We might have been willing to trespass, but not to use the walkie talkie.
Mac and I started the day walking at the river and as we came back up toward Capital Hill, we spotted a bus marked "C-SPAN Bus 50 Capitals Tour," whatever that was. With nothing better to do, we climbed aboard and found ourselves in a tricked out multi-media explosion of touch screens and eager guides.
After taking a quiz about democracy (9/10, so not bad), a guide explained that the bus was visiting every state capital (Alaska and Hawaii will require a barge) over the next year.
We were offered the opportunity to be filmed for 30 seconds about our greatest concern for the country (hello, race relations), but opted out (me: too hot and sweaty, Mac: too nervous).
The illustrious L. Doug Wilder had already said his piece before we arrived, although I'd bet they didn't limit him to any 30 seconds.
Back in Jackson Ward, we stopped in our tracks when we saw a trio of tourists in town for the Aglow convention (some kind of ministry begun by women) looking perplexed at the map in their hands.
Turns out they were from Washington state (when I mentioned Virginia wine, they assured me their state made wine, too), staying at the Air BnB over Lucy's (points for choosing such a central location) and looking for some guidance on walkable markets and restaurants (when I asked if they liked oysters, one told me she couldn't eat them because they went right through her whole).
In other words, they'd hit the jackpot.
A tourist really couldn't luck into anyone better than Mac and me to guide them through their first visit, mark up their map with restaurant suggestions or direct them to a market for coffee and assorted necessities.
Let's put it this way: it wasn't enough to introduce themselves, they also needed to hug us in gratitude. Also I'm guessing they won't make it to Rapp Session.
Our evening began at the Library of Virginia for a panel discussion, "Virginia Vice: Legislating Morality" focusing on moonshine, marijuana and film and how the commonwealth tried to save us from them all.
I immediately recognized one of the panelists, Max Watman, who'd written a book about moonshine because in 2010 I'd gone to a reading at Chop Suey where he'd passed around a Ball jar of moonshine for us to sip as he read.
And, yes, that's as illegal as it sounds.
The other three panelists - Adam Rathge, Melissa Ooten and Kevin Kosar - were new to me but full of obscure informtaion about their areas of expertise: weed, film and whiskey.
Fun facts gleaned from the discussion: New Zealand is one of the rare places where it's legal for people to distill hard liquor at home. Most films banned by Virginia's film censorship board were made by black filmmakers. Philly is the biggest moonshine market in the country. Pot only became an issue once people began worrying that white kids would use it and not just black jazz musicians.
It always comes back to race, doesn't it?
Best quote about Bristol, Virginia: "Tennessee gets the revenue and Virginia gets the drunks." That's what you get when the government's in the alcohol business, kids.
We sneaked out toward the end of the Q & A because we needed to eat before going to a play and it was getting late. It was all fun and games until we realized we were locked in the library's parking garage.
Mac was at least smart enough to go into the guard's booth and hit the button that lifted the arm to let us out of the garage, but then we realized that both the gates were down that led to the street. Back to the booth we both went, but with no clue what to do to raise the gates.
Fearlessly, we pushed buttons to no effect, tried both phones (neither worked) and gave up on trying the walkie talkie because we had no idea how it worked. Mac headed upstairs to find a savior while I guarded the car and eventually, with a guard's assistance, we escaped.
With less than half an hour to eat, we settled on Monroe Ward fast food, aka Tarrant's back door, to score a fish sandwich for Mac and a slice of pizza the size of my head for me.
It wasn't anybody's first choice, but neither was starving through a play.
We got lost getting to Pine Camp Theater (because I'm navigationally challenged despite having been there plenty of times), but arrived in time to hear a most excellent pre-show soundtrack (because what could be better than hearing the Delfonics' "Didn't I Blow Your Mind?" after so many years?).
Heritage Theater Ensemble's "Wine in the Wilderness" was set during the Harlem race riots of 1964 - caused, it should be noted in 2017, by the wrongful death of a 15-year old by a cop - and set up a compelling metaphor inside a Harlem apartment while the riots raged on outside.
An educated black painter who thinks he knows what men want (a loaf of bread, a jug of wine and an ideal woman) is introduced to a woman less educated and refined ("You're too brash, too used to looking out for yourself") but more intuitive about human nature and sparks fly, but not immediately the good kind.
As the old timer puts it, "A man's collar and a woman's skirts, may they never meet." At least until they do and she's smiling and wearing his dashiki the next morning.
The standout in the cast was actress Dorothy Miller who nailed the insecurity of a woman in a bad wig and dowdy clothing accustomed to being pushed around by life and just as ably conveyed the epitome of a strong and beautiful black woman ready to fight back when she's wronged and take down those who think they're above her.
Best of all, it ended with even more Delfonics - "La La Means I Love You" - which should tell you everything ended happily, aside from police continuing to kill unarmed citizens.
I know, I know, too brash. I'm working on that. No, really.
Showing posts with label library of VA. Show all posts
Showing posts with label library of VA. Show all posts
Friday, September 29, 2017
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Cage Match
Some of us live in urban bohemia and some of us grew up in suburban bohemia.
The latter would be Slash Coleman, who came to the Library of Virginia tonight for a reading (actually a retelling) from his new book, "The Bohemian Love Diaries."
Three years ago, I spent Valentine's night with Slash and a bunch of other singles at Crossroads Art, listening to him and a few guests share stories about how the course of true love never does run smooth, a fact of which I was well aware at that time.
Tonight's reading drew a lively crowd, several of whom told me they were intrigued by the book's title.
After chatting with a woman about industrial farming and (no kidding) circumcision during the wine and cheese reception, Slash took center stage in a full beard and ripped jeans to bring us up to date on his life.
