forays out on it had been on overcast days but with today's sunshine beckoning, I figured why not head down there and see just whether my only issue with it - how blinding its metal surface might potentially be - was justified.

Totally. Bright, really, really bright reflections and it's two weeks until Winter Solstice, so we're talking the least effective sun of the year. I actually felt sorry for those without sunglasses or hats to shade their eyes.

Then I spotted him, just ahead of me. Something about the fact that he was carrying a level, a measuring device and a sheaf of important-looking papers purposefully told me this guy meant business. Naturally, I had to ask.

And that's how I wound up meeting the landscape architect for the T-Pot bridge and, in my usual non-shy way, proceeded to engage him in impromptu Q & A session right there on the bridge with the river noisily rushing over the dam beneath us.

Yes, he agreed that the metal walkway was incredibly bright but he also explained that they had to use aluminum because steel would have been so heavy that they'd have needed to build expensive new supports for it.

But he also reminded me that over time dirt, the elements and usage would darken it, resulting in a patina that would be far less reflective.

Okay, I could buy that.

My next question was about the stepped retaining wall at the south end of the bridge. Right now it looks like new concrete and scattered dirt, but I couldn't help but hoping he had more of a living wall in mind.

Yep, Virginia Creeper will be planted and no doubt soon obscure every trace of concrete with its native species hardiness.

When I commented on the south end tree planting I'd seen on previous visits, he assured me there was a lot more to come and, in fact, he figured by the time the ornamental grasses over-winter for a season or two, it'll be a jungle up there.

"People will be telling us to get the machetes out, I guarantee it," he said with a smile. "It's going to be dense."

I was glad to hear it because that area behind Sun Trust Bank has always seemed barren and uninviting to me, kind of like a parking lot path thrown down in the wild.

Once I'd shared what I'd observed about all the foot traffic on my prior visits, he thanked me for my kind words.

After climbing to the overlook, then making the loop while dodging construction vehicles and men planting things, I headed back down the steep brown wooden steps past a liver-colored beagle, only to encounter my new landscape architect friend again, this time measuring along one of the promontories, probably for some sort of guard rail for idiots.

I asked him if I could call him Richmond's version of Frederic Law Olmstead, the man considered the father of American landscape architecture.

"No, no," he said laughing, but clearly pleased at the comparison to the man who designed Central Park and Golden Gate Park. "I mean, you can say that if you want to." I want to, I told him.

"We have the same trajectory, but not the same elevation, how about that?" he said.        

How about it? I've always found that modesty becomes a talented man.

If I Was a Drink

When planning an all day adventure, it's essential to pick a partner open to following your lead to create the perfect storm.

First, I need someone willing to knock off a quick five miles walking along the river, not to mention someone eager to climb rocks, remove shoes and cool down in one of the James' many natural Jacuzzis situated between rocks and created by the rushing water fed by nearby falls.

Someone who agrees that the second a snake is spotted - even a five inch one- it's time to move on.

Second, it's essential I have someone willing to cross state lines to eat lunch, and by lunch, I mean eat crabs until we can't eat anymore.

After a brief and soul-sucking stretch on I-95, we took Route 301 up past Fort A.P. Hill, through Port Royal and Dahlgren and landed in downtown Pope's Creek, Maryland at Captain Billy's Crabhouse.

And unlike my visit there last June, this time we ate outside on the deck overlooking the Potomac River and the bridge that had brought us there. Five other tables were occupied when we arrived and we outlasted them all, including a couple who sat down after us, only to rethink their decision and move indoors.

Amateurs.

Everything about being there was ideal - the jet skis buzzing by with rooster tails arcing behind them, the noisy birds atop almost every post on the nearby docks, the especially white clouds in the sky - including our 22-year old waitress, Brittney, who's lived in that area her entire life, making her skittish about moving to Short Pump to live with her boyfriend.

She's tempted only because then she'd have access to Olive Garden and the Cheesecake Factory. Honestly, we wanted to kidnap her and bring her back to Richmond with us, if only to show her (cue music) a whole, new world.

Instead, we ordered crabs, steamed shrimp and coleslaw and began the slow process of eating a lunch that would take a couple of hours to finish satisfactorily.

Although we differed on a few points - I don't use malt vinegar or a knife and we remove the smallest legs at different points in the process - both of us grew up being home-schooled by our elders in Advanced Crab Eating for Connoisseurs.

Few attain our level of mastery.

The afternoon passed in a haze of claw cracking, view admiring (and a bit of boat envy when a couple set out in the boat we'd been hearing bang against the dock since we sat down) and contentment, with just enough of a breeze to keep flies away.

Only the music - modern country with an occasional classic rock artist like Steve Miller or '90s throwback such as 311 - could have used some improvement, although I was having such a wonderful time I found myself somehow sucked in by a Brad Paisley song.

