Baby Boomers, they're not just for hating on anymore.
Just when I'm starting to believe the consensus that Boomers have ruined the country, I am reminded of my allegiance to them.
Not just because I'm one of them, but because out of the Boomer generation came the hippie radical types who were committed to taking on the work of making the world a better place. Groovy as that sounds, I don't think we breed that type much anymore.
Additionally, I'm the worst kind of lapsed Catholic. I'm a heathen.
But despite having been mostly raised Catholic - being baptized, making my first communion, getting confirmed - I had very little exposure to nuns. Oh, sure, I've heard the terrifying tales from people who went to Catholic schools (my parents were public school supporters), but none of that happened to me.
So my opinion of nuns was pretty much based on other people's experiences and not especially good.
I'm rethinking all of that now for the simple reason that I saw the documentary "Radical Grace" at the Virginia Historical Society. Because the screening was co-sponsored by St. Gertrude High School, the VHS curator who introduced the film was obligated to read a message from the school first.
Essentially, it said that the school supports the Catholic church's bishops and that their directives must be obeyed, a statement that meant little to me at that point and everything by the end of the film.
Focusing on three nuns who have committed their lives to fighting, one as a social justice lobbyist working to get the ACA passed so the poor and marginalized will have health care, one a church reform activist trying to move the needle on women being deacons in the Catholic church and one who works with ex-cons trying to get back on track.
In one scene, she even provided dating advice, telling the men, "Find yourself a decent woman who'll be your best friend. If she wants diamonds, dump her."
That these vocal women are doing their thing in street clothes out in society did not sit well with the U.S. bishops who accuse them of being radical feminists. As if. That the nuns not only swear but use you-know-who's name in vain surprised me big time.
Proving that the church needs to be part of the social fabric of the country to be of real service to those less fortunate, the nuns were tireless and enthusiastic about moving their agendas forward, even when risking being censured or kicked out of the church.
A group hit the road as "Nuns on the Bus," making stops all over, including at the 2012 Democratic convention and Colbert's show where huge, mostly supportive crowds greet them at every stop, although it's deeply disturbing to see a man yell at one of the nuns that she's as bad as a pedophile priest for not siding with the pro-life contingent.
Mac and I looked at each other incredulously and spitting mad after watching him say something so venomous in front of a camera.
Not gonna lie, I teared up more than once watching as these brave women continued fighting for their causes despite the whole of the Vatican insisting they cease and desist. In the Catholic church, women must be silenced and bishops must be obeyed. Radical feminism indeed.
Apparently this was why St. Gertrude was making their stance clear to all. Puh-leeze.
An especially satisfying element of the documentary was that so much relevant happened during its filming. The ACA passed and we got a new pope with more modern ideas, proving change is possible.
But the defining feature of the nuns' work was how they hung in there. These nuns weren't religious fanatics, they were old hippies trying to change the world by working for the causes that mattered to them.
Part of me wanted to cheer their outdated optimism with my own.
Mac and I left the VHS to walk 7 blocks in the windy cold night to Amour, where a Burgundy wine-tasting was going on. Leaving them to their learning, we dove into simple suppers: mine of French onion soup and a winter salad and hers of a decadent cream of mushroom soup and then a warm salad with duck confit.
Someone humorous thought it would be funny to Instagram pictures of our practically licked clean plates, but we talked him out of it.
Meanwhile, the wine tasters were looking ahead to the next tasting of Loire valley wines and the man with the house in the Loire wanted to know where I'd stayed when I'd been there last summer.
All I wanted was to sip my Madeira and savor salted dark chocolate creme brulee with side cars of raspberry, strawberry-lime, coconut milk and melon pastis sorbet.
As it happened, a radical Boomer feminist can polish off dessert and reminisce about France at the same time. It will not be captured on Instagram, however.
Showing posts with label VA historical society. Show all posts
Showing posts with label VA historical society. Show all posts
Thursday, March 23, 2017
Sunday, March 5, 2017
Big Mistakes Now Dirt Cheap
Resolve and thou art free. ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Sitting next to me at Firehouse Theater tonight was a woman who'd resolved for 2017 to stop working so much and see a play a week and here she was on a Saturday night, taking in "Boatwright," a play about a man resolving to build a boat and sail the ocean despite no boat-building or sailing experience.
A friend resolved to be more spontaneous this year, acting on ideas when he has them instead of overthinking them into oblivion. Unfortunately for me, I'm still overthinking which is why I'm not in Cuba at the moment.
The friend who picked me up tonight has resolved to create more "me" time and tonight that meant a whole lot of "we" time.
It was the second time for me seeing the Virginia Historical Society's exhibit "The Original Art: Celebrating the Fine Art of Book Illustration," but the first for the tall person at my side. Compelling as it had been on first viewing, it was even more so with the ultimate geek guide: an artist to provide observations about materials, composition and technique.
We lingered so long the guard had to tell us twice they were closing and all but escort us out of the building before we turned our sites on dinner.
The action at Secco was barely getting started, making a couple of bar stools an easy grab for us to begin catching up and sipping on a bottle of Basque Rose with a light spritz, Ameztoi Txakolina Rubentis.
Accompanying our thirst-quenching pink was house-smoked fish salad made creamy with creme fraiche, but also getting a serious flavor jolt from mouth-filling cured lemon, which we slathered over toasted baguette slices with abandon.
Part of that abandon had to do with our multi-tangential discussion - how much communication is enough? where does one draw the line between an orderly life and OCD? what constitutes decent manners these days? - in which neither party held back much.
We were in solid agreement on going vegetarian from there on with Brussels sprouts swimming in a bath of shallots, Aleppo pepper, capers, candied pecans and more of that delightful cured lemon, along with fried acorn squash with Burrata, fermented honey and gingersnap crumbles, a dish I so adore I have now introduced it to no fewer than five of my favorite people.
You will know I like you if I suggest you eat this.
I know there are people out there giving up dessert and chocolate and such for Lent, but neither of us are among that hapless group, meaning we happily shared a non-traditional chocolate bread pudding, served as slices topped with the rich, complex flavors of morello cherries and hopped ice cream.
But what was really complex was the conversation because why would I want to spend hours with someone who isn't as into conversation as I am? I can dine all by myself, as I prove handily every week of my life, but for the best possible time, I need a quick mind and a forthcoming voice.
Check and check.
Tonight's play demonstrated what can happen when a middle-aged man loses a beloved wife to death and then has to figure out how to be happy in his new state. Coincidentally, I recently met just such a man and have since run into him on multiple occasions, so perhaps I have my own source for those answers now.
But in the play, the distraught Ben has his life interrupted when a neighborhood 19-year old (admirably played by Tyler Stevens) who's been kicked out of college and is looking for his own direction in life, drops by his garage with his camera.
And while the situation reads like a win/win for both - Ben will build the boat while listening to a cassette tape of waves crashing and film-making student Jaime will document it - it also brings to a head both their underlying issues.
And that Ben and I share certain opinions.
Ben is old school and can't stand the way every one of Jaime's statements sound like questions, so he calls him on it. Jaime's reasoning is that his generation speaks that way to check if anyone's listening. Most people aren't, he says.
Jaime mocks Ben as Amish for not having a cell phone (ahem) and Ben says, "I try not to let my appliances tell me what to do." This may be funnier to me than to most, but no one can argue with his dismay over rudeness when Jaime begins texting in the middle of their conversation.
Ben's point is summed up when he says, "Being alone in this world is not allowed anymore." Always connected, always available. Thank you, no.
But it's his concern with "being held hostage, and not by people, but by things" that resonated particularly because that's so many people I know and even some that I'm fond of. Held hostage by things, now there's a living hell.
During intermission, the drama continued when I tuned in to the conversation happening in the row behind us.
A guy whose career at McGuire Woods has gone very well (or so he claimed) admitted to a desultory end to his recent marriage.
I was trying to meet expectations and she wasn't trying to do anything.
When I came home, she was glad to have help with the kids but she wasn't happy to see me.
His date for the evening (and she was clearly a date) was lapping up his saga with empathy, trying to make a good impression while not judging him for his marital failing. For all I know, they were a Tinder date. Even without looking them in the face, I didn't hear a lot of potential in their verbal chemistry.
Or perhaps they don't need any because they're not actually listening to each other.
During the second act, young Jaime's inability to deal with life rationally results in being sent away for treatment, then daily meds, the combination eventually producing a more balanced young man who has learned some life lessons from the boat-builder over the months of their project.
And while Ben's impending journey seemed a bit far-fetched to him originally, Jaime comes around to the resolute older man's way of thinking.
When will a big mistake ever cost me less than right now?
Never. Like cassette tapes and statements that end in periods rather than question marks, that's just one more benefit to age.
It's all about crafting your own boat.
Sitting next to me at Firehouse Theater tonight was a woman who'd resolved for 2017 to stop working so much and see a play a week and here she was on a Saturday night, taking in "Boatwright," a play about a man resolving to build a boat and sail the ocean despite no boat-building or sailing experience.
A friend resolved to be more spontaneous this year, acting on ideas when he has them instead of overthinking them into oblivion. Unfortunately for me, I'm still overthinking which is why I'm not in Cuba at the moment.
The friend who picked me up tonight has resolved to create more "me" time and tonight that meant a whole lot of "we" time.
It was the second time for me seeing the Virginia Historical Society's exhibit "The Original Art: Celebrating the Fine Art of Book Illustration," but the first for the tall person at my side. Compelling as it had been on first viewing, it was even more so with the ultimate geek guide: an artist to provide observations about materials, composition and technique.
We lingered so long the guard had to tell us twice they were closing and all but escort us out of the building before we turned our sites on dinner.
The action at Secco was barely getting started, making a couple of bar stools an easy grab for us to begin catching up and sipping on a bottle of Basque Rose with a light spritz, Ameztoi Txakolina Rubentis.
Accompanying our thirst-quenching pink was house-smoked fish salad made creamy with creme fraiche, but also getting a serious flavor jolt from mouth-filling cured lemon, which we slathered over toasted baguette slices with abandon.
Part of that abandon had to do with our multi-tangential discussion - how much communication is enough? where does one draw the line between an orderly life and OCD? what constitutes decent manners these days? - in which neither party held back much.
We were in solid agreement on going vegetarian from there on with Brussels sprouts swimming in a bath of shallots, Aleppo pepper, capers, candied pecans and more of that delightful cured lemon, along with fried acorn squash with Burrata, fermented honey and gingersnap crumbles, a dish I so adore I have now introduced it to no fewer than five of my favorite people.
You will know I like you if I suggest you eat this.
I know there are people out there giving up dessert and chocolate and such for Lent, but neither of us are among that hapless group, meaning we happily shared a non-traditional chocolate bread pudding, served as slices topped with the rich, complex flavors of morello cherries and hopped ice cream.
But what was really complex was the conversation because why would I want to spend hours with someone who isn't as into conversation as I am? I can dine all by myself, as I prove handily every week of my life, but for the best possible time, I need a quick mind and a forthcoming voice.
Check and check.
Tonight's play demonstrated what can happen when a middle-aged man loses a beloved wife to death and then has to figure out how to be happy in his new state. Coincidentally, I recently met just such a man and have since run into him on multiple occasions, so perhaps I have my own source for those answers now.
But in the play, the distraught Ben has his life interrupted when a neighborhood 19-year old (admirably played by Tyler Stevens) who's been kicked out of college and is looking for his own direction in life, drops by his garage with his camera.
And while the situation reads like a win/win for both - Ben will build the boat while listening to a cassette tape of waves crashing and film-making student Jaime will document it - it also brings to a head both their underlying issues.
And that Ben and I share certain opinions.
Ben is old school and can't stand the way every one of Jaime's statements sound like questions, so he calls him on it. Jaime's reasoning is that his generation speaks that way to check if anyone's listening. Most people aren't, he says.
Jaime mocks Ben as Amish for not having a cell phone (ahem) and Ben says, "I try not to let my appliances tell me what to do." This may be funnier to me than to most, but no one can argue with his dismay over rudeness when Jaime begins texting in the middle of their conversation.
Ben's point is summed up when he says, "Being alone in this world is not allowed anymore." Always connected, always available. Thank you, no.
But it's his concern with "being held hostage, and not by people, but by things" that resonated particularly because that's so many people I know and even some that I'm fond of. Held hostage by things, now there's a living hell.
During intermission, the drama continued when I tuned in to the conversation happening in the row behind us.
A guy whose career at McGuire Woods has gone very well (or so he claimed) admitted to a desultory end to his recent marriage.
I was trying to meet expectations and she wasn't trying to do anything.
When I came home, she was glad to have help with the kids but she wasn't happy to see me.
His date for the evening (and she was clearly a date) was lapping up his saga with empathy, trying to make a good impression while not judging him for his marital failing. For all I know, they were a Tinder date. Even without looking them in the face, I didn't hear a lot of potential in their verbal chemistry.
Or perhaps they don't need any because they're not actually listening to each other.
During the second act, young Jaime's inability to deal with life rationally results in being sent away for treatment, then daily meds, the combination eventually producing a more balanced young man who has learned some life lessons from the boat-builder over the months of their project.
And while Ben's impending journey seemed a bit far-fetched to him originally, Jaime comes around to the resolute older man's way of thinking.
When will a big mistake ever cost me less than right now?
Never. Like cassette tapes and statements that end in periods rather than question marks, that's just one more benefit to age.
It's all about crafting your own boat.
Thursday, March 2, 2017
She Who Is Ungovernable
Unlikely as it sounds, there was a time when I'd have happily been a mail-order bride.
Had you asked me about my willingness yesterday, my answer would've been different. But when Mac and I made plans to walk this morning, my acceptance came with a stipulation: that we walk to the Virginia Historical Society to hear author Marcia Zug's talk on "Lonely Colonist Seeks Wife: Rediscovering the History of America's First Mail-Order Brides."
As I've said on many occasions, I like my history with breasts and a topic like marital immigration sounded far too compelling to pass up. We weren't the only ones who thought so, either, because the auditorium was nearly full with those curious about moving to the new world in hopes of meeting Mr. Right.
Zug was a good speaker, too, and her enthusiasm for the subject was evident as she laid out the major problem of colonization, namely that men don't want to move anywhere there aren't women. Most men anyway.
What was interesting was that it wasn't a problem in the northern colonies because those people were escaping religious persecution, so they came as family groups of particular religions. With the Virginia Company of London's foray into Jamestown, it was mostly men and many of the women who did decide to come died or returned because of hardship.
Naturally, the crown didn't want the men left behind taking Indian brides - although they did, apparently in droves - so they hatched a plan to incentivize women crossing the pond. They offered to give them a dowry (which for working girls cut out a decade of working to earn hers), a parcel of property in their own names (hello, Maid's Town) and a chance to marry a rich man, thus moving up in social status.
I get it, all of that would have been hugely appealing to an English working class girl of the 18th century. We're talking about a time where marriage was an economic partnership and the standard question about a lass, fetching or otherwise, was, "How many sheep does she have?"
But the most important part of the equation was that the women were given their choice of husbands and if a woman entered into a marriage contract and changed her mind, it wasn't a problem. But there was more, so much more to entice her, namely acquiring way more legal rights: owning property, divorce rights, inheritance rights, political rights.
Damn straight I'll switch continents for that deal, too, honey. Plain and simple, women were better respected in the colonies than on the Continent.
When the French started colonizing Canada, they had the same women shortage problems, only augmented by constantly looking over their shoulders worried about encroachment by English settlers. Their solution was to import 800 women and make a law for men dictating that if a woman wanted to marry him and he said no, he lost all hunting privileges.
Talk about girl power. What else were men going to do in Canada in the 18th century, besides say yes?
Since history books were for so long written by men, all of this women's history was not only fascinating, but news to us. The legend of mail-order brides being taken against their will to populate and domesticate new frontiers was actually far more nuanced than that.
In Virginia, the playing field had been leveled for working girls with the dawn of a new era where it no longer mattered how many sheep she had.
And the kicker? There was no requirement that she had to get married once she was here. That's some serious respect for womanhood right there. And maybe an alternate book title.
Strong-willed bride seeks solitude and friends in Maid's Town: Rediscovering the birth of the independent American woman.
I'd read it.
Had you asked me about my willingness yesterday, my answer would've been different. But when Mac and I made plans to walk this morning, my acceptance came with a stipulation: that we walk to the Virginia Historical Society to hear author Marcia Zug's talk on "Lonely Colonist Seeks Wife: Rediscovering the History of America's First Mail-Order Brides."
As I've said on many occasions, I like my history with breasts and a topic like marital immigration sounded far too compelling to pass up. We weren't the only ones who thought so, either, because the auditorium was nearly full with those curious about moving to the new world in hopes of meeting Mr. Right.