And while usually his stories have a humorous side, this one involved him getting a collapsed lung that eventually required surgery to re-inflate and causing him to cancel the rest of his book tour speaking engagements,
Well, except for this one because, here's the thing: Slash grew up in Chester, a word he humorously pronounced all evening long the way the locals do.
Showing us the book cover, we saw a picture of Slash when he was about eight, back when his artist father used to load up the family for monthly trips to Alaska to find an artists' colony.
Except they rarely got any farther than Fredericksburg.
Tonight's talk was about being raised by an eccentric family and his failed love relationships as a result of coming out of all that eccentricity.
He showed us an Italian version of the book with the title changed to "Love with a High Fever," a title he didn't think was any better than his.
I don't know about that.
Sharing the story of his parents' meeting at the tea room at Miller & Rhoads, we heard that Dad, a sculptor, had been a sign painter for M & R and Mom was French and a student at RPI. Along the way, he threw in that Grandpa danced at the Moulin Rouge and Grandma was a watercolor painter.
On his parents' first date, he showed up in a stolen car with a case of Manischewitz wine and a plan to win her heart. Instead he drank it all and passed out and she walked home alone to her dorm.
Disastrous as it sounds, he invited her to Passover for their second date, but they ended up eloping before the second date.
Slash recalled an early interest in sports that was of no consequence to his artistic parents. The closest to sporty they got was when his Dad organized a softball game between the Freaks, a bunch of sculptors, and the Pigs, a team of Richmond police officers.
Begging his mother to let him play baseball, she responded that he would be paralyzed and said no, but he eventually found an old glove in his Dad's studio and signed up for the team himself.
Sharing tales of gymnastics, wrestling and being brought home to his mother after sports injuries, he waxed poetic about Coach Walt, a man who wore Brut by Faberge and had a white person Afro.
It's a pretty vivid visual.
He recalled fondly the period when his father sold roadkill sculptures to support the family. It gets pretty odd here because while the head was from one animal and the legs from another, the body was always made of bread.
Yup, you read right.
So one of his pieces might have the head of a turtle, the legs of a lizard and a pumpernickel body. And when pieces didn't sell after a while, they were retired to the backyard as ornamentation, at least until the bread rotted or was eaten.
I'd say that's pretty bohemian.
In any case, the book is being shopped around as a TV series and who knows, a series could show up on TV about a boy from Chester who came from a family of six Leo women and eight artists.
During the Q & A, Slash said he prefers to read non-fiction because, "I'm interested in how people put their truths together."
Exactly the way I feel about non-fiction and no doubt part of the reason that people read my blog every day.
Or maybe they're eager to read about my love with a high fever exploits, who knows?
Truth telling aside, next on my plate was the annual musicircus at UR, the one hour beautiful cacophony of musicians playing whatever they choose.
Don't ask me, composer John Cage thought it up and I just participate every year.
The musicircus got a late start because the eighth blackbird show ran over, so it was almost 9 when the sirens went off and everyone began playing.
Wandering down hallways, up and down staircases, into practice and classrooms, the milling crowd had myriad options for what kind of music with which to begin.
Since so many people were gathered on the first floor, my fellow Cage lover and I sprinted upstairs in an attempt to beat the masses.
Brian Jones, an organizer of the annual event, had assembled a percussion ensemble that included jazz drummer extraordinaire Scott Clark on tambourine.
Perched on an upholstered chair with two girls on couches for an audience was harmonica player Andrew Ali, whom I've seen play with Allison Self and lately, Josh Small. Tonight he was flying solo, singing and blowing his best blues.
Improv troupe the Johnsons (from Richmond Comedy Coalition) had wedged themselves into a hallway and were hilariously making up stuff with every word that came out of their mouths.
For sheer effect, it was tough to beat Kill Vonnegut, a punk quintet playing under black lights to a rapt audience.
For something completely different, the Family Band looked impossibly young and clean cut, with not a whisker of facial hair in the bunch, belting out Fountains of Wayne's "Stacey's Mom." I think they were all about 8 when it came out.
Tucked into a small room was Monk's Playground, where I recognized Larri Branch on piano, Brian Cruse on upright bass and the female sax player from RVA Big Band. As to which Monk song they were playing, I couldn't tell you.
I spotted David Roberts, whom I recognized from Classical Incarnations, playing piano alone in a room but couldn't hear him over the din, so I stepped in.
Turning, he invited me to look at his score, where I saw the title "Vexations" and the composer, Eric Satie, and an instruction at the top to play the theme 840 times.
David said that Cage had once done it and it had taken him 18 hours. Since the musicircus only lasts one hour, that wasn't happening tonight, but I was curious if repeating the same page of music was vexing him yet.
"A little, yes," he admitted with a smile, but I gave him the award for most Cage-appropriate music choice.
Coming down a stairwell, we happened on a sitar and a moment later the young woman who played it arrived, sitting on the floor to play. It was easily the handsomest instrument of the evening.
And purchased online, of course.
Tucked into a classroom with staffs drawn on the white board were guitarists Scott Burton and Matt White with another musician between them turning knobs and adjusting the effects of their playing to an ambient guitar wall of sound.
Alistair Calhoun took home the prize for smallest guitar, using reverb effects and finger picking to entice me to linger and listen.
DJ Carlito spun world music heavy on the middle east and even getting people to start dancing in the hallway. Pianist David Eslek was playing Lennon's "Imagine."
Downstairs we found the Josh Bearman group, a lot of whom seemed to be the Hot Seats, playing their spot-on old time and bluegrass music.
The gamelan orchestra had a Balinese shadow puppet play on film playing over their instruments, an ideal accompaniment to the lyrical music.