If she was a drink, she'd be single barrel bourbon on ice
Smooth, with a kick, a chill and a burn all at the same time
She's Sunday drive meets high speed chase
She ain't just a song, she's the whole mixtape

I can't say if I'd have even noticed the song if I hadn't been so happily eating crabs on the river on a summer's day, or perhaps southern Maryland is just a place where such a song fits.

By the time we bid Brittney farewell, the early dining crowd was beginning to arrive, our hands still reeked of crabs despite multiple washings and we knew our clothes were more than a tad ripe.

Not ashamed to admit more than a couple hunks of crab landed in my bra and on the chair next to me once my hands and mouth got going.

The drive back down 301 was relatively uneventful except for when it was highly dramatic, but my partner in crime called for reinforcements and Super Bruno not only saved the day, but teased her about her crabby breath before sending us on our way.

Third, and perhaps most importantly because it would be at this point (8 hours into our adventure) that most people would falter, I require someone who sees the value in a completely unique experience, even if it is after a long day and situated 35 miles in a different direction.

And that's after we got home, cleaned up and changed. Coincidentally, we'd both chosen flowered dresses for our rendezvous in Goochland.

Lickinghole Creek Brewery was positively packed when we drove up its dusty, red clay-covered driveway to join the throngs there for pick-your-own sunflowers. Okay, probably just as many were there for beer, given the lines.

But we were there to gather armfuls of free flowers with which to brighten up our city apartments and remind us of a fabulous day.

Walking towards the fields, we saw an artist busy at his easel capturing all the yellow flowers nodding around him and passed scores of people clutching bouquets of sunflowers.

Pegging us for new arrivals, a woman advised, "Go to the back rows!"

The sum total of my experience working in fields harvesting involved picking strawberries, which, I'm here to tell you, bears little resemblance to cutting flowers taller than me.

Unlike low-growing berries, sunflower fields are tall and dense and once you hack your way through fields of squash and melons to get to them, it's sticky hot, even just before sunset.

Which is not to say that being surrounded by so many flowers under puffy, pink-tinged clouds as dusk settled in wasn't worth every drop of sweat that rolled down the back (and front) of my sunflower-printed dress, because it was.

But so is having a partner who thinks a day that begins on the rocks, moves out of state and ends in a field is just as wonderful as I do.

Brad would say she's the whole mixtape.

This River is Closed

Magnificent and terrifying, either way you look at it.

Today's walk took me to Belle Isle where I was greeted by a read sign reading, "River level above 9 feet. River closed to use."

Looking out at the roiling water as I walked around the island, it was crystal clear why the river was closed.

Massive trees floated down the middle of the river. All of the rocks that become sunbathing and party central during warm months were completely submerged. In several places, rocks further out had become loggerheads as hundreds of floating trees jammed up against them.

It was kind of eerie to walk along the northern side where normally a buffer of rocks separates you from the river. Today trees, many with their bare roots exposed, clung to the edges of the island as the only thing between me and the rushing water.

There were only two places where you could still access rocks and both were mere shadows of their usual size.

The usually spacious outcropping at Rocks at First Break was reduced to a fraction of its typical width and breadth but since it was one of two I could even still see, I wasted no time scrambling down the hill and out onto it.

So. Noisy.

With water levels this high, there was a surround-sound effect from all that rushing water.

But there was also a beautiful cool, salty air smell that followed me as I walked along the riverside and that was the most wonderful part of all, that bracing smell.

No surprise, the island was full of joggers, walkers and people sitting down for a view of the tumultuous James on a sunny day. One couple sat by the serene quarry pond smooching as I walked by.

New to Belle Isle since the last time I'd been there was a memorial bike rack that resembled a giant metal teepee.

The sign informed me that it was a tribute to the Sibley tents used to shelter prisoners on the island during the Civil War. At 12' high and 18' wide, I shudder to think how many prisoners they crammed into one. Or how miserable it must have been once the tents began deteriorating, which the sign said they did over the course of the war.

Crafted by VCU students, the bike rack is meant to be functional and also a reminder of our past. It'll be interesting to see it covered in bikes locked all over it.

Maybe not as interesting as seeing a closed river, but something to look forward to when the James is at a less terrifying stage.

You can be sure I'll be back when the river is open again.

Coming Ashore

It may be time to bring out the hook.

I've been going to Secretly Y'All, Tell Me a Story at Balliceaux for nearly four years now and I have heard some stories that have blown my mind.

There have been some duds, sure, but all and all, it's been fascinating to hear people unload snippets from their pasts.

But where storytellers once respected the warning bell, they frequently ignore it now. And when the final bell rings, meaning they are through, they continue to talk.

Some even needed a third bell and that still didn't shut them up.