Zug was a good speaker, too, and her enthusiasm for the subject was evident as she laid out the major problem of colonization, namely that men don't want to move anywhere there aren't women. Most men anyway.
What was interesting was that it wasn't a problem in the northern colonies because those people were escaping religious persecution, so they came as family groups of particular religions. With the Virginia Company of London's foray into Jamestown, it was mostly men and many of the women who did decide to come died or returned because of hardship.
Naturally, the crown didn't want the men left behind taking Indian brides - although they did, apparently in droves - so they hatched a plan to incentivize women crossing the pond. They offered to give them a dowry (which for working girls cut out a decade of working to earn hers), a parcel of property in their own names (hello, Maid's Town) and a chance to marry a rich man, thus moving up in social status.
I get it, all of that would have been hugely appealing to an English working class girl of the 18th century. We're talking about a time where marriage was an economic partnership and the standard question about a lass, fetching or otherwise, was, "How many sheep does she have?"
But the most important part of the equation was that the women were given their choice of husbands and if a woman entered into a marriage contract and changed her mind, it wasn't a problem. But there was more, so much more to entice her, namely acquiring way more legal rights: owning property, divorce rights, inheritance rights, political rights.
Damn straight I'll switch continents for that deal, too, honey. Plain and simple, women were better respected in the colonies than on the Continent.
When the French started colonizing Canada, they had the same women shortage problems, only augmented by constantly looking over their shoulders worried about encroachment by English settlers. Their solution was to import 800 women and make a law for men dictating that if a woman wanted to marry him and he said no, he lost all hunting privileges.
Talk about girl power. What else were men going to do in Canada in the 18th century, besides say yes?
Since history books were for so long written by men, all of this women's history was not only fascinating, but news to us. The legend of mail-order brides being taken against their will to populate and domesticate new frontiers was actually far more nuanced than that.
In Virginia, the playing field had been leveled for working girls with the dawn of a new era where it no longer mattered how many sheep she had.
And the kicker? There was no requirement that she had to get married once she was here. That's some serious respect for womanhood right there. And maybe an alternate book title.
Strong-willed bride seeks solitude and friends in Maid's Town: Rediscovering the birth of the independent American woman.
I'd read it.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Confederate History with Breasts
Imagine a woman choosing writing over domesticity and it being a big deal.
I didn't have to imagine because today's Banner lecture at the Virginia Historical Society was "Winnie Davis: Daughter of the Lost Cause," addressing just that.
The last open seat in my favorite row was handed to me when the woman next to it (Style Weekly in hand) offered it up because her friend hadn't shown up.
She looked like the cultured type and once we got to talking, I learned that her husband had been Leslie Cheek's assistant. Yes, that Leslie Cheek who was director of the VMFA and for whom the theater is named.
We enjoyed conversation about the VMFA's "Posing Beauty" exhibit right up until author Heath Hardage Lee took the stage to tell us about her new book about Winnie Davis, Jefferson and Varina's daughter.
Lee was a lively speaker who'd brought some wonderful old photographs, many culled from the collection of the Museum of the Confederacy.
The cover of her book is John P. Walker's exquisite portrait of Winnie done posthumously ("I hope I look that good when I'm dead," Lee cracked) and presenting her in a fitted white dress, the better to represent her as the vestal virgin of the Confederacy.
She told us about Jefferson Davis' first wife, Sarah, who died three months after their marriage thus becoming the ideal wife since, because, according to Lee, "Not enough time to nag him yet."
Davis made the grievous faux pas of idolizing her, even making his second bride, Varina, visit her grave on their honeymoon (hello, red flag?!).
No surprise, there were epic battles for dominance in that marriage and Varina always lost. They lost son Samuel to measles and son Joe fell off the balcony and died while Varina was pregnant with Winnie.
What that meant was that Winnie's role immediately became the all-important replacement child and the all-encompassing focus of Varina's world. Not healthy - think stage mother.
At 12, they sent her off to a German boarding school, ostensibly for her protection (death threats to Jefferson), but also because Varina had had a nervous breakdown and because they were hoping the strict, spartan school would cure the teenager of her stubbornness.
Instead, she became one of the most educated women in the South, fluent in German and French, widely versed in European history and almost completely ignorant of American history and the Civil War.
Didn't matter, she tagged along as her father's secretary (bored out of her educated mind) on an 1886 train trip to dedicate Confederate monuments, even filling in when he got sick. It didn't hurt that she was terribly pretty, too.
Dubbed "the daughter of the Confederacy," they used pictures of her to hawk everything from candy to liver oil.
Lee said it was on a trip north that she met Alfred Wilkinson, not only a northerner but the grandson of an abolitionist, and it was love at first sight. Both were smitten.
Despite the times, they somehow managed a trip to Italy with Joseph Pulitzer (nearly blind) and his wife (embroiled in an affair with one of her husband's employees) acting as chaperones. "I wish they'd chaperoned my beach week in 1988!" Lee joked.
Of course there was an uproar when Winnie's engagement to a Yankee was announced and in the ultimate controlling mother move, Varina broke off the engagement while Winnie was sick in bed upstairs.
Talk about setting up irreversible mother issues.
"I'm not going to tell you about her tragic demise," Lee warned, insisting we could find out by reading her book.
She did share that once Winnie moved to NYC, Pulitzer gave her a job at his "New York World News" and she went on to live in the theater district, write two novels and ride a bike around the city like the modern woman she was.
Lee's hypothesis was that Winnie always wanted to be a writer anyway, that marriage and domesticity were never appealing to her. In other words, she ended up exactly where she wanted to be.
Isn't it lovely when that happens to a modern woman?
I didn't have to imagine because today's Banner lecture at the Virginia Historical Society was "Winnie Davis: Daughter of the Lost Cause," addressing just that.
The last open seat in my favorite row was handed to me when the woman next to it (Style Weekly in hand) offered it up because her friend hadn't shown up.
She looked like the cultured type and once we got to talking, I learned that her husband had been Leslie Cheek's assistant. Yes, that Leslie Cheek who was director of the VMFA and for whom the theater is named.
We enjoyed conversation about the VMFA's "Posing Beauty" exhibit right up until author Heath Hardage Lee took the stage to tell us about her new book about Winnie Davis, Jefferson and Varina's daughter.
Lee was a lively speaker who'd brought some wonderful old photographs, many culled from the collection of the Museum of the Confederacy.
The cover of her book is John P. Walker's exquisite portrait of Winnie done posthumously ("I hope I look that good when I'm dead," Lee cracked) and presenting her in a fitted white dress, the better to represent her as the vestal virgin of the Confederacy.
She told us about Jefferson Davis' first wife, Sarah, who died three months after their marriage thus becoming the ideal wife since, because, according to Lee, "Not enough time to nag him yet."
Davis made the grievous faux pas of idolizing her, even making his second bride, Varina, visit her grave on their honeymoon (hello, red flag?!).
No surprise, there were epic battles for dominance in that marriage and Varina always lost. They lost son Samuel to measles and son Joe fell off the balcony and died while Varina was pregnant with Winnie.
What that meant was that Winnie's role immediately became the all-important replacement child and the all-encompassing focus of Varina's world. Not healthy - think stage mother.
At 12, they sent her off to a German boarding school, ostensibly for her protection (death threats to Jefferson), but also because Varina had had a nervous breakdown and because they were hoping the strict, spartan school would cure the teenager of her stubbornness.
Instead, she became one of the most educated women in the South, fluent in German and French, widely versed in European history and almost completely ignorant of American history and the Civil War.
Didn't matter, she tagged along as her father's secretary (bored out of her educated mind) on an 1886 train trip to dedicate Confederate monuments, even filling in when he got sick. It didn't hurt that she was terribly pretty, too.
Dubbed "the daughter of the Confederacy," they used pictures of her to hawk everything from candy to liver oil.
Lee said it was on a trip north that she met Alfred Wilkinson, not only a northerner but the grandson of an abolitionist, and it was love at first sight. Both were smitten.
Despite the times, they somehow managed a trip to Italy with Joseph Pulitzer (nearly blind) and his wife (embroiled in an affair with one of her husband's employees) acting as chaperones. "I wish they'd chaperoned my beach week in 1988!" Lee joked.
Of course there was an uproar when Winnie's engagement to a Yankee was announced and in the ultimate controlling mother move, Varina broke off the engagement while Winnie was sick in bed upstairs.
Talk about setting up irreversible mother issues.
"I'm not going to tell you about her tragic demise," Lee warned, insisting we could find out by reading her book.
She did share that once Winnie moved to NYC, Pulitzer gave her a job at his "New York World News" and she went on to live in the theater district, write two novels and ride a bike around the city like the modern woman she was.
Lee's hypothesis was that Winnie always wanted to be a writer anyway, that marriage and domesticity were never appealing to her. In other words, she ended up exactly where she wanted to be.
Isn't it lovely when that happens to a modern woman?
Thursday, October 10, 2013
History with a Side of Humor
There are two guarantees at a Banner Lecture.
I will learn some history and I will overhear some senior citizen conversation.
The two women next to me were chatterboxes talking about how they hoped this was an interesting speaker because not all are.
"I know," the tinier of the two agreed. "Some of them just drone on, and the lights are low and these seats are so comfortable, it's no wonder people fall asleep."
"I've woken up and missed the whole thing!" her friend said.
Since I'd heard Mary Miley Theobald speak before, I leaned over and assured them that she would not put them to sleep.
Thus reassured, they went on to discuss the best uses of the envelopes that come with charity solicitations, one saying that she writes her grocery list on the white side of the envelope and puts her coupons inside.
Her friend was dutifully impressed with her clever re-use strategy and it occurred to me that Depression-era children actually grew up to be re-cyclers long before baby boomers caught the ecology bug. It's just ingrained in them not to waste.
Finally the lecture began to a nearly full house (what else was there to do in this weather?), but Theobald, author of "First House: Two Centuries with Virginia's First Family," began by apologizing.
"I've had a bad cold but I'm all drugged up and I'll be okay," she reassured the crowd. "What I'd like to do today is read the entire book out loud, but they won't let me."
The two women next to me looked over at me as if to give me credit for her humor.
We heard about the original cost of the Governor's mansion started in 1813 and finished at a cost of $18,871, which even translated into today's dollars only comes to about a quarter of a million bucks.
Cheap, right?
We thought so, too, until she pointed out that the rock-bottom price had to do with the absence of plumbing, electricity, running water, fire suppression and other non-standard items for the time.
Even without all the mod cons, Virginia's governor's mansion is the oldest occupied governor's home in the country.
So we have those bragging rights.
Theoblad told us about Governor Andrew Jackson Montague's wife wanting to replace the mansion's dated Victorian furniture with colonial revival furniture which she deemed more appropriate in the early 20th century.
As seems to have been the case since the dawn of Virginia's General Assembly, they didn't want to give her the money to do so, at least until the chairman of the finance committee sat down in a gilt chair at the mansion and shattered it.
Wouldn't you know that $7500 was suddenly appropriated?
I'm sure I wasn't the only one surprised to learn that beginning in the 1840s, convicts were used to do the heavy housework and yard work at the mansion, a tradition that continues today although now they only get to work outside.
We saw pictures of some of the long-serving butlers, all of whom worked for multiple administrations doing important tasks like prying children out of the house's dumbwaiter.
The mansion has supposedly been haunted since the 1890s by a woman who died in a tragic carriage accident on the slope behind the mansion, but Theobald couldn't find any proof of it.
As for pets in the mansion, apparently tame squirrels were a big favorite, along with chickens and goats.
Like absolutely everything else in the Commonwealth, there was a Jefferson tie because when he'd designed the Capital, he'd apparently also designed a mansion with, what else, an octagon at the center that never got built.
In addition to her wealth of information about the house and its occupants, she showed some fabulous pictures of the exterior and interior of the house over the years.
I recognized many of the rooms because I'd once interviewed First Lady Anne Holton and she'd been gracious enough to show me around.
When the lecture ended, the women next to me were beaming, telling me how right I'd been about our speaker since neither had drifted off.
True that. For being drugged, Theoblad had offered up an especially lively and informative talk.
The proof? I didn't hear a single snore the entire hour and that's saying something.
I will learn some history and I will overhear some senior citizen conversation.
The two women next to me were chatterboxes talking about how they hoped this was an interesting speaker because not all are.
"I know," the tinier of the two agreed. "Some of them just drone on, and the lights are low and these seats are so comfortable, it's no wonder people fall asleep."
"I've woken up and missed the whole thing!" her friend said.
Since I'd heard Mary Miley Theobald speak before, I leaned over and assured them that she would not put them to sleep.
Thus reassured, they went on to discuss the best uses of the envelopes that come with charity solicitations, one saying that she writes her grocery list on the white side of the envelope and puts her coupons inside.
Her friend was dutifully impressed with her clever re-use strategy and it occurred to me that Depression-era children actually grew up to be re-cyclers long before baby boomers caught the ecology bug. It's just ingrained in them not to waste.
Finally the lecture began to a nearly full house (what else was there to do in this weather?), but Theobald, author of "First House: Two Centuries with Virginia's First Family," began by apologizing.
"I've had a bad cold but I'm all drugged up and I'll be okay," she reassured the crowd. "What I'd like to do today is read the entire book out loud, but they won't let me."
The two women next to me looked over at me as if to give me credit for her humor.
We heard about the original cost of the Governor's mansion started in 1813 and finished at a cost of $18,871, which even translated into today's dollars only comes to about a quarter of a million bucks.
Cheap, right?
We thought so, too, until she pointed out that the rock-bottom price had to do with the absence of plumbing, electricity, running water, fire suppression and other non-standard items for the time.
Even without all the mod cons, Virginia's governor's mansion is the oldest occupied governor's home in the country.
So we have those bragging rights.
Theoblad told us about Governor Andrew Jackson Montague's wife wanting to replace the mansion's dated Victorian furniture with colonial revival furniture which she deemed more appropriate in the early 20th century.
As seems to have been the case since the dawn of Virginia's General Assembly, they didn't want to give her the money to do so, at least until the chairman of the finance committee sat down in a gilt chair at the mansion and shattered it.
Wouldn't you know that $7500 was suddenly appropriated?
I'm sure I wasn't the only one surprised to learn that beginning in the 1840s, convicts were used to do the heavy housework and yard work at the mansion, a tradition that continues today although now they only get to work outside.
We saw pictures of some of the long-serving butlers, all of whom worked for multiple administrations doing important tasks like prying children out of the house's dumbwaiter.
The mansion has supposedly been haunted since the 1890s by a woman who died in a tragic carriage accident on the slope behind the mansion, but Theobald couldn't find any proof of it.
As for pets in the mansion, apparently tame squirrels were a big favorite, along with chickens and goats.
Like absolutely everything else in the Commonwealth, there was a Jefferson tie because when he'd designed the Capital, he'd apparently also designed a mansion with, what else, an octagon at the center that never got built.
In addition to her wealth of information about the house and its occupants, she showed some fabulous pictures of the exterior and interior of the house over the years.
I recognized many of the rooms because I'd once interviewed First Lady Anne Holton and she'd been gracious enough to show me around.
When the lecture ended, the women next to me were beaming, telling me how right I'd been about our speaker since neither had drifted off.
True that. For being drugged, Theoblad had offered up an especially lively and informative talk.
The proof? I didn't hear a single snore the entire hour and that's saying something.
Friday, July 26, 2013
Tuning In
As history lessons go, it's hard to beat one in music history.
The Virginia Historical society's new exhibit, "Revolutions: Songs of Social Change 1860-65 and 1960-65" sounded right up my alley.
It turned out to be stellar.
With a focus on the Civil War and Civil Rights eras, the show explained how strong the relationship was between the music of the two periods.
Let's just say I have a whole new list of things I did not know before.
Like how the Byrds took a traditional folk song called "He Was a Friend of Mine" as the basis of "Turn! Turn! Turn!" which they wrote to lament JFK's assassination.
I had not know it had anything to do with that tragedy.
Or how there was a Civil War-era group called the Christy Minstrels.
Sure, I'd heard of the New Christy Mintrels of the '60s, but it hadn't occurred to me there were old ones first.
Duh.
How Dylan used a Civil War-era song called "No More Auction Block" as the melody for his seminal song, "Blowin' in the Wind."
There were audio versions of him singing both so the proof was right there.
Or how Odetta was considered the "queen of American folk music."
While I was making my way around the gallery, looking at song lyrics, vintage photographs and album covers, two groups came in.
One was an older man and woman and he was bringing her to see a large photograph of the Hampton choir.
"Oh, my alma mater!" she squealed in delight, wondering to him how she might get a copy of the picture, which she couldn't take her eyes off of.
The other group was a Dad and two boys, maybe early teens.
As they walked by a large picture of President and Mrs. Kennedy in the Dallas motorcade taken moments before shots rang out, the kid had no idea who the woman pictured was.