Near the door, Dave Watkins grabbed people's attention coming and going with his electric dulcitar and endless looping to create the sound of a quartet or even quintet.
Because he's Dave, he kept playing long after other musicians had stopped (or even left), treating the lingerers to a sonic finale that blew minds. But then, he's Dave Watkins, so he always delivers the grandiose.
Every year I say it because every year it's true.
Richmond is incredibly fortunate that we have a musicircus put on every year, with dozens of musicians both new to their craft and long-standing, playing their hearts out for free for one hour.
I saw so many people I know taking it all in. There were musicians playing and musicians as guests. Students experiencing it for the first time. Even a few little children in headphones.
Heads full and ears happy, the musicircus beats even Barnum & Bailey for sheer delight in the experience. Plus, no animals are harmed in the making of the musicircus.
That's how I'm putting today's truth together, ladies and germs. Make of it what you will.
Should you have any questions, you can find me in New Bohemia...or thereabouts. Possibly with a high fever.
The latter would be Slash Coleman, who came to the Library of Virginia tonight for a reading (actually a retelling) from his new book, "The Bohemian Love Diaries."
Three years ago, I spent Valentine's night with Slash and a bunch of other singles at Crossroads Art, listening to him and a few guests share stories about how the course of true love never does run smooth, a fact of which I was well aware at that time.
Tonight's reading drew a lively crowd, several of whom told me they were intrigued by the book's title.
After chatting with a woman about industrial farming and (no kidding) circumcision during the wine and cheese reception, Slash took center stage in a full beard and ripped jeans to bring us up to date on his life.
And while usually his stories have a humorous side, this one involved him getting a collapsed lung that eventually required surgery to re-inflate and causing him to cancel the rest of his book tour speaking engagements,
Well, except for this one because, here's the thing: Slash grew up in Chester, a word he humorously pronounced all evening long the way the locals do.
Showing us the book cover, we saw a picture of Slash when he was about eight, back when his artist father used to load up the family for monthly trips to Alaska to find an artists' colony.
Except they rarely got any farther than Fredericksburg.
Tonight's talk was about being raised by an eccentric family and his failed love relationships as a result of coming out of all that eccentricity.
He showed us an Italian version of the book with the title changed to "Love with a High Fever," a title he didn't think was any better than his.
I don't know about that.
Sharing the story of his parents' meeting at the tea room at Miller & Rhoads, we heard that Dad, a sculptor, had been a sign painter for M & R and Mom was French and a student at RPI. Along the way, he threw in that Grandpa danced at the Moulin Rouge and Grandma was a watercolor painter.
On his parents' first date, he showed up in a stolen car with a case of Manischewitz wine and a plan to win her heart. Instead he drank it all and passed out and she walked home alone to her dorm.
Disastrous as it sounds, he invited her to Passover for their second date, but they ended up eloping before the second date.
Slash recalled an early interest in sports that was of no consequence to his artistic parents. The closest to sporty they got was when his Dad organized a softball game between the Freaks, a bunch of sculptors, and the Pigs, a team of Richmond police officers.
Begging his mother to let him play baseball, she responded that he would be paralyzed and said no, but he eventually found an old glove in his Dad's studio and signed up for the team himself.
Sharing tales of gymnastics, wrestling and being brought home to his mother after sports injuries, he waxed poetic about Coach Walt, a man who wore Brut by Faberge and had a white person Afro.
It's a pretty vivid visual.
He recalled fondly the period when his father sold roadkill sculptures to support the family. It gets pretty odd here because while the head was from one animal and the legs from another, the body was always made of bread.
Yup, you read right.
So one of his pieces might have the head of a turtle, the legs of a lizard and a pumpernickel body. And when pieces didn't sell after a while, they were retired to the backyard as ornamentation, at least until the bread rotted or was eaten.
I'd say that's pretty bohemian.
In any case, the book is being shopped around as a TV series and who knows, a series could show up on TV about a boy from Chester who came from a family of six Leo women and eight artists.
During the Q & A, Slash said he prefers to read non-fiction because, "I'm interested in how people put their truths together."
Exactly the way I feel about non-fiction and no doubt part of the reason that people read my blog every day.
Or maybe they're eager to read about my love with a high fever exploits, who knows?
Truth telling aside, next on my plate was the annual musicircus at UR, the one hour beautiful cacophony of musicians playing whatever they choose.
Don't ask me, composer John Cage thought it up and I just participate every year.
The musicircus got a late start because the eighth blackbird show ran over, so it was almost 9 when the sirens went off and everyone began playing.
Wandering down hallways, up and down staircases, into practice and classrooms, the milling crowd had myriad options for what kind of music with which to begin.
Since so many people were gathered on the first floor, my fellow Cage lover and I sprinted upstairs in an attempt to beat the masses.
Brian Jones, an organizer of the annual event, had assembled a percussion ensemble that included jazz drummer extraordinaire Scott Clark on tambourine.
Perched on an upholstered chair with two girls on couches for an audience was harmonica player Andrew Ali, whom I've seen play with Allison Self and lately, Josh Small. Tonight he was flying solo, singing and blowing his best blues.
Improv troupe the Johnsons (from Richmond Comedy Coalition) had wedged themselves into a hallway and were hilariously making up stuff with every word that came out of their mouths.
For sheer effect, it was tough to beat Kill Vonnegut, a punk quintet playing under black lights to a rapt audience.
For something completely different, the Family Band looked impossibly young and clean cut, with not a whisker of facial hair in the bunch, belting out Fountains of Wayne's "Stacey's Mom." I think they were all about 8 when it came out.