As if all that rule-breaking wasn't enough to warrant the hook, tonight for the first time, a guy got up to tell a story, admitting it had nothing to do with tonight's theme.

Alright, kids, you've finally gone too far.

Tonight's theme was "the river" and the door proceeds were going to benefit the James River Association, the worthiest of causes and we heard some good tales in its honor.

Toting a paddle, David's was called "Buzzards Watching" and involved a canoe trip in which the canoe wound up wrapped around a rock, a problem only until they stood on it and popped it back into shape like a Tupperware bowl.

"Island Refuge" told Kyle's story of falling in love with the water, making it his life's work and then having an awful experience that scared him off it before his eventual return to it. He'd brought a broken paddle, part of the story.

Before introducing the next storyteller, co-host Colin quipped, "Apparently it's a prerequisite to bring your paddle tonight."

The most life-affirming story came from Mike with "The Romance of a Broken Compass," the saga of him and his wife taking a 30-year old canoe down the inter-coastal waterway over 81 days.

He said they did it because it was "absurd fun," despite her grandmother worrying that they'd have to poop in a Cool Whip container along the way.

Wanna hear the most romantic part? They talked non-stop the entire way.

For sheer emotion, Amanda's "Mushy Sand" took the heartfelt prize and was the same story she'd used for her personal essay when she applied to the University of Richmond.

P.S. - It got her a full scholarship.

It was about being at the river with her Mom, brother, his friend and his mother when she was in third grade and realizing that her mother was in love with the woman and the journey she took to work through that.

Daniel from southside got the most laughs with "Destiny Comes When She Pleases" about being at the 42nd Street island and seeing a woman straddling a log between two rocks, presumably to ride it down the river, something they apparently do on southside.

At least that's what he thought until her boyfriend started calling Destiny back. She finished grinding into the tree, convulsed and returned to her boyfriend.

"Let's all stay on the north side of the river," host Colin instructed.

The first day of Fall and a tubing trip as the sun set were the setting for Fieval's story, "Between the Nickel Bridge and Belle Isle," about her ex trying to shore her up as she got tired and scared on the river and why this was a really bad idea.

For the sheer visuals, Charles" "Inappropriate Raft Guide" story, which involved a 500-pound woman,her young son and a raft that flipped as they went over a break in the dam, took the cake.

When they surfaced, Charles saw the kid moving downstream in the raft and the guide straddling the woman, paddling her as if she were a raft.

If you saw that in a movie, you wouldn't believe it could happen.

During intermission, a friend asked if I was going to share a story and I responded with an adamant no.

"You wouldn't?" he asked incredulously. "But you tell stories all the time."

Like this, sure, out into the blogosphere,  but certainly not in front of 110 people.

During the second half, names of eager storytellers were put in the hat and drawn for a chance to share their river tale.

A regular at almost every event with a story for any theme ("I almost didn't put my name in the hat because I feel like I'm an addict for this"), Wendy's involved the role of the river in childhood and contemplation.

Nurse Lilly was the first to invoke the Amazon River and her trips coordinating Patch Adams clown trips there, one of which involved a 70-year old woman who went swimming in the Amazon, got swept away and wound up with splinters in her legs when men dragged her into their canoe to save her.

"I'm really a great swimmer," the 70-year old insisted. "It was the current."

It's always something, isn't it?

The next story was called, "The First Time I Went to a Strip Club" and was being told by a Secretly Y'all virgin who claimed not to know that the stories after intermission had to follow the evening's theme.

His didn't and we had to listen to the saga of his stint with VCU's security detail and a planned trip to a strip club, which he didn't attend because he split his pants at the seam "wide enough to birth a  baby."

You can imagine how awkward this segment of the evening was. And no hook in sight.

Fortunately, redemption came courtesy of Andrew,  a recent addition to the James River Park System's staff who began by commenting on how much Richmond drinks when we're at the river

The park saw 600,000 visitors this season and the staff goes through and sorts recycling from every one of those trash and recycling cans, not a pleasant job.

"Don't bring glass," he said in his sternest voice. "Don't do that!"

He readily admitted his story ended up less what he intended to share and more of a public service announcement to be mindful about taking out whatever you bring to the river.

I thought the same thing when I was at Texas Beach yesterday and saw four glass Mickey beer bottles and a 40-ounce bottle sitting in the sand.

Some people were apparently raised by wolves.

The evening's storytelling closed with Chris, as perennial a storyteller as anyone, with the cautionary tale of an ex-friend he referred to as "Professor Gross" and "Mr. Know It All."

The ex tried to repay Chris' generosity in letting him stay over by making a meal out of seafood from the manager's special section of Community Pride ("the worst grocery store ever"). Because nothing says thanks like two-day old seafood.