"That's Jackie Kennedy," Dad clarified patiently. "She was the First Lady."
Ohhhhh.
When the boys got around to the picture of Peter, Paul and Mary, there was a frame with a 45 of their hit, "Cruel War" on the wall under it.
The kid clearly didn't see the glass on the frame, reaching in to grab the record and almost knocking the frame off the wall.
They completely bypassed Pete Seeger's banjo head, the one he played on for 40 years.
Hoping to suck them in, I hovered looking at an old banjo, dated 1840-60, made by William Boucher in Baltimore.
It's apparently one of only 40 Boucher banjos known to still exist and it was a beautifully crafted instrument.
Eventually my prolonged interest had the desired effect and they joined me to look at it.
Finally one conceded to the other, "It's kinda cool," before scampering off to the next gallery.
Maybe there is hope for the future, after all.
Music history will always be cool, kid, because you get to listen to music to learn.
Trust me on this.
The Virginia Historical society's new exhibit, "Revolutions: Songs of Social Change 1860-65 and 1960-65" sounded right up my alley.
It turned out to be stellar.
With a focus on the Civil War and Civil Rights eras, the show explained how strong the relationship was between the music of the two periods.
Let's just say I have a whole new list of things I did not know before.
Like how the Byrds took a traditional folk song called "He Was a Friend of Mine" as the basis of "Turn! Turn! Turn!" which they wrote to lament JFK's assassination.
I had not know it had anything to do with that tragedy.
Or how there was a Civil War-era group called the Christy Minstrels.
Sure, I'd heard of the New Christy Mintrels of the '60s, but it hadn't occurred to me there were old ones first.
Duh.
How Dylan used a Civil War-era song called "No More Auction Block" as the melody for his seminal song, "Blowin' in the Wind."
There were audio versions of him singing both so the proof was right there.
Or how Odetta was considered the "queen of American folk music."
While I was making my way around the gallery, looking at song lyrics, vintage photographs and album covers, two groups came in.
One was an older man and woman and he was bringing her to see a large photograph of the Hampton choir.
"Oh, my alma mater!" she squealed in delight, wondering to him how she might get a copy of the picture, which she couldn't take her eyes off of.
The other group was a Dad and two boys, maybe early teens.
As they walked by a large picture of President and Mrs. Kennedy in the Dallas motorcade taken moments before shots rang out, the kid had no idea who the woman pictured was.
"That's Jackie Kennedy," Dad clarified patiently. "She was the First Lady."
Ohhhhh.
When the boys got around to the picture of Peter, Paul and Mary, there was a frame with a 45 of their hit, "Cruel War" on the wall under it.
The kid clearly didn't see the glass on the frame, reaching in to grab the record and almost knocking the frame off the wall.
They completely bypassed Pete Seeger's banjo head, the one he played on for 40 years.
Hoping to suck them in, I hovered looking at an old banjo, dated 1840-60, made by William Boucher in Baltimore.
It's apparently one of only 40 Boucher banjos known to still exist and it was a beautifully crafted instrument.
Eventually my prolonged interest had the desired effect and they joined me to look at it.
Finally one conceded to the other, "It's kinda cool," before scampering off to the next gallery.
Maybe there is hope for the future, after all.
Music history will always be cool, kid, because you get to listen to music to learn.
Trust me on this.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
A Word Fittingly Spoke
You know you're a nerd when...
You read at 11:40 that there's a noon lecture at the Historical Society and you manage not only to change clothes and drive there, but be in your usual seat chatting with a guy from Westmintser-Canterbury by 11:58.
"You Need a Schoolhouse: Booker T. Washington, Julius Rosenwald and the Building of Schools for the Segregated South" sounded compelling enough to throw off my sweaty walking shorts and high-tail it to the Boulevard.
Speaker Stephanie Deutsch got a thumbs-up from me for speaking extemporaneously rather than reading from a script.
It was hardly surprising to learn that Booker T. Washington had been the product of an enslaved black mother and a nearby white planter.
She brought us up to speed on his life, including his tragic personal life, with two wives dying within a few years of marrying him and a child who died young.
We heard about him going to and teaching at Hampton before being recruited to start the Tuskegee Institute, for which he became known.
Almost as interesting was Julius Rosenwald, who'd bought into Sears when Roebuck wanted out and used his pragmatic, executive style to turn it into a moneymaker.
And because he was Jewish, he had a history steeped in giving and started looking for more ways to do good beyond helping European Jews escape pogroms.
When he met Washington, a fast friendship was formed, with each visiting the other's home and place of work.
That was the crux of the talk, about how these two men got the ball rolling on the over 5,000 schools built for rural black children from Maryland to eastern Texas.
North Carolina got the most (800) and our own Virginia got 365 schools.
Rosenwald was a "matching funds" kind of guy, meaning he wasn't handing over money without the community raising a little of their own.
We all know a person's more invested when their hard-earned nickels are involved.
To induce the locals to raise funds, "arousement meetings" were held, not a tough sell in areas where blacks were desperate for their children to have access to education and a better life than they'd had.
By the time all was said and done, the county boards of education were also involved, finally contributing money to building schools for the children they'd once ignored.
That was the feel-good part of the story.
Deutsch said only 10% of the schools are still standing, but many have been rescued by alumni and former teachers at them and repurposed.
They're even now part of the "Most Endangered Historic Sites in America" listings and not a moment too soon.
See, that's something a nerd would say.
On the other hand, if I hadn't collected myself and gone to the lecture, I'd never have known about arousement meetings.
Now there's a meeting a nerd could really get into.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
Natural Men and Facial Hair
It takes bedroom eyes to get me out of bed at 9:15 in the morning.
In this case, they belonged to Robert Mitchum, whose 1958 film, "Thunder Road," was playing at Cous Cous as part of the Southern Film Festival.
I walked over in the cold morning air, glad at least that breakfast was part of the price of admission.
They were even offering a "thrillbilly" cocktail, for those brave enough.
As I went to get water at the bar, I noticed a woman holding up her beer so her companion could photograph it.
Beer, it's what's for breakfast, I said to her.
"I never drink before 10 a.m.," she admitted. "So it's kind of a point of pride."
Right on, sister.
I ran into a guy I see out a lot and since he'd arrived late, I offered him the other side of my two-top so he'd have a seat for the film.
Breakfast was eggs, pancakes and bacon and I wisely got mine before many people in the room even noticed that breakfast was being served.
Before the film started, we were told, "You can be as rowdy as you like. Feel free to get more food and mill about during the movie."
And we did.
Moderator Jim Stramel referred to the moonshine movie we were about to see as "The Gone with the Wind" of moonshine movies," so expectations were high.
Okay, not high, but highly anticipatory.
He got a laugh when he paused, saying, "Sorry, I was researching the movie last night (hiccup) and I might have over-researched some."
We were told that this film was meant to be seen at a drive -in and several attendees said they'd done just that.
Stramel copped to being envious of them before showing his Southern Film Fest moonshine trailer reel, which included a commercial for Smithfield barbecue, "Available at the concession stand."
Now, there's the beauty of drive-ins, 'cue to tide you over.
The story of a veteran home from Korea who takes up the family moonshining business had some interesting casting.
Mitchum's son James played his brother. Gene Barry (aka Bat Masterson) played the federal agent.
And since these were Tennessee folks, they said things like, :He's still got the misery in his leg" and drank PBR out of bottles.
Another world, in other words.
And Keely Smith played Mitchum's love interest, meaning we got to hear her sing multiple songs.
It was one of the coolest parts of the movie, but probably only to me because I'm not a big fan of car chases and explosions.
When he goes to see her singing in a club, an obnoxious customer laughs and talks loudly while she performs.
Mitchum makes short work of him, grabbing him by the throat and growling, "She's trying to make a living. If you want to bray, go find yourself a barnyard."
Later she tells him, "You're the only natural man I ever knew," totally selling the line.
The black and white film was shown on a big screen with the room's curtains drawn, but it suffered from the light coming in the clerestory windows, so there were times when the screen was a blur of graytones.
And I can say that because I didn't have a thrillbilly cocktail.
So far, that's my only complaint with the SFF, but one easily cured with paper taped on the windows next year.
After the movie, we heard from a woman whose family was in the moonshining business (and how they found her, I have no idea), but her memories were a throwback to another time.
"We'll never speak of this again," her grandmother told her as they poured 'shine down the bathtub drain.
It was considerably nicer out when I walked home to get my car to go to the Virginia Historical Society for installment number three of the Southern Film Fest.
It was the screening of "The Making of Lincoln," which I knew would draw a much bigger crowd than moonshiners or bedroom eyes.
The VHS was also collecting "Lincoln" memorabilia and had already made several good scores from people involved in the production.
I took a seat in my favorite row (the one with all the leg room) and promptly met a guy eager to talk.
Seems he does a lot of research downtown, so he'd walked by the set many times to see what he could see.
He bragged about knowing the guy who made the most unique contribution to the movie.
A bookbinder, he'd been hired to create the ledger that Lincoln carries throughout the movie.
Wow. I didn't even know bookbinders existed in Richmond.
My new friend had also been to see "Jamestown" last night so we rehashed 1607 through the lens of 1923 and chuckled over the desperate Chihuly masses taking over the VMFA this week.
Before the movie, we heard about the 55-day shooting schedule, the 1200 actors (predominantly from the New York theater) and extras (about 20 of whom stood up when asked to) and the 380-person crew.
Next came the 25-minute making of film with the actors interviewed and shots of them turning the Capital into a stand-in for the White House.
Daniel Day-Lewis talked about "how insanely accessible" Lincoln had been, inconceivable to us now.
Spielberg explained how the original screenplay had been a 500-page behemoth, eventually trimmed to 70 pages to focus on the last four months of Lincoln's life.
Joseph Gordon-Levitt spoke of how surreal it had been when DDL started texting him about the role.
Sally Field said her costumes to play Mary Lincoln were exact replicas from period images of the First lady.
The lighting guy explained that he kept it real by using light sources they would have had then, things like windows and lamps.
The make-up woman explained that they didn't try to create a look-alike Lincoln with DDL, but a "feel-alike."
When I heard that 60% of the extras had facial hair, I was actually surprised that the number wasn't higher.
Spielberg explained how he didn't rush scenes, preferring to allow time for actors to look each other in the eye. "I wanted scenes to unfold in real time."
Ah, real time, that antiquated concept.
He wanted the audience to lean forward and pay attention, another novel goal circa 2013.
And I say novel because I saw at least four people with their phones in their laps, heads down, during "Thunder Road."
John Williams talked about scoring the film and using the Chicago Symphony to record it.
I was immediately struck by the coincidence of the Lincoln/Illinois connection, but what I learned was that Illinois was the first state to ratify the 13th amendment, a far more profound connection.
After that film, we saw the brief "A Historic Tapestry," about Richmond's role in the filming, opening with a panoramic shot of the James River and moving on to everything recognizable about Richmond.
The voice-over told us that Governor McDonnell made it easy to shoot here by giving the crew the key to the city.
The cast felt like the city welcomed them as very few cities had welcomed them.
There's something to be said for southern hospitality.
Perhaps the most poignant comment was the one about how significant it was that the city had embraced a movie about Abraham Lincoln, a gesture unthinkable for a very long time.
Afterwards, there was a panel discussion with two extras ("Or background artists, as we like to be called," Nick joked) from the movie, a local make-up artist who'd been part of the crew and a production team member.
From them we heard anecdotes about filming.
Like when John got grabbed to stand in for Tommy Lee Jones at the last second and was put in a chair.
He asked a nearby actor what he should do and was advised, "Look bigger than you are."
Or when Shelly told us that she spent the month pre-production cataloging 3,000 pieces of fake facial hair.
Or when Nick said that, "Focusing on being dead is a hard thing to do."
He should know since he played dead until he heard "cut" before opening his eyes, taking a swig from his canteen and re-dying because DDL had stopped right in front of him.
Rita's story was all facts and figures. $68 million impact on Virginia. $32 million spent on labor, goods and services.
And Balliceaux's business spiked mightily after Joseph Gordon-Levitt danced there one night.
What more could a city ask from a production?
I thought Nick said it best.
During a scene where he played a ragged and dirty Confederate soldier, he and 15 others were to climb a hill to the crest.
When they got there, he looked down to see "what looked like 1,00 Union soldiers in clean blue uniforms" at the bottom of the hill, spread out everywhere.
"It was the first time I empathized with the Confederate cause."
Thanks for sharing, Southern Film Festival.
In this case, they belonged to Robert Mitchum, whose 1958 film, "Thunder Road," was playing at Cous Cous as part of the Southern Film Festival.
I walked over in the cold morning air, glad at least that breakfast was part of the price of admission.
They were even offering a "thrillbilly" cocktail, for those brave enough.
As I went to get water at the bar, I noticed a woman holding up her beer so her companion could photograph it.
Beer, it's what's for breakfast, I said to her.
"I never drink before 10 a.m.," she admitted. "So it's kind of a point of pride."
Right on, sister.
I ran into a guy I see out a lot and since he'd arrived late, I offered him the other side of my two-top so he'd have a seat for the film.
Breakfast was eggs, pancakes and bacon and I wisely got mine before many people in the room even noticed that breakfast was being served.
Before the film started, we were told, "You can be as rowdy as you like. Feel free to get more food and mill about during the movie."
And we did.
Moderator Jim Stramel referred to the moonshine movie we were about to see as "The Gone with the Wind" of moonshine movies," so expectations were high.
Okay, not high, but highly anticipatory.
He got a laugh when he paused, saying, "Sorry, I was researching the movie last night (hiccup) and I might have over-researched some."
We were told that this film was meant to be seen at a drive -in and several attendees said they'd done just that.
Stramel copped to being envious of them before showing his Southern Film Fest moonshine trailer reel, which included a commercial for Smithfield barbecue, "Available at the concession stand."
Now, there's the beauty of drive-ins, 'cue to tide you over.
The story of a veteran home from Korea who takes up the family moonshining business had some interesting casting.
Mitchum's son James played his brother. Gene Barry (aka Bat Masterson) played the federal agent.
And since these were Tennessee folks, they said things like, :He's still got the misery in his leg" and drank PBR out of bottles.
Another world, in other words.
And Keely Smith played Mitchum's love interest, meaning we got to hear her sing multiple songs.
It was one of the coolest parts of the movie, but probably only to me because I'm not a big fan of car chases and explosions.
When he goes to see her singing in a club, an obnoxious customer laughs and talks loudly while she performs.
Mitchum makes short work of him, grabbing him by the throat and growling, "She's trying to make a living. If you want to bray, go find yourself a barnyard."
Later she tells him, "You're the only natural man I ever knew," totally selling the line.
The black and white film was shown on a big screen with the room's curtains drawn, but it suffered from the light coming in the clerestory windows, so there were times when the screen was a blur of graytones.
And I can say that because I didn't have a thrillbilly cocktail.
So far, that's my only complaint with the SFF, but one easily cured with paper taped on the windows next year.
After the movie, we heard from a woman whose family was in the moonshining business (and how they found her, I have no idea), but her memories were a throwback to another time.
"We'll never speak of this again," her grandmother told her as they poured 'shine down the bathtub drain.
It was considerably nicer out when I walked home to get my car to go to the Virginia Historical Society for installment number three of the Southern Film Fest.
It was the screening of "The Making of Lincoln," which I knew would draw a much bigger crowd than moonshiners or bedroom eyes.
The VHS was also collecting "Lincoln" memorabilia and had already made several good scores from people involved in the production.
I took a seat in my favorite row (the one with all the leg room) and promptly met a guy eager to talk.
Seems he does a lot of research downtown, so he'd walked by the set many times to see what he could see.
He bragged about knowing the guy who made the most unique contribution to the movie.
A bookbinder, he'd been hired to create the ledger that Lincoln carries throughout the movie.
Wow. I didn't even know bookbinders existed in Richmond.
My new friend had also been to see "Jamestown" last night so we rehashed 1607 through the lens of 1923 and chuckled over the desperate Chihuly masses taking over the VMFA this week.
Before the movie, we heard about the 55-day shooting schedule, the 1200 actors (predominantly from the New York theater) and extras (about 20 of whom stood up when asked to) and the 380-person crew.
Next came the 25-minute making of film with the actors interviewed and shots of them turning the Capital into a stand-in for the White House.
Daniel Day-Lewis talked about "how insanely accessible" Lincoln had been, inconceivable to us now.
Spielberg explained how the original screenplay had been a 500-page behemoth, eventually trimmed to 70 pages to focus on the last four months of Lincoln's life.
Joseph Gordon-Levitt spoke of how surreal it had been when DDL started texting him about the role.
Sally Field said her costumes to play Mary Lincoln were exact replicas from period images of the First lady.
The lighting guy explained that he kept it real by using light sources they would have had then, things like windows and lamps.