Tucked into a small room was Monk's Playground, where I recognized Larri Branch on piano, Brian Cruse on upright bass and the female sax player from RVA Big Band. As to which Monk song they were playing, I couldn't tell you.
I spotted David Roberts, whom I recognized from Classical Incarnations, playing piano alone in a room but couldn't hear him over the din, so I stepped in.
Turning, he invited me to look at his score, where I saw the title "Vexations" and the composer, Eric Satie, and an instruction at the top to play the theme 840 times.
David said that Cage had once done it and it had taken him 18 hours. Since the musicircus only lasts one hour, that wasn't happening tonight, but I was curious if repeating the same page of music was vexing him yet.
"A little, yes," he admitted with a smile, but I gave him the award for most Cage-appropriate music choice.
Coming down a stairwell, we happened on a sitar and a moment later the young woman who played it arrived, sitting on the floor to play. It was easily the handsomest instrument of the evening.
And purchased online, of course.
Tucked into a classroom with staffs drawn on the white board were guitarists Scott Burton and Matt White with another musician between them turning knobs and adjusting the effects of their playing to an ambient guitar wall of sound.
Alistair Calhoun took home the prize for smallest guitar, using reverb effects and finger picking to entice me to linger and listen.
DJ Carlito spun world music heavy on the middle east and even getting people to start dancing in the hallway. Pianist David Eslek was playing Lennon's "Imagine."
Downstairs we found the Josh Bearman group, a lot of whom seemed to be the Hot Seats, playing their spot-on old time and bluegrass music.
The gamelan orchestra had a Balinese shadow puppet play on film playing over their instruments, an ideal accompaniment to the lyrical music.
Near the door, Dave Watkins grabbed people's attention coming and going with his electric dulcitar and endless looping to create the sound of a quartet or even quintet.
Because he's Dave, he kept playing long after other musicians had stopped (or even left), treating the lingerers to a sonic finale that blew minds. But then, he's Dave Watkins, so he always delivers the grandiose.
Every year I say it because every year it's true.
Richmond is incredibly fortunate that we have a musicircus put on every year, with dozens of musicians both new to their craft and long-standing, playing their hearts out for free for one hour.
I saw so many people I know taking it all in. There were musicians playing and musicians as guests. Students experiencing it for the first time. Even a few little children in headphones.
Heads full and ears happy, the musicircus beats even Barnum & Bailey for sheer delight in the experience. Plus, no animals are harmed in the making of the musicircus.
That's how I'm putting today's truth together, ladies and germs. Make of it what you will.
Should you have any questions, you can find me in New Bohemia...or thereabouts. Possibly with a high fever.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
The Poetry of the Plural Pronoun
I am a sucker for a man who writes poetry.
In a perfect world, he would write poetry to me, about me, inspired by me, but I can't hold my breath waiting for that to happen.
So instead, I go off to hear poets read to me.
Tonight Poetic Principles was hosting Pulitzer prize-winning poet Charles Wright (!) along with Ellen Bryant Voigt, who has been nominated for the Pulitzer prize for poetry.
The room was uncharacteristically packed and I saw several poets I knew, although not a one who might be inclined to get poetic about me.
Ah, well.
Everything Voigt read was from her new book, much of which had to do with life in Vermont and contained an element of sly humor.
After reading a poem called "Moles," she cracked, "If you have any good solutions for getting rid of moles, let me know."
From "Bears" came a favorite line: "The plural pronoun is a dangerous proposition."
After her last poem, she said, "It's such a great pleasure to get to read with Charles Wright.
From his front-row seat, Wright piped up, "I've decided not to read." The room cracked up.
It was the ideal introduction for a man who balanced understated poems of yearning and acknowledgement with bursts of humor.
His "Appalachian Farewell" got him reminiscing about back in the '40s and '50s having to leave Tennessee to get beer because he lived in a dry county.
"Bedtime Story" included the evocative line, "The forest begins to gather its silences in."
A poem about a '49 Ford, "Appalachian Dog" referred to the car as "a major ride" in 1952 and referenced "Les Paul and Mary Ford records broken in half."
Not long after, Wright peered up and observed, "I can't remember when I came up here. I may read forever."
I don't think anyone in the room would have minded if he had. Okay, maybe the library security people, but certainly no one in that room.
Next he said he'd read some six-line poems. "I fell into writing six-line poems on my way to writing three-line poems. If you can't write a poem in three lines, just get out."
Intentional pause.
"I can't do it."
What he could do was write six-line poems beautifully and we heard several, one with the memorable line, "Empathy is only a one-way street."
Concluding a poem using the words ultimate and penultimate, he said, "I swore on my ancestors' graves in graduate school that I'd never use that word - penultimate."
Throwing his arms out, he quipped, "So sue me."
In "Road Warrior," he wrote, "Roadside flowers drove us to distraction."
Getting near the end, he said, "I've got just two more. One is 40 pages." The man was hilarious.
He closed with the appropriately-titled "Lullaby," with the lovely line, "I've said what I had to say as melodiously as I could."
A poetry lover couldn't ask for any more.
Well except for a man to be melodious about her, but I'm not dead yet.
Leaving the reading, I stepped into the elevator finding a poet I knew, a poetry lover I knew and the woman who sponsors the poetry series.
I wasn't surprised to see any of them.
The poet cocked his head and asked, "Karen, were you at Frightened Rabbit in Charlottesville last night?"
Color me surprised. I hadn't seen anyone I knew.
"I saw you from across the room and then I lost sight of you, but I thought for sure it was you," he explained.
Once down in the garage, we spent five minutes geeking out about how much we'd enjoyed the show (he'd even seen them last month opening for the National in Asheville).
Leaving poetry behind, I went to the Grace Street theater for some direct cinema, a term with which I was not familiar.