By the story's end, the ex friend was serenely swimming away after leaving Chris and a friend trying to recover from an overturned canoe in the river.

He even told us the friend's real name so we could all avoid him, too.

So as usual, we heard some great stories, poignant and funny, cautionary and romantic.

We also heard the bell ring repeatedly on far too many of the storytellers. Time to start playing by the rules, guys.

Don't make me turn this car around.

Ode to a Bonnet

Apparently, it's easier than I realized to be a poet's muse.

After sleeping in my own bed for the first time in a week last night, I got up raring to go for my daily walk for the first time in as long.

Feeling the need to properly baptize my legs in the James River, I then headed back up the hill hoping to catch the end of Tea for Two, an outdoor poetry reading in the park behind the main library.

Impressed to see how many people were already there, I found a seat in the back on a bench between two men to hear Henry Hart read poems about his daughter before she could speak, his son's difficult birth and his father's Christmas tree farm.

"You're going to be sick of my family by the time I finish reading," he joked.

Closing with a poem about retracing his grandfather's expedition across the Gobi desert, he spoke of being lost, threatened and moved by the trip.

Applause followed and then the man to my right looked at me and unexpectedly said, "I'm going to write a poem about you and your bonnet."

The "bonnet" to which he referred is my sun hat, a necessity lately with these long river walks I've been doing.

Not sure why I was so inspiring, so I asked.

Come to find out he's a sports writer in town for today's NASCAR race who'd left his hotel room to go for a walk and been drawn in by the shady park, nice looking crowd and free coffee.

But as he listened to poetry, he was unsettled by the beeping of a truck backing up, the roar of a Harley blasting down Main Street and other jarring sounds.

He said just as he was thinking that a grace note was needed, "A pretty woman in a bonnet and Nikes showed up and sat down next to me. You will be the subject of my next poem."

We introduced ourselves and I learned he was from northern Virginia, a former USA Today baseball writer who now freelances.

He said that the good thing about NASCAR drivers is that they're far more willing to talk to the press than pro team athletes.

I wished him good luck with the race. He thanked me for showing up and providing the muse for a poem.

On the way home, I stopped to pick up my Fall Line Fest wristband on Broad Street and ran into my friend Andrew.

Telling him my poetry story, he shook his head, laughing. "Only you, Karen, these things only happen to you."

I know, but aren't I lucky for it?

Music is for the Birds

It was a splendid summer morning and it seemed as if nothing could go wrong. ~ John Cheever

For the first time in weeks, the river didn't refuse me.

While the walk to the river on a sunny day can be a hot one, the reward is always the sound of rushing water and cooler breezes once I hit Brown's Island.

When I got there, I spotted a guy just ahead of me with a backpack and guitar slung over his shoulder, not that unusual because I've seen a guitarist standing on the rocks of Belle Isle playing and a bagpiper standing on Brown's Island playing to the heavens on past walks.

Music and the river are best friends and that's not even counting the soothing sounds of the water itself.

But this guy seemed a bit tentative so I wasn't surprised when he approached a woman with a badge to ask her something. She pointed exactly where I was going, to the trail that leads down to the pipeline walkway.

The past four times I've gone down to walk the pipeline, the water has been over it, meaning it's off limits for safety reasons.

I had my fingers crossed as I made my way down the rocky and sandy slope that leads under the train tracks. No one else was around.

When I made it to the end of the trail, I was rewarded with a fully accessible pipeline, its upper part dry and perfectly safe to traverse. Hallelujah!

It's not just the balancing act of walking the pipeline - parts of it have deep divots that prevent a flat foothold - but the different kinds of water you move through that make it such a satisfying walk.

In places, it's fierce and rushing, noisy and powerful and then a few yard forward and it's so still it could be a mosquito breeding ground. Passing a rapid, the sound is all-encompassing and it's hard not to marvel at how kayakers maneuver over such a precipice.

I could see that the trees of the heron rookery had leafed out completely since I'd last been down this far, so I could no longer spot nests or the birds in them.

Once I got off the pipeline proper and on to the walkway, I saw a couple of guys down on a rock fishing, their tackle boxes wide open with the tools of the trade.

Just beyond them on the little sandy beach were two stages of a woman's life: stretched out on beach towels in bikinis were two college-aged women sunning themselves and staring at their cell phones.

Nearby were two young mothers, one with a toddler and one with a baby, constantly moving around following their children. The difference in age between the sunning women and the moms couldn't have been more than 3 or 4 years, but talk about worlds apart.

I got on the other side of a pillar and slipped down off the walkway to the beach myself only to find the rock I usually sit on was 3/4 submerged, so I made do with another one further back. Clearly even though the pipeline was now usable, the water is still higher than usual.

On my way back toward the island, I came around a root-covered path and there was the guitarist sitting on a crooked tree branch right at the river's edge, playing to the mighty James, his back to me.