The make-up woman explained that they didn't try to create a look-alike Lincoln with DDL, but a "feel-alike."
When I heard that 60% of the extras had facial hair, I was actually surprised that the number wasn't higher.
Spielberg explained how he didn't rush scenes, preferring to allow time for actors to look each other in the eye. "I wanted scenes to unfold in real time."
Ah, real time, that antiquated concept.
He wanted the audience to lean forward and pay attention, another novel goal circa 2013.
And I say novel because I saw at least four people with their phones in their laps, heads down, during "Thunder Road."
John Williams talked about scoring the film and using the Chicago Symphony to record it.
I was immediately struck by the coincidence of the Lincoln/Illinois connection, but what I learned was that Illinois was the first state to ratify the 13th amendment, a far more profound connection.
After that film, we saw the brief "A Historic Tapestry," about Richmond's role in the filming, opening with a panoramic shot of the James River and moving on to everything recognizable about Richmond.
The voice-over told us that Governor McDonnell made it easy to shoot here by giving the crew the key to the city.
The cast felt like the city welcomed them as very few cities had welcomed them.
There's something to be said for southern hospitality.
Perhaps the most poignant comment was the one about how significant it was that the city had embraced a movie about Abraham Lincoln, a gesture unthinkable for a very long time.
Afterwards, there was a panel discussion with two extras ("Or background artists, as we like to be called," Nick joked) from the movie, a local make-up artist who'd been part of the crew and a production team member.
From them we heard anecdotes about filming.
Like when John got grabbed to stand in for Tommy Lee Jones at the last second and was put in a chair.
He asked a nearby actor what he should do and was advised, "Look bigger than you are."
Or when Shelly told us that she spent the month pre-production cataloging 3,000 pieces of fake facial hair.
Or when Nick said that, "Focusing on being dead is a hard thing to do."
He should know since he played dead until he heard "cut" before opening his eyes, taking a swig from his canteen and re-dying because DDL had stopped right in front of him.
Rita's story was all facts and figures. $68 million impact on Virginia. $32 million spent on labor, goods and services.
And Balliceaux's business spiked mightily after Joseph Gordon-Levitt danced there one night.
What more could a city ask from a production?
I thought Nick said it best.
During a scene where he played a ragged and dirty Confederate soldier, he and 15 others were to climb a hill to the crest.
When they got there, he looked down to see "what looked like 1,00 Union soldiers in clean blue uniforms" at the bottom of the hill, spread out everywhere.
"It was the first time I empathized with the Confederate cause."
Thanks for sharing, Southern Film Festival.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
5th Floor, Going Up
It was Martha Jefferson Randolph redux.
But when the Virginia Historical Society posted on FB today, "Do you need something to do on this cold and rainy day?" it occurred to me that I did need something to do.
So for the second time, I went to hear Cynthia Kierner talk about her book, "Martha Jefferson Randolph: Daughter of Monticello."
Unlike that lecture last June at the Library of Virginia, here, this one began with VHS president Paul Leavingood reminiscing about how long the Banner lectures have been going on.
"Some of you may remember going to these talks back when they were on the fifth floor of Thalhimer's. We've come a long way, baby."
A lecture and a lingerie shopping trip, now that's an afternoon from a different era.
Kierner began by apologizing for the lack of visuals.
"I don't want you to think I'm a Luddite and can't do a Power Point presentation, but we're having some technical difficulties, so there won't be any pictures. They say a picture's worth a thousand words, so my talk may run a little long because I'll have to say those thousand words. But I talk fast."
So she began going through the story of yet another wildly dysfunctional 18th century Virginia family, the kind where strong women shore up weak men and the history books ignore her.
Or they did until women started writing them.
She mentioned how Thomas Jefferson had worried that his daughters would marry blockheads and that while Martha's husband, Thomas Mann Randolph, wasn't a blockhead, he was a poor businessman.
Since I'd heard the basics before, I took note of her picture-less observations, things like, "In a cookbook glossary for her daughters, she defined grits as coming from wheat. Even I know that's wrong and I'm from New Jersey."
When she spoke of Martha's husband, she said, "I have to describe this portrait to you because I paid a lot of money to the Virginia Historical Society to use it in my book. But it's for a good cause."
Her point in describing the portrait was that the artist was unskilled at drawing hands so while Randolph's hands look deformed, it's the artist's fault and not pictorial reality.
The lecture ended, as did the last one, with her talking about the truism that "well-behaved women seldom make history," which may or may not apply to Martha, depending on how you want to argue that point.
After a quick trip to the grocery store (for sauerkraut) where sure enough, the shelves were cleared of all milk except skim (latecomers will no doubt have to settle) in anticipation of snow, I came home to find a message from a friend requesting my company for lunch.
I chose the new sandwich place near VCU, Boo's Brown Bag, because I'd heard they were cooking their own meats.
Nothing like turkey or roast beef someone else has taken the time to cook for me.
The place was bright and open with a half dozen tables for eating in, a big picture window for watching the street theater of the lower Fan and a reappearing Quickness rider picking up to-go orders for delivery.
My friend had saved a table with a view and I scoped out the menu.
I'd arrived late enough that they had sold out of turkey, so instead I chose the yellow fin tuna sandwich because I never pass up tuna salad made with fish from the water rather than a grocery shelf.
In fact, for years I patronized Christie's in Carytown solely for their albacore not-from-a-can tuna sandwich.
I liked that Boo's sandwiches come with chips and one of nine sides, things like beer-battered fries, coconut black beans and baked cinnamon apples.
But hearing that the veggie of the day was sauteed green beans, I chose them.
My sandwich showed up with a thick layer of fresh-tasting tuna on thick Weiman's wheat bread toasted and the green beans were outstanding, not overcooked and seasoned nicely.
Friend raved about his grilled chicken and roasted tomato salad with cranberries, walnuts and shredded Parmesan with a housemade roasted tomato vinaigrette.
I was happy to see that Boo's had not ignored the sweet-dependent among us, offering an array of locally made goodies, including stuff from WPA Bakery in Church Hill and Sweet Temptations by Teresa.
The pound cake with lemon frosting was dense with a rich, buttery frosting I could have eaten by the spoonful.
While eating, I watched the parade of soggy humanity go by, amazed, given the driving rain, to see a guy go by with no hood, no hat, no umbrella, and understandably miserable looking.
But even soaking wet, he had his ear buds in.
My guess is that's just the kind of blockhead TJ was worried about Martha falling for.
Maybe we haven't come as far as we thought, baby.
But when the Virginia Historical Society posted on FB today, "Do you need something to do on this cold and rainy day?" it occurred to me that I did need something to do.
So for the second time, I went to hear Cynthia Kierner talk about her book, "Martha Jefferson Randolph: Daughter of Monticello."
Unlike that lecture last June at the Library of Virginia, here, this one began with VHS president Paul Leavingood reminiscing about how long the Banner lectures have been going on.
"Some of you may remember going to these talks back when they were on the fifth floor of Thalhimer's. We've come a long way, baby."
A lecture and a lingerie shopping trip, now that's an afternoon from a different era.
Kierner began by apologizing for the lack of visuals.
"I don't want you to think I'm a Luddite and can't do a Power Point presentation, but we're having some technical difficulties, so there won't be any pictures. They say a picture's worth a thousand words, so my talk may run a little long because I'll have to say those thousand words. But I talk fast."
So she began going through the story of yet another wildly dysfunctional 18th century Virginia family, the kind where strong women shore up weak men and the history books ignore her.
Or they did until women started writing them.
She mentioned how Thomas Jefferson had worried that his daughters would marry blockheads and that while Martha's husband, Thomas Mann Randolph, wasn't a blockhead, he was a poor businessman.
Since I'd heard the basics before, I took note of her picture-less observations, things like, "In a cookbook glossary for her daughters, she defined grits as coming from wheat. Even I know that's wrong and I'm from New Jersey."
When she spoke of Martha's husband, she said, "I have to describe this portrait to you because I paid a lot of money to the Virginia Historical Society to use it in my book. But it's for a good cause."
Her point in describing the portrait was that the artist was unskilled at drawing hands so while Randolph's hands look deformed, it's the artist's fault and not pictorial reality.
The lecture ended, as did the last one, with her talking about the truism that "well-behaved women seldom make history," which may or may not apply to Martha, depending on how you want to argue that point.
After a quick trip to the grocery store (for sauerkraut) where sure enough, the shelves were cleared of all milk except skim (latecomers will no doubt have to settle) in anticipation of snow, I came home to find a message from a friend requesting my company for lunch.
I chose the new sandwich place near VCU, Boo's Brown Bag, because I'd heard they were cooking their own meats.
Nothing like turkey or roast beef someone else has taken the time to cook for me.
The place was bright and open with a half dozen tables for eating in, a big picture window for watching the street theater of the lower Fan and a reappearing Quickness rider picking up to-go orders for delivery.
My friend had saved a table with a view and I scoped out the menu.
I'd arrived late enough that they had sold out of turkey, so instead I chose the yellow fin tuna sandwich because I never pass up tuna salad made with fish from the water rather than a grocery shelf.
In fact, for years I patronized Christie's in Carytown solely for their albacore not-from-a-can tuna sandwich.
I liked that Boo's sandwiches come with chips and one of nine sides, things like beer-battered fries, coconut black beans and baked cinnamon apples.
But hearing that the veggie of the day was sauteed green beans, I chose them.
My sandwich showed up with a thick layer of fresh-tasting tuna on thick Weiman's wheat bread toasted and the green beans were outstanding, not overcooked and seasoned nicely.
Friend raved about his grilled chicken and roasted tomato salad with cranberries, walnuts and shredded Parmesan with a housemade roasted tomato vinaigrette.
I was happy to see that Boo's had not ignored the sweet-dependent among us, offering an array of locally made goodies, including stuff from WPA Bakery in Church Hill and Sweet Temptations by Teresa.
The pound cake with lemon frosting was dense with a rich, buttery frosting I could have eaten by the spoonful.
While eating, I watched the parade of soggy humanity go by, amazed, given the driving rain, to see a guy go by with no hood, no hat, no umbrella, and understandably miserable looking.
But even soaking wet, he had his ear buds in.
My guess is that's just the kind of blockhead TJ was worried about Martha falling for.
Maybe we haven't come as far as we thought, baby.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Mind the Culture
It's not often a Banner lecture gives me recent cultural history and memories of an old boyfriend.
And yet, today's did.
Alan Wurtzel was speaking on "Good to Great to Gone: Circuit City," talking about the chain his father started in 1949 that was history by 2009.
I go to lots of lectures at the Virginia Historical Society, but they don't often cover events that took place in my lifetime (well, part of it).
So, right off, I was curious to hear this slice of late 20th century cultural history.
Plus, back in college, I'd had a long-time boyfriend who worked at Circuit City and had always praised the company for its people-friendly philosophy.
Wurtzel told the story of his father visiting Richmond and while at a barber shop at the corner of Park and Robinson (Robin Inn's corner, perhaps?), hearing that the south's first television station had just begun.
And while TV viewing in those days was pretty much "a 13 inch black and white screen with half picture and half snow," according to Wurtzel, his Dad saw the future.
Let's not forget that in 1949, "home entertainment" consisted of radios. Period.
Two weeks later, he moved to Richmond with his family, lock, stock and barrel and proceeded to use $13,000 to open Ward's TV at 705 West Broad Street, which eventually became Circuit City.
Most fascinating was how he sold TVs.
Seems he'd run ads in the RTD offering "free home demonstrations" and schedule them for every night at 6, 7, 8 and 9:00.
Interesting hours, right?
Nope, WTVR was only on the air from 6-10, so he knew what he was doing.
He'd bring a TV, explain it and leave it, returning the next night to either pick it up or (usually) have the proud new owners sign an installment agreement to buy their TV over time.
Eventually the store moved to 1806 W. Broad (across from the old Sears we're all hoping is about to become a Whole Foods) and added appliances to his inventory of TVs.
Wurtzel has done extensive research for his book, so his talk was populated by facts and company philosophies like "confront the brutal facts" and "curiosity sustains the cat" and "encourage debate."
As one who has confronted the brutal facts (I'm a little eccentric and I have too much energy), proved that curiosity can sustain an entire life (hence my presence at VHS today) and encouraged debate with everyone I know and love simply for the pleasure of the discussion, I'd say I could have been prime Circuit City material.
All except I never liked TV, haven't owned one in years and detest shopping.
Oh, and the relationship with the Circuit City boyfriend lost its allure when my curiosity kept growing and his fizzled out.
As I learned from Wurtzel today, that's a perfect metaphor for Circuit City.
But, man, did it leave some great cultural history behind.
And yet, today's did.
Alan Wurtzel was speaking on "Good to Great to Gone: Circuit City," talking about the chain his father started in 1949 that was history by 2009.
I go to lots of lectures at the Virginia Historical Society, but they don't often cover events that took place in my lifetime (well, part of it).
So, right off, I was curious to hear this slice of late 20th century cultural history.
Plus, back in college, I'd had a long-time boyfriend who worked at Circuit City and had always praised the company for its people-friendly philosophy.
Wurtzel told the story of his father visiting Richmond and while at a barber shop at the corner of Park and Robinson (Robin Inn's corner, perhaps?), hearing that the south's first television station had just begun.
And while TV viewing in those days was pretty much "a 13 inch black and white screen with half picture and half snow," according to Wurtzel, his Dad saw the future.
Let's not forget that in 1949, "home entertainment" consisted of radios. Period.
Two weeks later, he moved to Richmond with his family, lock, stock and barrel and proceeded to use $13,000 to open Ward's TV at 705 West Broad Street, which eventually became Circuit City.
Most fascinating was how he sold TVs.
Seems he'd run ads in the RTD offering "free home demonstrations" and schedule them for every night at 6, 7, 8 and 9:00.
Interesting hours, right?
Nope, WTVR was only on the air from 6-10, so he knew what he was doing.
He'd bring a TV, explain it and leave it, returning the next night to either pick it up or (usually) have the proud new owners sign an installment agreement to buy their TV over time.
Eventually the store moved to 1806 W. Broad (across from the old Sears we're all hoping is about to become a Whole Foods) and added appliances to his inventory of TVs.
Wurtzel has done extensive research for his book, so his talk was populated by facts and company philosophies like "confront the brutal facts" and "curiosity sustains the cat" and "encourage debate."
As one who has confronted the brutal facts (I'm a little eccentric and I have too much energy), proved that curiosity can sustain an entire life (hence my presence at VHS today) and encouraged debate with everyone I know and love simply for the pleasure of the discussion, I'd say I could have been prime Circuit City material.
All except I never liked TV, haven't owned one in years and detest shopping.
Oh, and the relationship with the Circuit City boyfriend lost its allure when my curiosity kept growing and his fizzled out.
As I learned from Wurtzel today, that's a perfect metaphor for Circuit City.
But, man, did it leave some great cultural history behind.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Women Make It Happen
You know, just another Wednesday night.
In lieu of cocktail hour, I was at the Virginia Historical Society for Daniel Okrent's talk on "Last Call: The Rise and Fall of Prohibition." You know what Okrent wanted to call the book? "How the Hell Did That Happen?"
Truly. How the hell did this country ever think that 14 years without legal booze was going to be a good idea?
Most interesting fact gleaned from the talk? Women made Prohibition happen and women made it go away.
Okrent did a nice job tying up the factors that led to a dry (as if) country: The women's suffrage movement, the institution of the income tax and WW I starting. If we were going to hate the Germans because of the war, we couldn't very well be drinking beer, now could we?
And you know who fought Prohibition? The Catholics and the Jews. The Irish and the Italians. As an Irish Catholic (at least by birth), I'll take credit for my people keeping their heads when all around were losing them.
Winston Churchill called Prohibition, "An insult to the entire history of mankind." That insult led to speakeasies, which made for a cultural revolution. Instead of male-dominated saloons, women helped populate speakeasies so the rules had to change a bit.
Women being present is why table service began. Why food in bars improved. Why powder rooms were added. Feel free to thank the next woman you see.
Okrent said that the curb put on American drinking during Prohibition lasted for generations. In fact, it wasn't until 1972 that we finally got back to pre-Prohibition drinking levels. I only wish I'd been old enough to help the cause.
During the Q & A, the first question was about drug use. Okrent laughed, saying he had bet someone earlier that one of the first three questions would be about drug use. Drink, drugs, I guess that's just what was on peoples minds at the VHS tonight.
With the repeal of the Prohibition amendment in 1933, we moved forward in time to the forties at the Cultural Arts Center at Glen Allen. The On the Air Radio Players were doing two radio plays from the golden age of radio, Fiber McGee and Molly and a Jack Benny program.
First the announcer taught us to clap when the applause sign came on (extra fast clapping sounds like more people, so we clapped furiously) so we could fulfill our audience duties.