Turns out it's the American equivalent of France's cinema verite.
The VCU Cinematheque series was showing the 1968 Maysles brothers pseudo-documentary, "Salesman."
It was the story of four actual door-to-door bible salesmen from Boston who sold high-end, illustrated bibles to poor Catholic families.
Because it was made in '68, the stereotyping was rampant (the Irish were "mickeys") as was the cigarette smoking.
The film starts in the suburbs of Boston before the four salesmen head to Miami to sell down there.
The Florida landscape manages to be cliched, depressing and vaguely art deco at the same time.
Waitresses wear white uniforms (with giant flowers), women at a sales conference in Chicago all have bouffants and sexism is rampant.
"My wife wants to buy a bigger house and have two more kids, so I gotta earn more money," one says.
The fact that the film is a documentary makes it fascinating for the random moments they capture.
One salesman is completely out of his element in Florida - getting lost in cul de sacs with names like Sesame Street and Ali Baba Avenue, not making sales- and he sings "If I Were a Rich Man" whenever he gets nervous in the car.
At one point, depressed and frustrated at his lack of success, he turns on the car's radio and "This Land is Your Land" is on. A scriptwriter couldn't have dreamed up a better song for the moment.
In another scene, he goes up to a house to knock on the door and there's a baby in a high chair on the front porch. Not another person in sight.
When he knocks, the mother answers the door, says she's not interested and closes the door on him.
Her baby is still on the front porch. WTF?
Again, a writer couldn't have conceived of such an unlikely occurrence and yet there it was.
There was a scene where the salesman is trying to sell a couple a bible and the man jumps up and says he got a new Beatles album, putting it on his giant console stereo.
A lush string arrangement of "Yesterday" blares into the room.
This isn't the actual Beatles, this is some schmaltzy orchestral cover and it continues to play, almost drowning out the salesman's spiel.
During the discussion afterwards, we learned that the Maysles brothers shot 200 hours of film and edited down to 90 minutes, a process which took two years.
We spent a lot of time discussing how all that editing effectively turned a work of non-fiction into a fictional piece with documentary elements.
Likewise, I'm sure there's a whole lot of editing that goes into creating a poem, whether six lines or 40 pages.
Not an issue. Should I ever find a poet, he can take as much time as he needs to say what he has to say about me as melodiously as he can.
I shall gather my silences in and work on not driving him to distraction.
In a perfect world, he would write poetry to me, about me, inspired by me, but I can't hold my breath waiting for that to happen.
So instead, I go off to hear poets read to me.
Tonight Poetic Principles was hosting Pulitzer prize-winning poet Charles Wright (!) along with Ellen Bryant Voigt, who has been nominated for the Pulitzer prize for poetry.
The room was uncharacteristically packed and I saw several poets I knew, although not a one who might be inclined to get poetic about me.
Ah, well.
Everything Voigt read was from her new book, much of which had to do with life in Vermont and contained an element of sly humor.
After reading a poem called "Moles," she cracked, "If you have any good solutions for getting rid of moles, let me know."
From "Bears" came a favorite line: "The plural pronoun is a dangerous proposition."
After her last poem, she said, "It's such a great pleasure to get to read with Charles Wright.
From his front-row seat, Wright piped up, "I've decided not to read." The room cracked up.
It was the ideal introduction for a man who balanced understated poems of yearning and acknowledgement with bursts of humor.
His "Appalachian Farewell" got him reminiscing about back in the '40s and '50s having to leave Tennessee to get beer because he lived in a dry county.
"Bedtime Story" included the evocative line, "The forest begins to gather its silences in."
A poem about a '49 Ford, "Appalachian Dog" referred to the car as "a major ride" in 1952 and referenced "Les Paul and Mary Ford records broken in half."
Not long after, Wright peered up and observed, "I can't remember when I came up here. I may read forever."
I don't think anyone in the room would have minded if he had. Okay, maybe the library security people, but certainly no one in that room.
Next he said he'd read some six-line poems. "I fell into writing six-line poems on my way to writing three-line poems. If you can't write a poem in three lines, just get out."
Intentional pause.
"I can't do it."
What he could do was write six-line poems beautifully and we heard several, one with the memorable line, "Empathy is only a one-way street."
Concluding a poem using the words ultimate and penultimate, he said, "I swore on my ancestors' graves in graduate school that I'd never use that word - penultimate."
Throwing his arms out, he quipped, "So sue me."
In "Road Warrior," he wrote, "Roadside flowers drove us to distraction."
Getting near the end, he said, "I've got just two more. One is 40 pages." The man was hilarious.
He closed with the appropriately-titled "Lullaby," with the lovely line, "I've said what I had to say as melodiously as I could."
A poetry lover couldn't ask for any more.
Well except for a man to be melodious about her, but I'm not dead yet.
Leaving the reading, I stepped into the elevator finding a poet I knew, a poetry lover I knew and the woman who sponsors the poetry series.
I wasn't surprised to see any of them.
The poet cocked his head and asked, "Karen, were you at Frightened Rabbit in Charlottesville last night?"
Color me surprised. I hadn't seen anyone I knew.
"I saw you from across the room and then I lost sight of you, but I thought for sure it was you," he explained.
Once down in the garage, we spent five minutes geeking out about how much we'd enjoyed the show (he'd even seen them last month opening for the National in Asheville).
Leaving poetry behind, I went to the Grace Street theater for some direct cinema, a term with which I was not familiar.
Turns out it's the American equivalent of France's cinema verite.
The VCU Cinematheque series was showing the 1968 Maysles brothers pseudo-documentary, "Salesman."