I paused and tried to listen but the river dominated, so I just stood there admiring the same view he had.

That's when I spotted a heron standing on a grassy area out in the river staring intently at the guitarist. After walking just a little further on, I returned to the river's edge and looked back toward the guitarist and there was the heron, now even closer to the music, completely focused.

Who would have thought?

I left the two of them to their time together and started the climb up to Brown's Island, spotting a mangled, green kayak under a railroad bridge, so unnaturally twisted that I had to hope no one had been in it when it assumed that shape.

Coming back up 2nd Street, I saw one of the surest signs of summer, sweaty road construction guys taking a break in the shade to smoke and watch girls walk by. When they smiled at me, I smiled right back.

Just another splendid summer morning in River City.

Art and Eats Nouveau

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To Ancient Evenings and Distant Music

Nothing like starting your day with a good cry.

I hadn't made up my mind about going to see 1995's "The Bridges of Madison County" at Movieland, but when I woke up in time and saw the sunny day outside, it seemed like the ideal way to get myself up and out of the house.

As expected the crowd at the theater was overwhelmingly female: nine women and one guy and she'd supplied him with sliders, a mega-soda and pizza to keep him there.

What was unexpected was the commercial before the film began.

"An hour from now, your movie will have a plot twist. Don't have the worst seat in the house." Cut to stall door with someone sitting on the toilet. "Go before the show."

Thanks, Charmin, for the reminder.

As for the "Bridges," I'd read the book back in the '90s at a friend's insistence, but I'm not sure I ever saw the movie, so I had no idea Meryl Streep's character would be Italian-born.

I did understand how a woman would be charmed by a man who'd gotten off a train in her hometown knowing no one and simply because it looked pretty.

The kind of man who says, "I was just picking you some flowers. Men still do that, don't they?"

If you're very lucky, yes, they do that.

They also slowdance with you to romantic songs by Johnny Hartman, my favorite jazz singer, although I didn't even know who he was back in 1995.

And they tell you things like, "Don't kid yourself, you're anything but a simple woman," because what woman wants to hear that she's simple?

Men like that quote Yeats. "And when white moths were on the wing and moth-like stars were flickering out." And often.

Most importantly, with absolute conviction, they say, "This kind of certainty comes but just once in a lifetime."

So naturally when they end up unable to be together with him standing across the road looking at her for the last time, the tears come. And come.

I'm not sure if I just needed a good cry or if the story just resonated differently now than it had two decades ago, but I was pulled in completely, right down to nose-blowing and mascara running.

Let's just say when I left the theater, I was grateful it was a beautiful day and I had all afternoon to take my walk and get over a sad love story.

After shedding a layer and touching up my mascara, I started south toward the river, passing all kinds of joggers and people in shorts.

As I crossed Brown's Island to get to the pipeline walkway, I crossed my fingers that the pipeline wouldn't be underwater as it had been the last couple of times I'd come down to walk it.

Happily, it wasn't and I took it all the way, amazed at the two dozen nests I spied in the heron rookery across the river, three of them adorned by their impossibly long-necked owners.

After scrambling down to the sandy beach to sit and watch guys fish and kids skip rocks, I headed back up the pipeline, eventually getting behind a slow-moving couple.

Suddenly, the guy turned to me and quipped, "Come here often?"

Sure do, regularly even, I told him, inquiring if he did.

Nope, he was a first-timer brought by the woman he was with.

"Oh, do you live there?" he asked, gesturing at the condo building looming over us.

As if. Nope, I live in Jackson Ward, I said, anticipating exactly the reaction I got.

"How long have you lived there?" he asked. Seven and a half years says I.

"Alone?" he inquired with such incredulity I had to ask where he lived.

No surprise, West End. At this point, he finally introduced himself and his companion, also named Karen.

But he wasn't finished grilling me yet.

"Why'd you move to Jackson Ward?" he needed to know. Let's see, central location, arts district, nearby music venues and restaurants. To avoid homogeneous neighborhoods like the one you probably live in.

Turning the conversation to them, I asked what was next for them after the walk. No surprise there, lunch in Carytown.

"Where would you recommend?" he asked, somehow presuming that I knew something about where to eat.

With my two favorite Carytown brunch locations closed today, one due to fire and one due to the business of corporate sports, I tried steering him to J-Ward instead.

"What about the place on the corner where I had some great shrimp and grits?" he said, eager to show he knew a little something about the 'hood.

Croaker's Spot moved to southside a good five or more years ago, sir. May I suggest Lucy's or Mama J's instead?

By this time, his Karen was glowering at me so I politely excused myself so they could get on with their afternoon.

Oddly enough, Karen did not seem the least bit sorry to see me go.