The program was called "Frugal Confessions" and was a tribute to a time "when people were proud to be cheap." You know, cheap is chic and tight is right.
The 1941 "Fibber Gets his Hand Caught in a Bottle" was about hapless Fibber trying to steal 35 cents left in a milk bottle and his travails getting it off. "Jack Benny Loses $4.75 at the Race Track" had the long-suffering Benny unable to stop obsessing about his monetary loss, especially when his friends had won.
Both plays were read by people with terrific voices, countless dialects and two sound effects people who slammed doors, knocked and walked shoes to make the appropriate sounds.
It was an old-school production that will naturally be made into a podcast for modern audiences. Let's just say I prefer seeing it done live.
As we got closer to midnight and the advent of the third Thursday in November, we knew it was time to get to Amour Wine Bistro. Le Beaujolais nouveau est arrive!
And while no one is going to get excited about drinking beaujolais nouveau for long (except maybe Holmes and he's in Las Vegas), the third Thursday opening of the new harvest is a delightful excuse to start drinking at midnight.
We got good seats at the bar and before long the place was filling up with other revelers. Because it was a night devoted to the gamay grape, we began with a sparkling gamay (G?) which set the tone with its beautiful pink bubbles and dry taste.
Dessert followed, dark chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee and hazelnut apricot clafoutis with a decadent hazelnut cream. Julia Child herself would have been impressed.
As the room got fuller, we moved on to Cote de Brouilly Domaine du Pavillon de Chanannes, smelling of exotic spices and with a silky mouth feel that made it my companion's favorite of the evening. When we finally reached the bewitching hour, the real fun began.
With French music playing, we did a flight of Beaujolais Nouveau 2012. And surprisingly, it was a good year for the fruity little grape. The ubiquitous Georges Duboeuf was not entirely KoolAid-like and the Manoir du Carra was even better.
Yes, they tasted young and fruity, but isn't that the point?
Domaine Descroix came in as the crowd favorite, although I wouldn't have turned down more of the Manoir du Carra Beaujoais Villages Nouveau, either. We noshed on a savory tart tatin of potatoes, Brie and honey, a fine complement to our young grapes.
The later it got, the livelier things were, both musically (lots of great '60s French pop) and conversationally (how couples met stories). I know there are French restaurants in Washington who have lines out the door on the third Thursday of November and no doubt those people are cycled in and out like cattle to drink Beaujolais Nouveau.
Our leisurely evening of meeting strangers, chatting with familiar faces and trying wine after wine was about as civilized as a wine drinker could hope for. Cultural history, live radio and a 15th century wine tradition.
We call that an honest night.
In lieu of cocktail hour, I was at the Virginia Historical Society for Daniel Okrent's talk on "Last Call: The Rise and Fall of Prohibition." You know what Okrent wanted to call the book? "How the Hell Did That Happen?"
Truly. How the hell did this country ever think that 14 years without legal booze was going to be a good idea?
Most interesting fact gleaned from the talk? Women made Prohibition happen and women made it go away.
Okrent did a nice job tying up the factors that led to a dry (as if) country: The women's suffrage movement, the institution of the income tax and WW I starting. If we were going to hate the Germans because of the war, we couldn't very well be drinking beer, now could we?
And you know who fought Prohibition? The Catholics and the Jews. The Irish and the Italians. As an Irish Catholic (at least by birth), I'll take credit for my people keeping their heads when all around were losing them.
Winston Churchill called Prohibition, "An insult to the entire history of mankind." That insult led to speakeasies, which made for a cultural revolution. Instead of male-dominated saloons, women helped populate speakeasies so the rules had to change a bit.
Women being present is why table service began. Why food in bars improved. Why powder rooms were added. Feel free to thank the next woman you see.
Okrent said that the curb put on American drinking during Prohibition lasted for generations. In fact, it wasn't until 1972 that we finally got back to pre-Prohibition drinking levels. I only wish I'd been old enough to help the cause.
During the Q & A, the first question was about drug use. Okrent laughed, saying he had bet someone earlier that one of the first three questions would be about drug use. Drink, drugs, I guess that's just what was on peoples minds at the VHS tonight.
With the repeal of the Prohibition amendment in 1933, we moved forward in time to the forties at the Cultural Arts Center at Glen Allen. The On the Air Radio Players were doing two radio plays from the golden age of radio, Fiber McGee and Molly and a Jack Benny program.
First the announcer taught us to clap when the applause sign came on (extra fast clapping sounds like more people, so we clapped furiously) so we could fulfill our audience duties.
The program was called "Frugal Confessions" and was a tribute to a time "when people were proud to be cheap." You know, cheap is chic and tight is right.
The 1941 "Fibber Gets his Hand Caught in a Bottle" was about hapless Fibber trying to steal 35 cents left in a milk bottle and his travails getting it off. "Jack Benny Loses $4.75 at the Race Track" had the long-suffering Benny unable to stop obsessing about his monetary loss, especially when his friends had won.
Both plays were read by people with terrific voices, countless dialects and two sound effects people who slammed doors, knocked and walked shoes to make the appropriate sounds.
It was an old-school production that will naturally be made into a podcast for modern audiences. Let's just say I prefer seeing it done live.
As we got closer to midnight and the advent of the third Thursday in November, we knew it was time to get to Amour Wine Bistro. Le Beaujolais nouveau est arrive!
And while no one is going to get excited about drinking beaujolais nouveau for long (except maybe Holmes and he's in Las Vegas), the third Thursday opening of the new harvest is a delightful excuse to start drinking at midnight.
We got good seats at the bar and before long the place was filling up with other revelers. Because it was a night devoted to the gamay grape, we began with a sparkling gamay (G?) which set the tone with its beautiful pink bubbles and dry taste.
Dessert followed, dark chocolate caramel sea salt creme brulee and hazelnut apricot clafoutis with a decadent hazelnut cream. Julia Child herself would have been impressed.
As the room got fuller, we moved on to Cote de Brouilly Domaine du Pavillon de Chanannes, smelling of exotic spices and with a silky mouth feel that made it my companion's favorite of the evening. When we finally reached the bewitching hour, the real fun began.
With French music playing, we did a flight of Beaujolais Nouveau 2012. And surprisingly, it was a good year for the fruity little grape. The ubiquitous Georges Duboeuf was not entirely KoolAid-like and the Manoir du Carra was even better.
Yes, they tasted young and fruity, but isn't that the point?
Domaine Descroix came in as the crowd favorite, although I wouldn't have turned down more of the Manoir du Carra Beaujoais Villages Nouveau, either. We noshed on a savory tart tatin of potatoes, Brie and honey, a fine complement to our young grapes.
The later it got, the livelier things were, both musically (lots of great '60s French pop) and conversationally (how couples met stories). I know there are French restaurants in Washington who have lines out the door on the third Thursday of November and no doubt those people are cycled in and out like cattle to drink Beaujolais Nouveau.
Our leisurely evening of meeting strangers, chatting with familiar faces and trying wine after wine was about as civilized as a wine drinker could hope for. Cultural history, live radio and a 15th century wine tradition.
We call that an honest night.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Come On a My House
If a lecture counts, I've been to the Northern Neck twice this week.
Tuesday I drove down to visit my parents and have lunch.
Today's drive was far shorter, only to the Virginia Historical Society to hear David Brown talk about "Unlocking Menokin's Secrets: Archaeological and Landscape research at a Northern Neck Plantation."
The VHS's president Paul Levingood got things rolling by cracking wise, "Glad you made it through the roadblocks and Secret service checkpoints to be with us today."
Sure, it would have been fantastic to go hear the President speak at the Carillon, but duty called.
Menokin, the plantation in question, is just outside Warsaw, a town I drive through to get to my parents' house, yet I'd never heard of it
Seems it was the home of Francis Lightfoot Lee and his wife Rebecca, who quickly became Frank and Becky for the sake of Brown's talk.
Emphasizing that because of their lack of children, scant records exist about the house and land, so archaeologists like him and his partner in crime, Thane Harpole (is that a great name or what?) are the ones searching for the keys to the history of the house and its owners.
Brown was introduced as the "Boy Wonder," a name he said he couldn't claim.
"The 'Boy Wonder' name worked a lot better when I was younger," he laughed. "Now I'm more of the 'Bald Wonder."
He warned us that he'd brought lots of great pictures to show, saying, "As an archaeologist, I'm used to using puns and humor to get through the boring parts of the lecture."
Truly, there weren't any boring parts, just a ton of information about what's left of the plantation house and its dependencies.
The house was known for its terraces as much as its architecture, he told us, and the slide of the extensive terracing all the way around the house showed why.
He even showed a slide of Indiana Jones, noting, "Without him, I probably wouldn't have a job."
And while he said that his job isn't always as interesting as Indiana's, he quickly acknowledged that a lot of the time it was.
I find it a pleasure to listen to people who are enthusiastic about what they do and he definitely qualified.
In fact, after 45 minutes of talking about how place and space match with archeology to tell a story, I was even more curious about the buildings and landscape of the plantation near the picaresque-sounding Cat Point Creek.
Closing, the self-deprecating Brown said, "This is a subject I could talk about ad nauseum."
Pshaw. I wasn't the least bit nauseated, but I did know something I hadn't.
I need to make a stop next time I drive through the Northern Neck and check out Frank and Becky's place.
Thanks to Brown, I can practically feel the environmental landscape calling to me.
Tuesday I drove down to visit my parents and have lunch.
Today's drive was far shorter, only to the Virginia Historical Society to hear David Brown talk about "Unlocking Menokin's Secrets: Archaeological and Landscape research at a Northern Neck Plantation."
The VHS's president Paul Levingood got things rolling by cracking wise, "Glad you made it through the roadblocks and Secret service checkpoints to be with us today."
Sure, it would have been fantastic to go hear the President speak at the Carillon, but duty called.
Menokin, the plantation in question, is just outside Warsaw, a town I drive through to get to my parents' house, yet I'd never heard of it
Seems it was the home of Francis Lightfoot Lee and his wife Rebecca, who quickly became Frank and Becky for the sake of Brown's talk.
Emphasizing that because of their lack of children, scant records exist about the house and land, so archaeologists like him and his partner in crime, Thane Harpole (is that a great name or what?) are the ones searching for the keys to the history of the house and its owners.
Brown was introduced as the "Boy Wonder," a name he said he couldn't claim.
"The 'Boy Wonder' name worked a lot better when I was younger," he laughed. "Now I'm more of the 'Bald Wonder."
He warned us that he'd brought lots of great pictures to show, saying, "As an archaeologist, I'm used to using puns and humor to get through the boring parts of the lecture."
Truly, there weren't any boring parts, just a ton of information about what's left of the plantation house and its dependencies.
The house was known for its terraces as much as its architecture, he told us, and the slide of the extensive terracing all the way around the house showed why.
He even showed a slide of Indiana Jones, noting, "Without him, I probably wouldn't have a job."
And while he said that his job isn't always as interesting as Indiana's, he quickly acknowledged that a lot of the time it was.
I find it a pleasure to listen to people who are enthusiastic about what they do and he definitely qualified.
In fact, after 45 minutes of talking about how place and space match with archeology to tell a story, I was even more curious about the buildings and landscape of the plantation near the picaresque-sounding Cat Point Creek.
Closing, the self-deprecating Brown said, "This is a subject I could talk about ad nauseum."
Pshaw. I wasn't the least bit nauseated, but I did know something I hadn't.
I need to make a stop next time I drive through the Northern Neck and check out Frank and Becky's place.
Thanks to Brown, I can practically feel the environmental landscape calling to me.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Politics, Poetry and Pub Music
Starting at church apparently leads me down the path to vaudeville.
Tonight the Virginia Historical Society presented its 20th annual J. Harvie Wilkinson, Jr. lecture by journalist Juan Williams at First Baptist church.
Last time I'd been there had been for "South Pacific," a romance but also a story of racial prejudice.
Tonight's offering was less musical, but had a lot to do with his book "Eyes on the Prize: America's Civil Rights Years 1956-65."
Different mediums, similar topics.
The actual topic was "Virginia and the Characteristics of American Leadership," a platform from which Williams shared all kinds of interesting stories.
First he cracked wise, though. "As someone who writes books about history, I am just happy that all of you showed up. And I'm happy to speak in any venue where Charles Krauthammer can't interrupt me."
He went on to observe, "You are an older, mostly white audience. Many younger people don't know the history of the civil rights movement like this audience."
Isn't that the truth?
I would make a similar analogy that many younger women don't know the history of the women's movement.
But enough of my soapbox.
He told anecdotes of having afternoon tea with Thurgood Marshall after the judge had returned his phone call only to have the Washington Post's receptionist think it was a prank call.
After Marshall called back, speaking to publisher Katherine Graham and editor Ben Bradlee, Williams eventually made contact and set up the meeting.
He talked mostly about how ordinary Virginians had stood on principle despite not always having the law on their side.
"It's a time of tremendous change in Virginia," he told us. "There's a pride in what's possible."
I couldn't have put it any better myself.
Forsaking history for poetry, I went to meet a fiend at the Grace Street Theater for poet Katherine Larson, winner of the VCU Levis Reading Award.
Before he arrived, I chatted up a woman a few seats away, noting about the students in the theater, "They look like babies, don't they?"
"Yes, they do. I can't believe I ever looked that young, " she agreed. "But you look like a baby, too."
Presently my friend arrived so I didn't have to talk to a woman with vision issues any more.
"I've never seen this many people at a poetry reading," he observed looking around.
It was an unusually large poetry crowd, I'd agree.
A large-scale painting of Larry Levis stood by the stage in honor of the VCU poet for whom the prize is named.
Larson read her poetry not from her book, "Radical Symmetry," but from sheets of paper, saying, "I'm still not used to the way my poems look in the book."
She didn't have a strong reading voice and I wondered if everyone in the room could always hear her.
Because of her work as a scientist, there was sometimes a noticeably logical/observational side to her poetry.
And some of it was just beautiful phrasing.
In "Low Tide, Evening" she writes, "She is suddenly aware of her desire for him across the table."
"Love at 32 Degrees" was part of a long-form poem with some very scientific references as well as the evocative, "As white and quiet as a woman's slip on wooden floorboards."
I was struck by "Every time I make love for love's sake alone, I betray you," a turn of phrase I'm still chewing on.
She dedicated her last poem "Risk" to her husband, at home with their teething baby, and it provided my favorite line of the reading.
"You haven't much time. Risk it all."
Advice for the ages.
Poetry yielded to conversation and then music at Balliceaux.
Over an unnamed drink created by the bartender for him, my friend told me of his latest dating adventure as we waited for entry to the back room.
We agreed that sometimes it's better to focus on what someone brings to the relationship and not on what they don't bring.
Finally admitted to the back, we were joined by a third, making two musicians and me for an eclectic night of music.
First up were the Richmanian Ramblers, those masters of gypsy-flavored Romanian music.
They'd even brought lyric sheets for those of us who wanted to sing along in Romanian.
It could also be called "pub music" (in fact, it said that on the Facebook invitation) and it wasn't long before one of my two musicians noted, "I wish all music made me feel this good."
How can you not feel good with songs of sheep and drinking?
The combination of upright bass, accordion, clarinet, violin and guitar doing folks songs both profound and hilarious impressed both my first-timer companions.
Listening to Antonia's exquisite voice and Jason's clarinet, the two dominant sounds of the group, is enough to make a person want to start dancing Romanian-style, hands clasped on each other's shoulders.
Their set was too short, but even so I knew it was way past Antonia's bedtime, so I understood.
The Two Man Gentlemen Band took the stage with banter, enthusiasm and a whole lot of outstanding musicianship.
Oh, yes, and seersucker suits.
According to a friend I talked to during the break who'd already seen them, "They're the real deal."
With only upright bass and tenor guitar, they made, as they pointed out, enough sound to be two and a half men ("Would you believe it's just two guys up here?").
My bass-playing friend attributed that to the multitude of notes coming from the bass player's flying fingers, saying, "That's the charmer."
The guitar player on my other side was just as impressed with what the guitar player did with only four strings.
Me, I just loved their oddball lyrics, things like, "I love you but your feet's too big."
There was a song about reefer and one about how they liked to party with girls.
Another was about pig ("My girl tastes like pork chops"), after which Andy, the guitar player inquired, "You girls didn't appreciate that?"
Sure we did.
"You make me swoon when you cross the room" got a background chorus of ahhs that made the song for me.
A swing dancing couple got right up front and tore up the floor as the band got looser.
"Chocolate Milk," as good a song topic as any I guess, got an a cappella treatment at one point.
By the time their set was winding down, everyone was a fan of their retro vaudeville swinging sound and they knew it.
"We're the only authorized dealer of two-man music," they told us, tongues firmly in cheeks.
Before the final song, "Fancy Beer," Andy asked of the crowd, "Do you want the big finish with the John Mellencamp flourish and the samurai finish?"