It was the story of four actual door-to-door bible salesmen from Boston who sold high-end, illustrated bibles to poor Catholic families.
Because it was made in '68, the stereotyping was rampant (the Irish were "mickeys") as was the cigarette smoking.
The film starts in the suburbs of Boston before the four salesmen head to Miami to sell down there.
The Florida landscape manages to be cliched, depressing and vaguely art deco at the same time.
Waitresses wear white uniforms (with giant flowers), women at a sales conference in Chicago all have bouffants and sexism is rampant.
"My wife wants to buy a bigger house and have two more kids, so I gotta earn more money," one says.
The fact that the film is a documentary makes it fascinating for the random moments they capture.
One salesman is completely out of his element in Florida - getting lost in cul de sacs with names like Sesame Street and Ali Baba Avenue, not making sales- and he sings "If I Were a Rich Man" whenever he gets nervous in the car.
At one point, depressed and frustrated at his lack of success, he turns on the car's radio and "This Land is Your Land" is on. A scriptwriter couldn't have dreamed up a better song for the moment.
In another scene, he goes up to a house to knock on the door and there's a baby in a high chair on the front porch. Not another person in sight.
When he knocks, the mother answers the door, says she's not interested and closes the door on him.
Her baby is still on the front porch. WTF?
Again, a writer couldn't have conceived of such an unlikely occurrence and yet there it was.
There was a scene where the salesman is trying to sell a couple a bible and the man jumps up and says he got a new Beatles album, putting it on his giant console stereo.
A lush string arrangement of "Yesterday" blares into the room.
This isn't the actual Beatles, this is some schmaltzy orchestral cover and it continues to play, almost drowning out the salesman's spiel.
During the discussion afterwards, we learned that the Maysles brothers shot 200 hours of film and edited down to 90 minutes, a process which took two years.
We spent a lot of time discussing how all that editing effectively turned a work of non-fiction into a fictional piece with documentary elements.
Likewise, I'm sure there's a whole lot of editing that goes into creating a poem, whether six lines or 40 pages.
Not an issue. Should I ever find a poet, he can take as much time as he needs to say what he has to say about me as melodiously as he can.
I shall gather my silences in and work on not driving him to distraction.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Virginia After Dark
I'm a sucker for photography shows.
The Library of Virginia's just-opened "Dark Side: Night Photography in Virginia" seemed like the ideal way to wile away part of the afternoon.
The large-format show led off with several photographs taken at night during the 1907 Jamestown Centennial Exposition when photographers were first exploring the wonder of picture-taking after dark.
"Jamestown Centennial Covered Bridge at Night" looked positively Parisian.
Another from the centennial, "Night Scene of Naval Regatta" looked like an all-black print except for the thin, white line of lighted battleships that bisected the print horizontally.
Surely even President Teddy Roosevelt, sitting in the grandstands watching, was just as impressed.
There were more than a few pictures of Norfolk at night, one of the seedier beer halls and dance joints and another of WW II sailors dancing with their dates, hands all over the girls.
"State Capital Richmond" from 1934 showed the iconic building and grounds, light reflecting off a recent significant snowstorm.
A 1937 shot of the Byrd Theater when "Super Sleuth" was playing was striking for two reasons.
First, how remarkably unchanged it appears with only the center of the Art Deco marquee looking any different than today.
And secondly, that Cary Street must have still been two-way since there are cars parked westward on it.
"Broad Street at Night" from 1959 showed how brightly lit our main drag was, although the adjoining side streets looked to have not a single street light of their own.
Of the nearly 30 photographs in the show, only five were color.
My favorite of that bunch was "Virginia Night Sky" by Chris Anton, a composite of 80+ individual 30-second exposures taken outside Charlottesville.
The sky looks like a pulsing series of star scratches, each echoing the shape of the others and filling the night sky.
It's a beautiful visual demonstration of something you could never see looking at the sky.
But then, the whole exhibit is like that, showing a world I missed but can now appreciate because these talented photographers took the time to record them.
Not a bad way to pass a warm afternoon away.
The Library of Virginia's just-opened "Dark Side: Night Photography in Virginia" seemed like the ideal way to wile away part of the afternoon.
The large-format show led off with several photographs taken at night during the 1907 Jamestown Centennial Exposition when photographers were first exploring the wonder of picture-taking after dark.
"Jamestown Centennial Covered Bridge at Night" looked positively Parisian.
Another from the centennial, "Night Scene of Naval Regatta" looked like an all-black print except for the thin, white line of lighted battleships that bisected the print horizontally.
Surely even President Teddy Roosevelt, sitting in the grandstands watching, was just as impressed.
There were more than a few pictures of Norfolk at night, one of the seedier beer halls and dance joints and another of WW II sailors dancing with their dates, hands all over the girls.
"State Capital Richmond" from 1934 showed the iconic building and grounds, light reflecting off a recent significant snowstorm.
A 1937 shot of the Byrd Theater when "Super Sleuth" was playing was striking for two reasons.
First, how remarkably unchanged it appears with only the center of the Art Deco marquee looking any different than today.
And secondly, that Cary Street must have still been two-way since there are cars parked westward on it.
"Broad Street at Night" from 1959 showed how brightly lit our main drag was, although the adjoining side streets looked to have not a single street light of their own.
Of the nearly 30 photographs in the show, only five were color.
My favorite of that bunch was "Virginia Night Sky" by Chris Anton, a composite of 80+ individual 30-second exposures taken outside Charlottesville.
The sky looks like a pulsing series of star scratches, each echoing the shape of the others and filling the night sky.
It's a beautiful visual demonstration of something you could never see looking at the sky.
But then, the whole exhibit is like that, showing a world I missed but can now appreciate because these talented photographers took the time to record them.