Coming up the hill from the river, I saw the same bagpipe player I'd seen on Brown's Island last month, only this time he was under a shady tree at 2 Street and Byrd, his bike and backpack at his feet, playing to the hills.

He was kind enough to turn and play uphill as I walked by so I got to hear his music for another block before losing it to the breeze.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands
I will find out where she has gone
And kiss her lips and take her hands

Nothing like ending your afternoon with the sound of bagpipes in your ears and Yeats in your head.

Take Me to the River

When someone asks me why I'm so keen on Richmond, the first thing out of my mouth is always something about the scene - music art and restaurant-wise.

After I take a breath, I usually rave about cost of living and quality of life.

What I don't mention nearly often enough is how much the water matters to me.

When I wake up needing not just to see, but to hear and feel water, and it's a day like today when social obligations prevent me from being able to get in the car and drive to the ocean, I realize how lucky I am.

Less than a mile from my house are a river and canal practically beckoning me to come down and enjoy them.

Which is exactly what I did.

But not to my usual Belle Island because there were gobs of people and police blocking 5th Street, but further east to the Pipeline Walkway.

Over the railroad tracks, down the wooden steps to the vertical metal ladder that keeps out the unworthy.

Then that lovely walk past rushing and flat water, past rapids and cascades, past girls in bikinis on the sandy beach (on their cellphones, of course) until the metal walkway gives way to just a concrete path on top of the pipeline.

Usually I stop once the pipeline ends, but today I kept going on the path through the woods, not entirely sure where I'd end up.

Brown's Island, that's where, and whatever event had been clogging 5th Street must have involved all the tables set up on the island.

But as long as I was there, I decided to make a loop around with a detour to walk out on the windy overlook.

Back in the woods, I climbed out on some rocks for a better view, only to find a cute guy out there doing yoga.

Downward for him, onward for me.

Back on the walkway, I stopped to talk to a clutch of fishermen, learning they were catching bait fish in the slow, shallow water to use to go out deeper and fish for big catfish.

When I got back to the sandy beach, I dropped down off the walkway to go down to the river.

I found a big rock, took off my shoes and socks, and  waded into the water. It wasn't nearly as cold as the ocean had been on the Outer Banks in July.

Standing there up to my thighs in the river, smelling that distinct scent of water and marsh, I spotted a blue heron just yards away.

He saw me, I saw him and it was a face-off to see who would persevere.

Don't think you can outlast me. Over the years, I have developed formidable patience, my feathered friend.

After about ten minutes, I backed up slowly to the rock and settled down to see what he'd do.

First he walked from his rock perch into the river and then up into some nearby marsh grass, occasionally looking over his shoulder (?) to see  what my intentions were.

Hell, on a sunny Saturday, my only intention was to listen to the rushing water, smell the wet air and keep as much of my legs wet as possible.

From behind me, a guy eating a sandwich leaning against the pipeline, called out, "He's keeping his eye on you."

His voice caused the bikini girls' dog to come bounding out of the thicket and that was all it took to spook the heron.

Watching that elegant form take flight allowed me to wade back in, the better to see him fly around the train trestle and away.

Karen, 1, heron, 0. I win.

After drying off in the sun, I climbed back up onto the walkway and ascended the ladder to return to city life.

It may not have been a day at the ocean, but it satisfied what needed to be scratched today.

A Richmond re-charge, so to speak. Wet shorts and all.

Spirit Like Water

I found the way to right my equilibrium.

It began with, of all things, a telephone call from someone fairly new to my life, a man with a barely-accented, mellifluous voice and an array of conversational offerings I found completely engaging - the Stanislavski method, poet Adrienne Rich, provincialism- that magically occupied me for every bit of an hour.

An hour. And I hate talking on the phone.

Still not sure how that happened, but grinning nonetheless.

With such a stellar first act under my belt, I had no choice but to maintain the high, choosing to take my daily walk on Belle Isle.

Under a bright blue sky full of puffy clouds and a steady breeze, I walked along the river, meeting four beagles I needed to pet (including one in a lime green life jacket - adorable), listening to the especially high rushing water and getting smiles from strangers left and right.

Good vibrations abounded.

The dock over the quarry pond was unexpectedly gone, but people were still casting lines into it.

Life happens and we adjust. There are still fish to be caught.

After a couple of times around the island, I climbed down a path to find an empty rock, took off my shoes and submerged my legs in the river up to the knees.

All around me, people lazed in the sun, dogs frolicked at the water's edge and kids squealed because they could.

There were some brave souls in kayaks working their way through the high water, but that was about the most ambitious thing I saw going on.

I watched a paddleboarder go by with two geese devotedly following in his wake.

Sun on my back, legs in the water, plans later.

Spoiler alert to that regular reader who prefers me sad: Too. Damn. Bad.