We did, resulting in leg kicks and overblown arm gestures befitting the close of a show that had won over everyone in the room, including the musician to my right who'd stayed only because of how impressive the band's musical chops were.
By the end, he was hooting and hollering with the rest of the room, including my friend the bass player, who kept thanking me for bringing him out to see two such wonderful bands.
The way I see it, we haven't much time.
Better to be out risking it all with history, poetry, gypsy music and vaudeville while we can.
Let us not forget, it's all about the pride of what's possible.
Tonight the Virginia Historical Society presented its 20th annual J. Harvie Wilkinson, Jr. lecture by journalist Juan Williams at First Baptist church.
Last time I'd been there had been for "South Pacific," a romance but also a story of racial prejudice.
Tonight's offering was less musical, but had a lot to do with his book "Eyes on the Prize: America's Civil Rights Years 1956-65."
Different mediums, similar topics.
The actual topic was "Virginia and the Characteristics of American Leadership," a platform from which Williams shared all kinds of interesting stories.
First he cracked wise, though. "As someone who writes books about history, I am just happy that all of you showed up. And I'm happy to speak in any venue where Charles Krauthammer can't interrupt me."
He went on to observe, "You are an older, mostly white audience. Many younger people don't know the history of the civil rights movement like this audience."
Isn't that the truth?
I would make a similar analogy that many younger women don't know the history of the women's movement.
But enough of my soapbox.
He told anecdotes of having afternoon tea with Thurgood Marshall after the judge had returned his phone call only to have the Washington Post's receptionist think it was a prank call.
After Marshall called back, speaking to publisher Katherine Graham and editor Ben Bradlee, Williams eventually made contact and set up the meeting.
He talked mostly about how ordinary Virginians had stood on principle despite not always having the law on their side.
"It's a time of tremendous change in Virginia," he told us. "There's a pride in what's possible."
I couldn't have put it any better myself.
Forsaking history for poetry, I went to meet a fiend at the Grace Street Theater for poet Katherine Larson, winner of the VCU Levis Reading Award.
Before he arrived, I chatted up a woman a few seats away, noting about the students in the theater, "They look like babies, don't they?"
"Yes, they do. I can't believe I ever looked that young, " she agreed. "But you look like a baby, too."
Presently my friend arrived so I didn't have to talk to a woman with vision issues any more.
"I've never seen this many people at a poetry reading," he observed looking around.
It was an unusually large poetry crowd, I'd agree.
A large-scale painting of Larry Levis stood by the stage in honor of the VCU poet for whom the prize is named.
Larson read her poetry not from her book, "Radical Symmetry," but from sheets of paper, saying, "I'm still not used to the way my poems look in the book."
She didn't have a strong reading voice and I wondered if everyone in the room could always hear her.
Because of her work as a scientist, there was sometimes a noticeably logical/observational side to her poetry.
And some of it was just beautiful phrasing.
In "Low Tide, Evening" she writes, "She is suddenly aware of her desire for him across the table."
"Love at 32 Degrees" was part of a long-form poem with some very scientific references as well as the evocative, "As white and quiet as a woman's slip on wooden floorboards."
I was struck by "Every time I make love for love's sake alone, I betray you," a turn of phrase I'm still chewing on.
She dedicated her last poem "Risk" to her husband, at home with their teething baby, and it provided my favorite line of the reading.
"You haven't much time. Risk it all."
Advice for the ages.
Poetry yielded to conversation and then music at Balliceaux.
Over an unnamed drink created by the bartender for him, my friend told me of his latest dating adventure as we waited for entry to the back room.
We agreed that sometimes it's better to focus on what someone brings to the relationship and not on what they don't bring.
Finally admitted to the back, we were joined by a third, making two musicians and me for an eclectic night of music.
First up were the Richmanian Ramblers, those masters of gypsy-flavored Romanian music.
They'd even brought lyric sheets for those of us who wanted to sing along in Romanian.
It could also be called "pub music" (in fact, it said that on the Facebook invitation) and it wasn't long before one of my two musicians noted, "I wish all music made me feel this good."
How can you not feel good with songs of sheep and drinking?
The combination of upright bass, accordion, clarinet, violin and guitar doing folks songs both profound and hilarious impressed both my first-timer companions.
Listening to Antonia's exquisite voice and Jason's clarinet, the two dominant sounds of the group, is enough to make a person want to start dancing Romanian-style, hands clasped on each other's shoulders.
Their set was too short, but even so I knew it was way past Antonia's bedtime, so I understood.
The Two Man Gentlemen Band took the stage with banter, enthusiasm and a whole lot of outstanding musicianship.
Oh, yes, and seersucker suits.
According to a friend I talked to during the break who'd already seen them, "They're the real deal."
With only upright bass and tenor guitar, they made, as they pointed out, enough sound to be two and a half men ("Would you believe it's just two guys up here?").
My bass-playing friend attributed that to the multitude of notes coming from the bass player's flying fingers, saying, "That's the charmer."
The guitar player on my other side was just as impressed with what the guitar player did with only four strings.
Me, I just loved their oddball lyrics, things like, "I love you but your feet's too big."
There was a song about reefer and one about how they liked to party with girls.
Another was about pig ("My girl tastes like pork chops"), after which Andy, the guitar player inquired, "You girls didn't appreciate that?"
Sure we did.
"You make me swoon when you cross the room" got a background chorus of ahhs that made the song for me.
A swing dancing couple got right up front and tore up the floor as the band got looser.
"Chocolate Milk," as good a song topic as any I guess, got an a cappella treatment at one point.
By the time their set was winding down, everyone was a fan of their retro vaudeville swinging sound and they knew it.
"We're the only authorized dealer of two-man music," they told us, tongues firmly in cheeks.
Before the final song, "Fancy Beer," Andy asked of the crowd, "Do you want the big finish with the John Mellencamp flourish and the samurai finish?"
We did, resulting in leg kicks and overblown arm gestures befitting the close of a show that had won over everyone in the room, including the musician to my right who'd stayed only because of how impressive the band's musical chops were.
By the end, he was hooting and hollering with the rest of the room, including my friend the bass player, who kept thanking me for bringing him out to see two such wonderful bands.
The way I see it, we haven't much time.
Better to be out risking it all with history, poetry, gypsy music and vaudeville while we can.
Let us not forget, it's all about the pride of what's possible.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Have Easel, Will Travel
What 23-year old could resist the idea of becoming part of something called the bohemian brigade?
Not Edwin Forbes, an artist from New York, who joined a group of reporters known that way and sent to Virginia in 1862 to capture war scenes for Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper.
Fact was, cameras couldn’t capture motion, not that it mattered because newspaper presses didn't allow for the publication of photographs, so sketches reigned supreme.
All this I discovered at the Virginia Historical Society when I saw “An Artist’s Story: Civil War Drawings by Edwin Forbes,” an exhibit of more than 120 drawings depicting military life in battle and at rest.
His illustrations, along with those of others in the brigade, were instrumental in shaping the perceptions of an apprehensive public, most of whom never saw a photograph of a battlefield during the entire war years.
Significantly, they were also the starting
point for a book Forbes put together in 1890 called “Thirty Years After: An
Artist’s Story of the Great War.”
I don't care much about battle scenes, but I was fascinated by the drawings of daily life during the war.
Like “Washing Day: Column on the March” showing soldiers marching with their laundry draped over their rifles air-drying. How else could an infantryman make sure he had dry, clean clothes for the next day?
An Old Campaigner” showed a twenty-something man whose face (and even demeanor) revealed how aging warfare was. Like your typical VCU student, he's a young man but unlike them, he's one who’s survived battles and seen hard service.
Laugh-worthy was “News at the Front” showing a soldier lying against a small foothill at Antietam reading a newspaper. As he takes in the headlines, the enemy’s bullets send bits from nearby rocks flying and kick up the dust all around him.
But hell, a soldier’s got to read his paper sometime.
Forbes had an affinity for horses, often imbuing them with more personality than the soldiers he sketched.
In one, a personable horse peers around a man as if to say, "Excuse me, what are you doing here?" to the viewer. The man is oblivious.
It's a pleasing image of a standard A-frame tent with an army-issue stove, an improvised chair but with an easel front and center.
From what I could tell, it appears to be an ideal setting for an artistic 23-year old to enjoy his time in military bohemia.
I got the sense that it was the adventure of the twenty-something's lifetime and he knew it.
That's where he had it all over a VCU student.
Not Edwin Forbes, an artist from New York, who joined a group of reporters known that way and sent to Virginia in 1862 to capture war scenes for Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper.
Fact was, cameras couldn’t capture motion, not that it mattered because newspaper presses didn't allow for the publication of photographs, so sketches reigned supreme.
All this I discovered at the Virginia Historical Society when I saw “An Artist’s Story: Civil War Drawings by Edwin Forbes,” an exhibit of more than 120 drawings depicting military life in battle and at rest.
His illustrations, along with those of others in the brigade, were instrumental in shaping the perceptions of an apprehensive public, most of whom never saw a photograph of a battlefield during the entire war years.
I don't care much about battle scenes, but I was fascinated by the drawings of daily life during the war.
Like “Washing Day: Column on the March” showing soldiers marching with their laundry draped over their rifles air-drying. How else could an infantryman make sure he had dry, clean clothes for the next day?
An Old Campaigner” showed a twenty-something man whose face (and even demeanor) revealed how aging warfare was. Like your typical VCU student, he's a young man but unlike them, he's one who’s survived battles and seen hard service.
Laugh-worthy was “News at the Front” showing a soldier lying against a small foothill at Antietam reading a newspaper. As he takes in the headlines, the enemy’s bullets send bits from nearby rocks flying and kick up the dust all around him.
But hell, a soldier’s got to read his paper sometime.
Forbes had an affinity for horses, often imbuing them with more personality than the soldiers he sketched.
Before leaving the bohemian brigade in 1864, Forbes documented his own digs in an 1864 drawing called “My Studio.”
It's a pleasing image of a standard A-frame tent with an army-issue stove, an improvised chair but with an easel front and center.
I got the sense that it was the adventure of the twenty-something's lifetime and he knew it.
That's where he had it all over a VCU student.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Number, Please
Really, despite my Washington birthplace, I'm just another Virginian at work.
So why not take a gallery walk at the Virginia Historical Society to escape the heat and hear about the exhibit "Virginians at Work"?
Our guide Chris was on the education staff and was knowledgeable and full of stories he'd heard from previous tours, making him a terrific person to shepherd us through the many objects in the exhibit.
He began by explaining that Virginia had been founded, not for the sake of religious freedom (good god, no; you had to be an Anglican!) but as a business venture.
They may have called the participants "adventurers," but the fact is, they were financial investors, plain and simple.
It wasn't until 1624 that the king started noticing how valuable the company was becoming and promptly made them a royal colony.
I was fascinated to learn that Virginian Cyrus McCormick had no luck selling his newly patented reaper to Virginia planters because they didn't need it.
Why would they with all the slave labor they had?
Fortunately, the mid-west farmers didn't have the same problem.
When Chris showed us a wooden corn sheller contraption, he said a visitor had told him that his uncle had lost part of his arm in just such a device and stuck his own arm down the chute.
I was one of several females who openly winced at that mental picture.
He said another visitor recognized the nearby straw cutter from his youth and held up his thumb, minus the last joint, to demonstrate why.
"And back in those days, there were no recalls," Chris said. "The companies figured if you bought it, you knew how to use it."
Boy, those were the days.
We heard about the massive debt Virginia took on to build an elaborate canal system, only to see it replaced by railroads for moving goods.
Then there were the hundred or so companies making cars in Virgina, many at a time when the state had one of the worst road systems, mostly rutted dirt.
Fortunately for safety's sake, there were reflector rings, large piece of red glass on a piece of jewelry that a motorist wore on his finger to make his turn signal movements more visible to others.
Bicyclists, take note.
Another delight was an old photograph of two of Richmond Police's bike patrol astride their cruisers in 1942.
I have to admit, I was amazed to learn that the bike patrol had begun in 1900.
You can imagine my thrill when I saw my neighborhood represented in the exhibit.
On display was the magnificent hearse of A.D. Price, the premiere funeral home in African-American Jackson Ward.
With large windows on the sides and back, red velvet curtains inside and gold fringe all the way around the outside, it was the grandest possible way to go to the cemetery.
I mean, if you had to go.
I was just as excited to see an old telephone operator switchboard because both of my grandmothers had been switchboard operators, one in Washington and one in Richmond.
What I hadn't know until Chris told us was that back in the day when telephone service was beginning, the phone company originally hired young men to be operators.
As he pointed out, how customer-service oriented are most teen-aged boys?
Exactly.
Once the companies had grown tired of the young men fighting with and yelling at people on the phone, they wisely began hiring young women for their superior skill at handling customers.
I remember thinking as a child how unlikely it seemed that not one but both of my grandmas had been operators their whole lives.
But Chris explained that women's options in the '20s and '30s were pretty much limited to teaching and nursing until men's jobs began giving way to women, much like those two professions had.
Likewise back then, secretaries were men and called clerks until women started taking over that menial task, too.
So while I might have come to the gallery walk to get out of the heat, I ended up having one of my eternal childhood questions answered.
Thanks, Virginia Historical Society, for giving me a reason to think of New Grandma and Old Grandma today.
P.S.: The neighborhood hearse was pure gravy.
So why not take a gallery walk at the Virginia Historical Society to escape the heat and hear about the exhibit "Virginians at Work"?
Our guide Chris was on the education staff and was knowledgeable and full of stories he'd heard from previous tours, making him a terrific person to shepherd us through the many objects in the exhibit.
He began by explaining that Virginia had been founded, not for the sake of religious freedom (good god, no; you had to be an Anglican!) but as a business venture.
They may have called the participants "adventurers," but the fact is, they were financial investors, plain and simple.
It wasn't until 1624 that the king started noticing how valuable the company was becoming and promptly made them a royal colony.
I was fascinated to learn that Virginian Cyrus McCormick had no luck selling his newly patented reaper to Virginia planters because they didn't need it.
Why would they with all the slave labor they had?
Fortunately, the mid-west farmers didn't have the same problem.
When Chris showed us a wooden corn sheller contraption, he said a visitor had told him that his uncle had lost part of his arm in just such a device and stuck his own arm down the chute.
I was one of several females who openly winced at that mental picture.
He said another visitor recognized the nearby straw cutter from his youth and held up his thumb, minus the last joint, to demonstrate why.
"And back in those days, there were no recalls," Chris said. "The companies figured if you bought it, you knew how to use it."
Boy, those were the days.
We heard about the massive debt Virginia took on to build an elaborate canal system, only to see it replaced by railroads for moving goods.
Then there were the hundred or so companies making cars in Virgina, many at a time when the state had one of the worst road systems, mostly rutted dirt.
Fortunately for safety's sake, there were reflector rings, large piece of red glass on a piece of jewelry that a motorist wore on his finger to make his turn signal movements more visible to others.
Bicyclists, take note.
Another delight was an old photograph of two of Richmond Police's bike patrol astride their cruisers in 1942.
I have to admit, I was amazed to learn that the bike patrol had begun in 1900.
You can imagine my thrill when I saw my neighborhood represented in the exhibit.
On display was the magnificent hearse of A.D. Price, the premiere funeral home in African-American Jackson Ward.
With large windows on the sides and back, red velvet curtains inside and gold fringe all the way around the outside, it was the grandest possible way to go to the cemetery.
I mean, if you had to go.
I was just as excited to see an old telephone operator switchboard because both of my grandmothers had been switchboard operators, one in Washington and one in Richmond.
What I hadn't know until Chris told us was that back in the day when telephone service was beginning, the phone company originally hired young men to be operators.
As he pointed out, how customer-service oriented are most teen-aged boys?
Exactly.
Once the companies had grown tired of the young men fighting with and yelling at people on the phone, they wisely began hiring young women for their superior skill at handling customers.
I remember thinking as a child how unlikely it seemed that not one but both of my grandmas had been operators their whole lives.
But Chris explained that women's options in the '20s and '30s were pretty much limited to teaching and nursing until men's jobs began giving way to women, much like those two professions had.
Likewise back then, secretaries were men and called clerks until women started taking over that menial task, too.
So while I might have come to the gallery walk to get out of the heat, I ended up having one of my eternal childhood questions answered.
Thanks, Virginia Historical Society, for giving me a reason to think of New Grandma and Old Grandma today.
P.S.: The neighborhood hearse was pure gravy.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
People Got a Lotta Nerve
I don't care if forever never comes
'Cause I'm holding out for that teenage feeling
And what teenager wouldn't want to eat at the food court?
Our food court of choice was the Virginia Historical Society's food court and it was mobbed.
I had a first-timer with me, so we walked the length of the parking lot first to consider all the choices.