Not a bad way to pass a warm afternoon away.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Family Feud
I missed the mini-series but caught the lecture.
Author Dean King was at the Library of Virginia talking about his book, "The Feud: The Hatfields and the McCoys."
Of all the unlikely things to come away with, my favorite was about trees.
King showed a wealth of compelling old photographs, including one of a Hatfield patriarch in front of the most massive tree you can imagine.
I'm talking California redwood massive, a tree so enormous (the diameter was 13') I couldn't imagine it was a Virginia photograph.
Wrong.
As King told us, that part of the country used to be covered in massive, old-growth trees, all of which were cut down, floated downstream and used to rebuild the south after the Civil War.
Who knew?
Unlike me, most of the crowd had seen the inaccuracy-filled mini-series, so King set about correcting some fallacies.
With no misinformation, I was just curious about the story, one I knew about only on a surface level.
Like, I hadn't known how politically powerful the families were.
I certainly hadn't known that the Hatfields were one of the first families of Virginia, having fought in the Revolutionary War.
Then there was the media component.
The period when the feud was in full flower was the same as when Jack the Ripper was terrorizing London, so the feud story was the American equivalent, headline-wise.
The New York Times even sent a reporter to cover the story, for crying out loud.
And here I thought they were just a bunch of redneck moonshiners.
Well, they were (with the 20th century addition of ATVs), only now they have a museum in what looked like a double wide trailer and which King described as " a really sad place."
Here's the kicker: after September 11th, the families made peace and now they have a yearly reunion, which King attends.
There's always a tug-of-war at the reunion, and the Hatfields have won the past few years.
How can I miss a noon lecture when I'm all but guaranteed to learn the most arcane stuff?
Can't.
Author Dean King was at the Library of Virginia talking about his book, "The Feud: The Hatfields and the McCoys."
Of all the unlikely things to come away with, my favorite was about trees.
King showed a wealth of compelling old photographs, including one of a Hatfield patriarch in front of the most massive tree you can imagine.
I'm talking California redwood massive, a tree so enormous (the diameter was 13') I couldn't imagine it was a Virginia photograph.
Wrong.
As King told us, that part of the country used to be covered in massive, old-growth trees, all of which were cut down, floated downstream and used to rebuild the south after the Civil War.
Who knew?
Unlike me, most of the crowd had seen the inaccuracy-filled mini-series, so King set about correcting some fallacies.
With no misinformation, I was just curious about the story, one I knew about only on a surface level.
Like, I hadn't known how politically powerful the families were.
I certainly hadn't known that the Hatfields were one of the first families of Virginia, having fought in the Revolutionary War.
Then there was the media component.
The period when the feud was in full flower was the same as when Jack the Ripper was terrorizing London, so the feud story was the American equivalent, headline-wise.
The New York Times even sent a reporter to cover the story, for crying out loud.
And here I thought they were just a bunch of redneck moonshiners.
Well, they were (with the 20th century addition of ATVs), only now they have a museum in what looked like a double wide trailer and which King described as " a really sad place."
Here's the kicker: after September 11th, the families made peace and now they have a yearly reunion, which King attends.
There's always a tug-of-war at the reunion, and the Hatfields have won the past few years.
How can I miss a noon lecture when I'm all but guaranteed to learn the most arcane stuff?
Can't.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Boys and Girls in America
As book titles go, it was pretty catchy.
"Death by Petticoat," with the subtitle "American History Myths Debunked," was the subject of author Mary Theobald's book and talk today at the Library of Virginia,
She began by talking about how people are wedded to myths, perpetuating them long after facts have proven them wrong.
Taking examples from her book, she shared some long-held myths and the research that had taken them from "fact" to full-on myth.
Like how quilts were made to show secret codes to help slaves escape...except most of the supposed escape quilt patterns were created long after the Civil War.
Like how during colonial times, the number one cause of death for women was their petticoats catching on fire hearthside...except the number one cause of death was really disease, followed by childbirth.
Like how the position of the horse's feet in an equestrienne statue told whether the rider was wounded or died in war...except it didn't.
Theobald pointed out that many of these myths were perpetuated by guides of walking tours, ghost tours, carriage tours and the like.
In other words, tours focusing more on entertainment than education.
One of the most interesting factoids I leaned was about the term "hoe cake," which had been believed to have arisen from slaves cooking corn cakes on their hoes while working out in the field.
And while they may have done that, too, the fact is that hoe is an obsolete word for griddle.
We know that because Martha Washington said so in the cookbook she wrote.
And if you can't trust Martha Washington, who can you trust?
During the Q & A, a woman asked about separate stairs for girls and boys at an old schoolhouse she'd visited, saying the guide had claimed it was so boys wouldn't look up girls' skirts.
Even Theobald had to admit that that was probably no myth.
Plenty of things change over time and others not so much.
"Death by Petticoat," with the subtitle "American History Myths Debunked," was the subject of author Mary Theobald's book and talk today at the Library of Virginia,
She began by talking about how people are wedded to myths, perpetuating them long after facts have proven them wrong.
Taking examples from her book, she shared some long-held myths and the research that had taken them from "fact" to full-on myth.
Like how quilts were made to show secret codes to help slaves escape...except most of the supposed escape quilt patterns were created long after the Civil War.
Like how during colonial times, the number one cause of death for women was their petticoats catching on fire hearthside...except the number one cause of death was really disease, followed by childbirth.
Like how the position of the horse's feet in an equestrienne statue told whether the rider was wounded or died in war...except it didn't.
Theobald pointed out that many of these myths were perpetuated by guides of walking tours, ghost tours, carriage tours and the like.
In other words, tours focusing more on entertainment than education.