Smells Like Birthday Spirit

You can't start your birthday the same as every other day.

No, when it's your day, you have to make sure everything is exactly how you want it to be.

That meant eschewing my usual walk on city streets for something far more pleasurable.

Honeysuckle and rushing water.

Ideally, I would have woken up at the beach today, but absent the sound of crashing waves, I happily started my day with a walk on Belle Isle.

I have to admit, I was a tad surprised at the number of cars already at the parking lot on a Thursday morning.

Walking across the pedestrian bridge, I was passed by a jogging couple, him saying to her, "Are you making fun of my colloquialisms?"

Since all she did was laugh, I have to assume she was.

Further on, I got behind a group of high school students, likely truants since school's still in session, and one of the guys decided to show his prowess at the monkey bars.

Using the overhead scaffolding that protects pedestrians from debris falling from the real bridge overhead, he swung from bar to bar until his sweaty hands gave out.

He apologized for holding me up when he came down, but I was happy to watch such exuberance on a muggy morning.

Over on the island, there were already lots of bikini-clad girls trying to get skin cancer laying out on the rocks as well as a surprising number of guys fishing.

Walking along the rushing rapids made for a delightful breeze which brought the scent of the surrounding honeysuckle straight to my birthday nostrils.

Once around the bend and into the backside of the island, I felt like I'd stepped into a rain forest.

It was muggy, much more still and practically like walking through pea soup, so I wasted no time in getting back around to the cooler side of the island.

So while joggers and bicyclists continued making their loops, I did a couple of fragrant strolls up and down the river side, greeting some of the same people coming and going.

It's my birthday. I can do whatever I want.

River Walk for One

Despite having been out on the Northern Neck just yesterday, the weather had prohibited spending much time on the Rappahannock. The wind, ungodly strong and uncharacteristically from the west, made being on the dock way too cold for my shorts-clad legs.

So today's shiny 72-degree day practically begged some time down at the river. I made a pit-stop at Nick's Market here in J-Ward for one of his excellent Italian subs on my way south. Might as well incorporate lunch into my river time.

Walking across the suspension bridge, a musician I know and I had to do a double-take when we passed each other, neither of us initially recognizing the other outside of a music venue. We laughed about seeing each other in the day-lit non-music world.

Over on Belle Isle, I had lots of company. Not like sunny-summer-day-people-on-every-rock crowded, but plenty of others like me out to enjoy this beautiful late October day.

As I skirted the water, I was surprised to see two river rafts of people paddling furiously over the white water, their team leaders calling out instructions. For some reason, I think I thought the raft outings ended with Labor Day. Not so, apparently.

When I got up to the bend in the path, I headed down to the flat rocks for my afternoon in the sun. There was a guy sunbathing nearby (in swimming trunks, no less, not just shorts) and studying who said hello. I met a couple with a little beagle, reminding me of my beagle and all the hot days we spent down there cooling off last summer.

Facing out to Hollywood Cemetery, I spread out my lunch and tucked into it. Is there anything more basic or more delicious than a good Italian cold cut sub (and the requisite chips that go with it)? Everyone needs a Nick's Market two blocks from their house. For that matter, everyone needs a pumpkin cupcake with whiskey cream cheese frosting for dessert, at least during October.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a couple of kayakers coming around the bend in the rocks, making u-turns to go back and come through the whitewater again and again. When they tired of that, they paddled in front of us and I noticed that one had on a Lycra tank top and the other a turtle-neck long-sleeved Lycra shirt.

Not sure which one was over or under-dressed, I decided to wade in and check the water temperature. Taking off my shoes, I went in far enough to establish that the water was pretty chilly, but by no means unbearable (I've felt the ocean colder in July on the Outer Banks).

No doubt vigorous paddling on a bright sunny day would heat up the body enough to compensate for any cool river spray, so I'm going to go with the guy with the well- muscled arms and tank top being properly attired (although I may have been swayed by the nice arms).

I watched an endless train snake through the bank below the cemetery, squealing and clanging slowly all the while. Because the river level is below five feet, there were rocks everywhere, making for easy river walking almost the whole way across, although I did disturb a couple of ducks along the way and they flapped away in disgust.

People-watching and enjoying the river views, I had dozens of comments I could have made if I'd had company. Still, the afternoon at the river was exactly what I'd needed and just listening to the rushing water for a couple of hours had satisfied whatever that need is.

Now, about those other needs...

Birdwatching with a Bridge-Builder

I abandoned Grace Street and my usual four-mile walk today for the sake of a Heron Rookery Walk being offered by the city's Department of Parks & Recreation.

Like most everyone, I've seen herons down by the river, but I was curious about their city digs.

It was the perfect tie-in to the Loft Tour going on downtown today and I saw plenty of people waiting at the Loft Tour stops as I drove down to the north end of the Mayo Bridge to meet the group.