I opted for Sustenance's southern salad, an enticing combination of mixed greens, donut peach slices, artichokes, hearts of palm and Asiago in a Vidalia onion vinaigrette.
I took it to a table and set up camp while my partner in crime went off to score his dinner from the Boka truck.
When he returned with a pork belly taco and a short rib taco (with white beans and red wine au jus), we were all set.
Favorite taco: the long-cooked short ribs.
Our table was conveniently located next to the King of Pop truck, so without even standing up, we scored a fresh peach pop so frozen I had to put it between my legs to bring it to edible temperature.
And boy, was it good then. The pop was clearly made from peach pulp and juice.
How do I know?
Three bites immediately set off my peach allergy, causing the roof of my mouth to itch and my tongue to swell.
Even so, it was well worth it.
Before we left, we spent some time listening to the music of Grant Hunnicutt and Allison Self and company, doing bluegrass and Americana under a canopy on the grass.
When we finally tore ourselves away, it was to head to the National to see Neko Case.
Happily, we immediately ran into friends with tales of their recent trip to Italy.
Summary: the food is always good, the people always friendly and I probably need to make a visit.
Opening was Kelly Hogan, aka Neko Case's back-up singer, with her own band.
She did a short but strong set, covering Vic Chesnutt and John Wesley Harding, among others, in between all kinds of humorous remarks and tambourine shaking.
And then the red-headed one took the stage and all was right in my world.
I've probably seen Neko Case five or six times (not including seeing her withe the New Pornographers) and I never fail to be overcome with the sound of her distinctive voice.
How will you know if you found me at last?
Cause I'll be the one, be the one, be the one
With my heart in my lap
I'm so tired
I wish I was the moon tonight
To me, her humor is icing on the cake (and I'm sure her looks are the same to males).
After yet another heartbreaking song, she observed, "How f**king lame is it to tear up over your own song?"
Hogan piped up, saying, "Puffs, brought to you by Neko Case."
The crowd was an adoring one, singing along, but also annoying her.
"Those of you recording this, I see you," she said. "Just because Apple gives you an app doesn't mean you should use it. It makes us nervous, so stop."
I was gratified to see Security come over and tell a couple people near me to stop filming since Neko had specifically dictated no recording.
Come out to meet me
Run out to meet me
Come into the light
They referred to guitar player John as "Gandalf on pedal steel," a worthy compliment for a guy whose playing added immeasurably to her sound.
"You're putting me into hyper-swoon," she raved about him. That made two of us.
When Hogan mentioned the mu-mu she was wearing ("You could have a party in this dress!"), Neko agreed, saying her loose-fitting top did the same job of covering up her body flaws.
"My hip bones and my ribs touch," she admitted, making her my hero since mine do the same.
Short-waisted women of the world unite!
I can't give up acting tough
It's all that I'm made of
Can't scrape together quite enough
To ride the bus to the outskirts of the fact that I need love
During "This Tornado Loves You," my friend turned to me to say how much she loved the song.
I do, too, but given the lyrics, you could replace "tornado" with "Gemini" and it would totally work, I pointed out.
But then she's a Gemini, so she knew exactly what I meant.
But I know that I'm your favorite'
And I said "Amen"
And to the gospel of Neko Case, I too say a heartfelt "amen."
'Cause I'm holding out for that teenage feeling
And what teenager wouldn't want to eat at the food court?
Our food court of choice was the Virginia Historical Society's food court and it was mobbed.
I had a first-timer with me, so we walked the length of the parking lot first to consider all the choices.
I opted for Sustenance's southern salad, an enticing combination of mixed greens, donut peach slices, artichokes, hearts of palm and Asiago in a Vidalia onion vinaigrette.
I took it to a table and set up camp while my partner in crime went off to score his dinner from the Boka truck.
When he returned with a pork belly taco and a short rib taco (with white beans and red wine au jus), we were all set.
Favorite taco: the long-cooked short ribs.
Our table was conveniently located next to the King of Pop truck, so without even standing up, we scored a fresh peach pop so frozen I had to put it between my legs to bring it to edible temperature.
And boy, was it good then. The pop was clearly made from peach pulp and juice.
How do I know?
Three bites immediately set off my peach allergy, causing the roof of my mouth to itch and my tongue to swell.
Even so, it was well worth it.
Before we left, we spent some time listening to the music of Grant Hunnicutt and Allison Self and company, doing bluegrass and Americana under a canopy on the grass.
When we finally tore ourselves away, it was to head to the National to see Neko Case.
Happily, we immediately ran into friends with tales of their recent trip to Italy.
Summary: the food is always good, the people always friendly and I probably need to make a visit.
Opening was Kelly Hogan, aka Neko Case's back-up singer, with her own band.
She did a short but strong set, covering Vic Chesnutt and John Wesley Harding, among others, in between all kinds of humorous remarks and tambourine shaking.
And then the red-headed one took the stage and all was right in my world.
I've probably seen Neko Case five or six times (not including seeing her withe the New Pornographers) and I never fail to be overcome with the sound of her distinctive voice.
How will you know if you found me at last?
Cause I'll be the one, be the one, be the one
With my heart in my lap
I'm so tired
I wish I was the moon tonight
To me, her humor is icing on the cake (and I'm sure her looks are the same to males).
After yet another heartbreaking song, she observed, "How f**king lame is it to tear up over your own song?"
Hogan piped up, saying, "Puffs, brought to you by Neko Case."
The crowd was an adoring one, singing along, but also annoying her.
"Those of you recording this, I see you," she said. "Just because Apple gives you an app doesn't mean you should use it. It makes us nervous, so stop."
I was gratified to see Security come over and tell a couple people near me to stop filming since Neko had specifically dictated no recording.
Come out to meet me
Run out to meet me
Come into the light
They referred to guitar player John as "Gandalf on pedal steel," a worthy compliment for a guy whose playing added immeasurably to her sound.
"You're putting me into hyper-swoon," she raved about him. That made two of us.
When Hogan mentioned the mu-mu she was wearing ("You could have a party in this dress!"), Neko agreed, saying her loose-fitting top did the same job of covering up her body flaws.
"My hip bones and my ribs touch," she admitted, making her my hero since mine do the same.
Short-waisted women of the world unite!
I can't give up acting tough
It's all that I'm made of
Can't scrape together quite enough
To ride the bus to the outskirts of the fact that I need love
During "This Tornado Loves You," my friend turned to me to say how much she loved the song.
I do, too, but given the lyrics, you could replace "tornado" with "Gemini" and it would totally work, I pointed out.
But then she's a Gemini, so she knew exactly what I meant.
But I know that I'm your favorite'
And I said "Amen"
And to the gospel of Neko Case, I too say a heartfelt "amen."
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Into the Groove
Fig and Pig.
I've decided that'll be the name of my autobiography. Pretty catchy, huh?
Don't be impressed. It's not original.
Nor did I know when I asked a friend to meet me at the food truck court at the Historical Society what a lot of food three people could consume.
After walking the parking lot to scope out our choices, I decided on Pizza Tonight, as did my friend's friend.
I augmented the white pizza (white sauce and Irish cheddar, which added a certain tang) with sausage while she insisted on the fig and pig, a special of Gorgonzola, prosciutto and fig preserves.
Sweet and salty: absolutely divine.
About to place my order, the girl said to me, "Hey, Karen! I always see you at shows. I've never actually seen you in daylight."
I hope I didn't disappoint.
Meanwhile, my friend scored a softshell sandwich and we got three Asian tacos from the Boka truck: beef, pork and chicken.
We took our feast to the furthermost picnic table spot under the shade of magnolia trees dropping petals and near a clump of four-foot orange lilies.
Then we dove in.
"I forgot what a hearty appetite you have," friend observed as I inhaled.
Just as we were finishing, we noticed the Mr. Softee truck had arrived, but were too full to attempt it.
Instead I shared with my friends some of the chocolate cookies with caramel topping I'd baked for the Listening Room and said my goodbyes.
"Tap your foot a couple of times for me," I was instructed as my friends left for a meeting.
Glad to.
At the Firehouse, I added my cookies to the dessert table where they didn't have a chance of being the star.
Front and center was a plate of pre-release Dixie Donuts.
Hot damn!
These were cake doughnuts (my favorite kind) of the German chocolate variety with a dark chocolate icing and a coconut and nut mixture atop each one.
A discussion ensued about the desirability of a doughnut over a cookie; for me, that's no contest. I'll take doughnuts every time.
All the guys said that cookies rated higher, so maybe it's a gender thing.
I chatted with the Man About Town who refused to believe I had been spotted at RVA Beer Fest in shorts because there was no photographic documentation.
I brought in a Beer Betty as a witness to corroborate.
Tonight's Listening Room was curated by Antonia and was all jazz, making for a change from the usual folkier sounding bands.
The stage benefited from the set for "Dessa Rose," currently playing at Firehouse.
Loosely-woven burlap draped the stairs, hung from the ceiling and gave a rustic vibe to everything.
When long-absent/recently married emcee Chris got up to do the introduction of Near Earth Objects, he mentioned that the drummer was also in a band he's in.
"I don't know how I feel about that," he observed wryly. "I'm not going to say they're better than us."
The three-piece (bass, drums, keyboard) added in a guitarist and flutist (the only female) for several songs, including some from their album "Manual for Self Hypnosis."
I especially liked one furious flute solo, all bent legs and arched back, where she channeled Ian Anderson.
After the break, we were treated to a drum-off with Scotts.
Near Earth Object's drummer Scott began by winding up a music box, leading into trading licks with Scott #2 of the Scott Clark 4-Tet, the next band up.
They challenged each other, they teased each other and afterwards, Scott Clark said, "Thanks for bearing with us on that. It's not often you get two drum sets up on stage."
It was the ideal lead-in for the Scott Clark 4-Tet, although I'm biased because Scott is my favorite local jazz drummer.
They played old (Fred Anderson's "Little Fox Run") as well as new.
"Clockwise," was introduced as "The hit. The radio-friendly version. For any of you who watch early morning TV, this is the song we sang on Channel 6 Tuesday."
They closed with three short pieces, part of a work-in-progress, a suite based on "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee."
Both the drums and bass had a definite Native American sound to them and the piece swelled with horns.
When they finished, a friend noted, "In the parlance, that was epic."
Agreed.
Gathering up my plate, now completely devoid of cookies (no doubt due to those with Y chromosomes), I left to meet a friend for a drink.
I found him waiting in the warm rain at a closed Fanhouse, so we walked over to Avalon.
He told me that during a recent discussion of why people drink tequila he'd brought my name up as an example of someone who sips it.
Gasp! I was told that amazement ensured on the part of his friends.
Wisely, I refrained from telling him that I'd even been known to sip it in daylight.
The bartender, who likes to refer to himself as my longest running stalker, greeted us, supplied the Hornitos and kept the music going.
Delightfully, all the music came from cassette tapes tonight because he was tired of the bar's CDs.
What that means is that we had the distinct pleasure of hearing "Like a Virgin" and "Seven and the Ragged Tiger" on cassette tonight.
Not to mention the pleasure of watching him have to turn the tape over halfway through.
As my charming friend noted, "Music used to be so much more interactive with tapes and records."
He schooled me on gramophones, his new passion for '20s-era singers and why his breakfast cereal has to be kept in "the hidden cabinet."
We talked a lot about making the expected choices versus doing what feeds your soul. About Led Zeppelin and pop music. About knowing what you want.
During a discussion of indulging yourself, he pointed out, "You eat whatever you want, though."
I do. And what I frequently want is pig (what my third sister calls "the magical beast").
Hence the title-to-be.
Look for it at your local bookstore.
I promise there'll be bacon at the in-store readings.
I've decided that'll be the name of my autobiography. Pretty catchy, huh?
Don't be impressed. It's not original.
Nor did I know when I asked a friend to meet me at the food truck court at the Historical Society what a lot of food three people could consume.
After walking the parking lot to scope out our choices, I decided on Pizza Tonight, as did my friend's friend.
I augmented the white pizza (white sauce and Irish cheddar, which added a certain tang) with sausage while she insisted on the fig and pig, a special of Gorgonzola, prosciutto and fig preserves.
Sweet and salty: absolutely divine.
About to place my order, the girl said to me, "Hey, Karen! I always see you at shows. I've never actually seen you in daylight."
I hope I didn't disappoint.
Meanwhile, my friend scored a softshell sandwich and we got three Asian tacos from the Boka truck: beef, pork and chicken.
We took our feast to the furthermost picnic table spot under the shade of magnolia trees dropping petals and near a clump of four-foot orange lilies.
Then we dove in.
"I forgot what a hearty appetite you have," friend observed as I inhaled.
Just as we were finishing, we noticed the Mr. Softee truck had arrived, but were too full to attempt it.
Instead I shared with my friends some of the chocolate cookies with caramel topping I'd baked for the Listening Room and said my goodbyes.
"Tap your foot a couple of times for me," I was instructed as my friends left for a meeting.
Glad to.
At the Firehouse, I added my cookies to the dessert table where they didn't have a chance of being the star.
Front and center was a plate of pre-release Dixie Donuts.
Hot damn!
These were cake doughnuts (my favorite kind) of the German chocolate variety with a dark chocolate icing and a coconut and nut mixture atop each one.
A discussion ensued about the desirability of a doughnut over a cookie; for me, that's no contest. I'll take doughnuts every time.
All the guys said that cookies rated higher, so maybe it's a gender thing.
I chatted with the Man About Town who refused to believe I had been spotted at RVA Beer Fest in shorts because there was no photographic documentation.
I brought in a Beer Betty as a witness to corroborate.
Tonight's Listening Room was curated by Antonia and was all jazz, making for a change from the usual folkier sounding bands.
The stage benefited from the set for "Dessa Rose," currently playing at Firehouse.
Loosely-woven burlap draped the stairs, hung from the ceiling and gave a rustic vibe to everything.
When long-absent/recently married emcee Chris got up to do the introduction of Near Earth Objects, he mentioned that the drummer was also in a band he's in.
"I don't know how I feel about that," he observed wryly. "I'm not going to say they're better than us."
The three-piece (bass, drums, keyboard) added in a guitarist and flutist (the only female) for several songs, including some from their album "Manual for Self Hypnosis."
I especially liked one furious flute solo, all bent legs and arched back, where she channeled Ian Anderson.
After the break, we were treated to a drum-off with Scotts.
Near Earth Object's drummer Scott began by winding up a music box, leading into trading licks with Scott #2 of the Scott Clark 4-Tet, the next band up.
They challenged each other, they teased each other and afterwards, Scott Clark said, "Thanks for bearing with us on that. It's not often you get two drum sets up on stage."
It was the ideal lead-in for the Scott Clark 4-Tet, although I'm biased because Scott is my favorite local jazz drummer.
They played old (Fred Anderson's "Little Fox Run") as well as new.
"Clockwise," was introduced as "The hit. The radio-friendly version. For any of you who watch early morning TV, this is the song we sang on Channel 6 Tuesday."
They closed with three short pieces, part of a work-in-progress, a suite based on "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee."
Both the drums and bass had a definite Native American sound to them and the piece swelled with horns.
When they finished, a friend noted, "In the parlance, that was epic."
Agreed.
Gathering up my plate, now completely devoid of cookies (no doubt due to those with Y chromosomes), I left to meet a friend for a drink.
I found him waiting in the warm rain at a closed Fanhouse, so we walked over to Avalon.
He told me that during a recent discussion of why people drink tequila he'd brought my name up as an example of someone who sips it.
Gasp! I was told that amazement ensured on the part of his friends.
Wisely, I refrained from telling him that I'd even been known to sip it in daylight.
The bartender, who likes to refer to himself as my longest running stalker, greeted us, supplied the Hornitos and kept the music going.
Delightfully, all the music came from cassette tapes tonight because he was tired of the bar's CDs.
What that means is that we had the distinct pleasure of hearing "Like a Virgin" and "Seven and the Ragged Tiger" on cassette tonight.
Not to mention the pleasure of watching him have to turn the tape over halfway through.
As my charming friend noted, "Music used to be so much more interactive with tapes and records."
He schooled me on gramophones, his new passion for '20s-era singers and why his breakfast cereal has to be kept in "the hidden cabinet."
We talked a lot about making the expected choices versus doing what feeds your soul. About Led Zeppelin and pop music. About knowing what you want.
During a discussion of indulging yourself, he pointed out, "You eat whatever you want, though."
I do. And what I frequently want is pig (what my third sister calls "the magical beast").
Hence the title-to-be.
Look for it at your local bookstore.
I promise there'll be bacon at the in-store readings.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Patience is a Virtue
It was the art date months in the making.
I'd met a guy a while back at 27's bar and after a wide-ranging conversation, he'd suggested we meet to see the Ansel Adams photography show at VMFA.
Weeks and then months passed and the show finally closed at the end of February.
Fast forward and we finally made it happen.
This time it was at the Historical Society for "End of an Era: The Photography of Jack Jeffers."
It's a fascinating show, as much for the beauty of the black and white photographs as for the images he captured in Appalachia during the sixties and seventies.
Best of all, all the text next to the photos is by Jeffers himself, providing insight into how and why the pictures were taken.
The weathered faces that stare out are from another place and time where people still lived in ramshackle houses with no electricity or running water. Their toilet was a hole in the ground.
In 1969. And 1972. Who knew?
"Cyrus" is the lynch pin of the show and one of the most challenging subjects Jeffers encountered. It took months of return trips to convince Cyrus to allow his picture to be taken.
The funny part is that once Jeffers gave him a copy of it, he showed it to absolutely everyone he met.
The exhibit is full of images like that. A woman sits in an antique car apparently lost in her thoughts.
But no, Jeffers explains, she is totally blind. A mountain man looks like the kind of grizzled face you'd see carved on a totem.
Only one face smiles, a testament to the uncertainty the mountain people felt at having their pictures taken.
And why not when they'd never before in their lives seen a camera or photograph?
My art date turned out to be a terrific person to see a show with, full of interpretations, opinions and questions.
We were having such a good time we moved right over to the "For the Love of Beauty" show and got a peek at how rich West Enders lived.
Not my style, but interesting nonetheless.
It turned out to be a voyeuristic kind of afternoon.
Waking out the grand front entrance, he said he hoped he hadn't blabbed on too much.
No such thing, my friend. Art dates are made for blabbing.
Like Jack Jeffers, you just have to be patient enough to wait for them to happen.
I'd met a guy a while back at 27's bar and after a wide-ranging conversation, he'd suggested we meet to see the Ansel Adams photography show at VMFA.
Weeks and then months passed and the show finally closed at the end of February.
Fast forward and we finally made it happen.
This time it was at the Historical Society for "End of an Era: The Photography of Jack Jeffers."
It's a fascinating show, as much for the beauty of the black and white photographs as for the images he captured in Appalachia during the sixties and seventies.
Best of all, all the text next to the photos is by Jeffers himself, providing insight into how and why the pictures were taken.
The weathered faces that stare out are from another place and time where people still lived in ramshackle houses with no electricity or running water. Their toilet was a hole in the ground.
In 1969. And 1972. Who knew?
"Cyrus" is the lynch pin of the show and one of the most challenging subjects Jeffers encountered. It took months of return trips to convince Cyrus to allow his picture to be taken.
The funny part is that once Jeffers gave him a copy of it, he showed it to absolutely everyone he met.
The exhibit is full of images like that. A woman sits in an antique car apparently lost in her thoughts.
But no, Jeffers explains, she is totally blind. A mountain man looks like the kind of grizzled face you'd see carved on a totem.
Only one face smiles, a testament to the uncertainty the mountain people felt at having their pictures taken.
And why not when they'd never before in their lives seen a camera or photograph?
My art date turned out to be a terrific person to see a show with, full of interpretations, opinions and questions.
We were having such a good time we moved right over to the "For the Love of Beauty" show and got a peek at how rich West Enders lived.
Not my style, but interesting nonetheless.
It turned out to be a voyeuristic kind of afternoon.
Waking out the grand front entrance, he said he hoped he hadn't blabbed on too much.
No such thing, my friend. Art dates are made for blabbing.
Like Jack Jeffers, you just have to be patient enough to wait for them to happen.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
How Soon is Now?
If the Virginia Historical Society had spontaneously combusted tonight, half the restaurants in Richmond would have had to close and a lot of great tights would have gone up in a puff of smoke.
Fortunately that wasn't the case.
The occasion was the inaugural Elbys, Richmond's restaurant awards named for Master Chef Paul Elbling.
Shortly after arriving, I came face to face with the great man himself when he walked up to me and said, "You have such beautiful stockings. And what's in them."
Leave it to a Frenchman to compliment a random stranger right off the bat.
Soon the hordes of restaurant people and the merely curious were herded into the auditorium where I had heard many a Banner Lecture.
It was there that Richmond Magazine proceeded to announce the restaurant awards while alternately sharing food history about the eight Virginia Presidents.
Several people told me that they could have lived without the food trivia, but I loved it.
Witness: George Washington was obsessed with composting (yes, dung piles at Mount Vernon). Virginia ladies valued themselves based on their bacon.
And then just as the tension was becoming claustrophobic, the honored were called onstage.
Some awards were hardly surprises. Lemaire won for fine dining.
Dale Reitzer won Chef of the Year, getting laughs with his acknowledgement of his staff that, "I'm not shit without them."
Balliceaux won for their drink program, with mixologist Sean Rapoza giving a nod to Bobby Kruger for having blazed the trail.
When Black Sheep won Best Neighborhood restaurant, owner Amy spoke eloquently about their commitment to Carver and getting people to come to "that" neighborhood.
Host Juan Conde followed her remarks by saying, "Just keep serving those chicken livers and I'll keep coming back."
When Secco won for Best Wine Program, Chef Tim Bereika in Chucks Taylors and owner Julia (the tomboy) in a dress took the stage.
After thanking her suppliers, she said, "And thanks to Richmond for getting it."
You're welcome, oh ginger one.
EAT Restaurant Partners (Blue Goat, Osaka et al) won for Restaurant Visionaries, with Ron Melford saying, "Thanks to everyone who didn't go to a chain restaurant last year."
Call me proud of my membership in that group.
Best Pastry Chef went to Josh Gaulin of Acacia, beating out one of my favorite chefs, Carly Herring, who I was happy to hear has now landed at C'est le Vin.
Another of my favorites got the nod when Caleb Shriver at Aziza's won Rising Culinary Star for across the board perfection as well as having "the work ethic of a beast."
I'd just been sucking on his bones Friday night. Beef marrow, that is.
The Roosevelt took Best New Restaurant to much applause and gratitude from Chef Lee Gregory who sounded genuinely surprised at the honor.
At the after-party, Marty of Steady Sounds spun the excellent mix of music which got a surprisingly few restaurant types to dance.
Richmond magazine's editor said she was hoping to see people dancing on the tables and, frankly, that would have been awesome.
One of Acacia's stellar bar staff suggested he and I get things going but once he told me he used to teach swing dancing, I thought better of it.
Fortunately, other Acacia types got the dancing started.
Because there were only two bars, lines were long but waiting became a party with people visiting one another in line in the interim.
Food tables were everywhere and they featured the food preferences of the Virginia-born Presidents.
While loading up on spoon bread and fried chicken, the server said, "I love your tights. I noticed them when you came in two hours ago."
Wow. You're going to hand me food and say nice things at the same time? Definitely my kind of party.
And I was far from the only pair of cute tights. Women I have never seen wear tights pulled them out for this shindig. High heels abounded.
One restaurant owner, when complimented on her tights, admitted that she'd found them in her closet, along with a beautiful evening purse.
I only wish my closet held such a treasure trove of goodies.
After several conversations, a favorite sous chef belatedly introduced me to his girlfriend, apologizing for forgetting previously.
"I'm trying to be better," he said with a grin. "I'm teachable."
His lovely girlfriend agreed that teachable men were the very best kind.
Dollop's baker had on one of the most stylish and colorful dresses of the evening and when I complimented her on it, she admitted that it was really a bathing suit cover-up.
You can't buy that kind of fashion sense.
I finished up at the Broadbent table for some 1996 Madeira Colheita, smooth and nutty on the finish.
Our little group fell into a discussion of what we were doing in 1996.
Let's see. Not drinking Madeira and not having half as much fun as now.
Do they give awards for finally getting it right?
Fortunately that wasn't the case.
The occasion was the inaugural Elbys, Richmond's restaurant awards named for Master Chef Paul Elbling.
Shortly after arriving, I came face to face with the great man himself when he walked up to me and said, "You have such beautiful stockings. And what's in them."
Leave it to a Frenchman to compliment a random stranger right off the bat.
Soon the hordes of restaurant people and the merely curious were herded into the auditorium where I had heard many a Banner Lecture.
It was there that Richmond Magazine proceeded to announce the restaurant awards while alternately sharing food history about the eight Virginia Presidents.
Several people told me that they could have lived without the food trivia, but I loved it.
Witness: George Washington was obsessed with composting (yes, dung piles at Mount Vernon). Virginia ladies valued themselves based on their bacon.
And then just as the tension was becoming claustrophobic, the honored were called onstage.
Some awards were hardly surprises. Lemaire won for fine dining.
Dale Reitzer won Chef of the Year, getting laughs with his acknowledgement of his staff that, "I'm not shit without them."
Balliceaux won for their drink program, with mixologist Sean Rapoza giving a nod to Bobby Kruger for having blazed the trail.
When Black Sheep won Best Neighborhood restaurant, owner Amy spoke eloquently about their commitment to Carver and getting people to come to "that" neighborhood.
Host Juan Conde followed her remarks by saying, "Just keep serving those chicken livers and I'll keep coming back."
When Secco won for Best Wine Program, Chef Tim Bereika in Chucks Taylors and owner Julia (the tomboy) in a dress took the stage.
After thanking her suppliers, she said, "And thanks to Richmond for getting it."
You're welcome, oh ginger one.
EAT Restaurant Partners (Blue Goat, Osaka et al) won for Restaurant Visionaries, with Ron Melford saying, "Thanks to everyone who didn't go to a chain restaurant last year."
Call me proud of my membership in that group.
Best Pastry Chef went to Josh Gaulin of Acacia, beating out one of my favorite chefs, Carly Herring, who I was happy to hear has now landed at C'est le Vin.
Another of my favorites got the nod when Caleb Shriver at Aziza's won Rising Culinary Star for across the board perfection as well as having "the work ethic of a beast."
I'd just been sucking on his bones Friday night. Beef marrow, that is.
The Roosevelt took Best New Restaurant to much applause and gratitude from Chef Lee Gregory who sounded genuinely surprised at the honor.
At the after-party, Marty of Steady Sounds spun the excellent mix of music which got a surprisingly few restaurant types to dance.
Richmond magazine's editor said she was hoping to see people dancing on the tables and, frankly, that would have been awesome.
One of Acacia's stellar bar staff suggested he and I get things going but once he told me he used to teach swing dancing, I thought better of it.
Fortunately, other Acacia types got the dancing started.
Because there were only two bars, lines were long but waiting became a party with people visiting one another in line in the interim.
Food tables were everywhere and they featured the food preferences of the Virginia-born Presidents.
While loading up on spoon bread and fried chicken, the server said, "I love your tights. I noticed them when you came in two hours ago."
Wow. You're going to hand me food and say nice things at the same time? Definitely my kind of party.
And I was far from the only pair of cute tights. Women I have never seen wear tights pulled them out for this shindig. High heels abounded.
One restaurant owner, when complimented on her tights, admitted that she'd found them in her closet, along with a beautiful evening purse.
I only wish my closet held such a treasure trove of goodies.
After several conversations, a favorite sous chef belatedly introduced me to his girlfriend, apologizing for forgetting previously.
"I'm trying to be better," he said with a grin. "I'm teachable."
His lovely girlfriend agreed that teachable men were the very best kind.
Dollop's baker had on one of the most stylish and colorful dresses of the evening and when I complimented her on it, she admitted that it was really a bathing suit cover-up.
You can't buy that kind of fashion sense.
I finished up at the Broadbent table for some 1996 Madeira Colheita, smooth and nutty on the finish.
Our little group fell into a discussion of what we were doing in 1996.
Let's see. Not drinking Madeira and not having half as much fun as now.
Do they give awards for finally getting it right?
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Don't Call Me a Leaver
"You are such a Q and A leaver," a fellow history nerd observed abut my departure after today's Banner Lecture at the Virginia Historical Society.
And I'm not, at least not usually. But, in my experience, the VHS crowd's questions don't usually grab me.
The lectures, on the other hand, frequently do.
Like today's topic, "Abolitionist Art and the Slave Trade" by UVA's Maurie McInnis.
Using Englishman Eyre Crow's painting "Slaves Waiting for Sale, Richmond, Virginia" as a starting point, the lecture painted a realistic and heartbreaking story of the local slave trade.
I was fascinated to learn about RVA's slave trading area on Wall Street near 15th Street, between Main and Franklin.
Close to churches, retail and government, the buying and selling of human beings took place in close proximity to every other aspect of daily life here.
McInnis showed images of long-gone buildings, newspaper ads for slave sales and sketches done at them.
We saw the blood-red flags that were hung outside buildings to indicate that a slave auction was taking place.
Significant was that Crow's painting depicted blacks not in the stereotypical, caricature way but as individuals.
Instead of the usual theatrical scene of the auctioneer, his painting depicted well-dressed slaves waiting their turn to be sold.
Well dressed because the sellers almost always bought new clothes for their human chattel so as to get the best possible price for them at market.
Needless to say, this insider's look at the abominations going on here were endlessly enlightening to the Brits in the mid-19th century.
To a 21st century audience, it was just a compelling yet disturbing look at an unfortunate chapter in our history.
And while I didn't stay for the Q and A, I did make an unlikely friend beforehand.
An older man sat down next to me and with a few questions, I learned that he used to write for a weekly newspaper.
Presently he's collecting the bon mots put on church signs to speak to passersby.
He told me a few he'd seen and I shared a personal favorite, "If you drink a fifth on the third, you may not see the Fourth."
He liked it so much he wrote it down, laughing and asking where I'd seen it.
It had been on a church I'd driven by last summer on the Northern Neck near where my parents live.
Not only did he know the tiny town where they live, he'd actually been in their house years ago.
I was aware that lots of people had been in the house because of stories we'd heard from locals since my parents bought it in 1985.
"If you go up to the third floor," he said with the familiarity of someone who had," You can see what a well-made house that is. And the view of the river there, well, you can almost see to Urbanna!"
It's been barely over a week since I was on the third floor of my parents' house looking out a window at the Rapphannock River and here sat a man who knew that view from that exact same spot.
So, yes, James, I am guilty of skipping out on the question period.
But what was I going to hear from the audience that was going to top meeting a stranger who'd admired the river view from the exact same place I'd done so many times?
I could say that for me Banner Lectures are all about what happens before and during the talk.
And, yes, next time I promise to stay for the Q and A.
And I'm not, at least not usually. But, in my experience, the VHS crowd's questions don't usually grab me.
The lectures, on the other hand, frequently do.
Like today's topic, "Abolitionist Art and the Slave Trade" by UVA's Maurie McInnis.
Using Englishman Eyre Crow's painting "Slaves Waiting for Sale, Richmond, Virginia" as a starting point, the lecture painted a realistic and heartbreaking story of the local slave trade.
I was fascinated to learn about RVA's slave trading area on Wall Street near 15th Street, between Main and Franklin.
Close to churches, retail and government, the buying and selling of human beings took place in close proximity to every other aspect of daily life here.
McInnis showed images of long-gone buildings, newspaper ads for slave sales and sketches done at them.
We saw the blood-red flags that were hung outside buildings to indicate that a slave auction was taking place.
Significant was that Crow's painting depicted blacks not in the stereotypical, caricature way but as individuals.
Instead of the usual theatrical scene of the auctioneer, his painting depicted well-dressed slaves waiting their turn to be sold.
Well dressed because the sellers almost always bought new clothes for their human chattel so as to get the best possible price for them at market.
Needless to say, this insider's look at the abominations going on here were endlessly enlightening to the Brits in the mid-19th century.
To a 21st century audience, it was just a compelling yet disturbing look at an unfortunate chapter in our history.
And while I didn't stay for the Q and A, I did make an unlikely friend beforehand.
An older man sat down next to me and with a few questions, I learned that he used to write for a weekly newspaper.
Presently he's collecting the bon mots put on church signs to speak to passersby.
He told me a few he'd seen and I shared a personal favorite, "If you drink a fifth on the third, you may not see the Fourth."
He liked it so much he wrote it down, laughing and asking where I'd seen it.
It had been on a church I'd driven by last summer on the Northern Neck near where my parents live.
Not only did he know the tiny town where they live, he'd actually been in their house years ago.
I was aware that lots of people had been in the house because of stories we'd heard from locals since my parents bought it in 1985.
"If you go up to the third floor," he said with the familiarity of someone who had," You can see what a well-made house that is. And the view of the river there, well, you can almost see to Urbanna!"
It's been barely over a week since I was on the third floor of my parents' house looking out a window at the Rapphannock River and here sat a man who knew that view from that exact same spot.
So, yes, James, I am guilty of skipping out on the question period.
But what was I going to hear from the audience that was going to top meeting a stranger who'd admired the river view from the exact same place I'd done so many times?
I could say that for me Banner Lectures are all about what happens before and during the talk.
And, yes, next time I promise to stay for the Q and A.
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