Usually these walks are led by the James River's most enthusiastic and articulate cheerleader, Ralph White.

Unfortunately, recent surgery had taken him out of the game temporarily, so we were being talked to and led by two birding guys who had plenty to share with the group.

Our leader did apologize in advance for not being able to live up to Ralph White's high standards of knowledge and entertainment, but then, who could (no one knows the river and parks like Ralph and his passion for it is contagious)?

As he began explaining the mating customs, he apologized again.

"Ralph actually demonstrates the breeding rituals, but I'm not going to do that," he said and blushed.

We headed down toward the river and after descending a metal ladder (to the obvious consternation of several of the group members), took the Pipeline Walkway to the first island.

It was a far cry from Grace Street to be standing on the sandy shore in the sun with the river lapping at it and admiring the heron population just across the active water.

The first surprise was this extensive heron rookery essentially in the center of the city.

It currently has about 45 nests in it as the herons begin breeding season.

The most amazing part of that is that as recently as 2006, there were no heron nests downtown.

 In 2007, there were seven; obviously, the heron population has gotten the word out about the amenities of downtown living in RVA.

The second surprise for me was learning that these birds, despite a six-foot wingspan, only weigh about five pounds with their hollow bones.

There were many herons walking branches, sitting on nests and just generally doing the Saturday morning thing.

We were told that a few have already laid eggs and others are preparing to do so.

As it turns out, herons are monogamous for a year, so the males choose a mate (unlike most of the bird population where the female does the choosing) and do the nest-sitting during the day while females replace them at night.

An enormous osprey nest atop a tower was pointed out to the group and, serendipitously, an osprey swooped down into it, to our amazement.

Ducks swam by and geese honked.

We all used binoculars almost continually and one of the Audubon guys set up a high-powered scope for even closer viewing.

The true bird-lovers in the group were beside themselves.

Since we'd only come a short distance on the Pipeline Walkway, I wanted to explore the rest; this was my daily walk after all.

The walkway was a metal grid with metal side rails over a big pipeline and water on both sides. I continued walking to see where it went, only to discover that it abruptly ended.

Well, not ended, but the grid we were walking on and the handrails went away.

Now if I wanted to go on, I would have to walk on a cement-covered pipe, rough with pebbles and beside water that was far more agitated.

There was a guy from the group walking just ahead of me, so I figured if he was going to do it, why shouldn't I?

Once the surface changed, though, he turned to me so I asked if we should continue.

"I used to build bridges, so I can walk on a steel beam," he said with a grin. "I could dance on this!"

Okay, so he was telling me that we were going on sans walkway and guard rails.

I was in.

Not surprisingly, it turned out to be the best part of the walk. The water was so turbulent you could smell it.

We got out further and discovered two herons only a couple of rocks away; he took pictures and I admired them preening in the sunshine.

 Eventually we got to the point that the pipe was underwater and had to give up and head back, both really pleased that we'd chosen to go this route.

Only at this point did my new companion think to turn and ask me, "You can swim can't you?"

NOW you ask?

Midafternoon Dip in the James River

The beauty of my life is that I actually have fiends who call me up in a raging snowstorm and ask, "Want to go down to the James River and watch three friends take a plunge in the water?"

Now that you mention it, I would love to watch insane people strip down and risk hypothermia for the sake of an experience.

What time are you picking me up?

So he ferried me down in his able vehicle, picked up one of the plungers (who laughably told me that once I got caught up in the excitement, I'd want to join in. It was to laugh.) on the way and down we headed to Tredegar for the spectacle.

First they erected a tent, complete with towels, blankets, dry clothes and a jug of chai tea, while the sane among us stood watching in the blizzard.

And then they actually started disrobing; one wore a bathing suit, one wore long underwear, but just the leg portion and one, the guy from Florida who kept saying his friends at home would never believe him without pictures (my friend was using a large lens to capture every single goose bump) wore just his underwear.

Oh, and they all wore shoes of some kind.

And then they went in the James River in a snowstorm while we watched.

The first brave soul stood there up to his knees acclimating and finally just dropped back into the water.

The second was Florida guy, who just dove right in and under, like a lunatic.

The only female participant was more gradual and took her mug of tea in with her.

She slowly went lower and lower until only her tea mug remained.

I admire their nerve, their circulation systems and that they now have a story they can share for the rest of their lives, but, honestly, I enjoyed it just as much from the frigid, snowy riverbank.

I even found myself making painful cold noises in commiseration as they each submerged.

Best of all, I got to watch the experience and I don't imagine I'll forget it any time soon.

Warm and cozy at The Village eating lunch afterwards, my photographer friend and I agreed that some things we only need see, not experience.

Is this a great life or what?