One of the most interesting factoids I leaned was about the term "hoe cake," which had been believed to have arisen from slaves cooking corn cakes on their hoes while working out in the field.
And while they may have done that, too, the fact is that hoe is an obsolete word for griddle.
We know that because Martha Washington said so in the cookbook she wrote.
And if you can't trust Martha Washington, who can you trust?
During the Q & A, a woman asked about separate stairs for girls and boys at an old schoolhouse she'd visited, saying the guide had claimed it was so boys wouldn't look up girls' skirts.
Even Theobald had to admit that that was probably no myth.
Plenty of things change over time and others not so much.
Saturday, April 6, 2013
A Dreadful Affair, A Delightful Walk
Don't try to keep a woman from her carbs and shoes.
That could have been the theme for today's Civil War and Emancipation Day walking tour, which began on the front steps of the State Capital at 11 a.m.
Knowing that the walk was only going to cover two miles in two hours, I walked to the Capital, adding another mile each way to the trek.
I've been on enough walking tours to know that the first rule of them is that most of the people who attend really don't like walking.
The theme was the 1863 Richmond Bread Riot, which, if you don't know, was an uprising by local women who were hungry and tired of their husbands and sons being away at war.
When the large group got divided into thirds, I opted for the only female tour guide, Ashley who was with the National Park Service, because why hear about women from a man?
Since each guide had devised their own notes, I wanted to hear the version told by someone with girl parts.
One of the crowd "herders" was a male volunteer with the Park service and he cracked wise almost at once.
Leaning into a clutch of women, he joked, "Any of you ladies decide to start a riot, here's my Martin's card, you can go get all the bread you want. Or white house rolls."
It was an auspicious day to commemorate the bread riot since it had happened almost exactly 150 years ago, on April 2, 1863.
Ashley talked about how Richmond's population had swollen from 38,000 pre-war to over 100,000 during the war and how food prices had climbed with all the new residents.
Tea went from $1 a pound in 1860 to $8 in 1863, but the most painful jump was in bacon, which went from $1.25 for ten pounds to $10.
Those hucksters and speculators should have known better than to mess with the price of a woman's bacon.
Next thing you know, they got uppity and became political activists, meeting at a church in Oregon Hill and allowing a woman (!) to climb the pulpit and entreat the women to riot.
A woman named Mary Tucker exhorted them, "Don't act like heathens, act like ladies. Unless we don't get what we want."
It was gender anarchy!
Chanting "bread or blood," the women took to the streets on April 2 to appropriate the things they didn't have and needed.
After meeting at the State Capitol, the women headed east (as did we) where Richmond Segway is now and the former site of the first store the women looted, Pollard and Walker Wholesale Market.
To their credit, they focused on looting the stores where hucksters and speculators had been selling necessities at jacked-up prices.
Grabbing everything they could and throwing some on wagons and carrying the rest, they moved on to 14th and Cary, as did we.
"By this time, you could say all hell was breaking loose on the tour, I mean, riot, " Ashley said.
One rioter walked out with a big slab of bacon on her head and a ham in each arm, where a man tried telling her, "Madam, you are forgetting yourself."
She put the hams down and spit in his face.
They also broke into the many shoe stores along Main Street, where now the state parking garage sits, absconding with white satin slippers and cavalry boots.
As we made our way down to the farmer's market, the culmination of the looting, with the group straggling down the block, it occurred to me that even emaciated and starving, the Richmonders of 1863 were in far better shape than this group.
And they hadn't been wearing walking shoes, either, I'm quite sure.
Tour guide Ashley noted something similar, saying, "It's hard enough to get this tour done in two hours, much less a riot."
The winded group was amazed to hear that the women had managed to loot along Cary, Main and the city market in a brief two-hour period, making off with a huge amount of bacon, flour and soap, among other things.
By the second hour of the riot, the Public Guard had been called to suppress the women's riot and it was there that a woman observed, "I couldn't have done this riot with all these hills."
I'm quite sure they considered the geography of their uprising, honey.
Ashley said the only injury of the riot was when a woman put her arm through the glass in a shop window and the shop owner proceeded to cut off four of her fingers.
There's a visual I wish I didn't have.
Near the end of the riot, shop owners wised up and began opening their doors to the women rather than have them destroy the windows and doors of their shops.
Of course, the papers that night were full of stories about the badly-behaving women, labeling them, "Prostitutes, thieves, Irish and Yankee hags."
As both part Irish and a Yankee woman, I resemble that remark.
It didn't take long for the governor to ban the newspapers from writing about the incident, hoping to keep a good face on the southern cause, just in case they could get some European aid.
Besides, no true Richmond lady would have participated in such a thing, right?
Interestingly enough, by the 1880s they'd changed their tune and were far more understanding of the women's actions.
After seeing all the sites where the rioters had taken what was justifiably theirs, we remounted the hill to the Capital for some discussion of the impact of the women's bread riot.
I told Ashley, that in my opinion, the bread riot was a gender issue as much as an historic issue and she agreed.
The idea of genteel Southern women taking control by taking to the streets, looting and defying authority, showed that the war extended far beyond the battlefields.
And while the women got chided for taking things they couldn't eat (dress silks, shoes, jewelry, hats), by the third year of the war, it's easy to imagine how the women just wanted something to make them feel normal again.
By the time I left the group and headed back up Grace Street toward Jackson Ward, all I wanted was a little bread, maybe with some bacon on it.
You know, in honor of those Richmond women who took matters into their own, delicate hands back when that just wasn't done.
Redefining gender norms would have been right up my alley.
I wouldn't have cared about the shoes, but I'd have joined them in a heartbeat for the bacon.
That could have been the theme for today's Civil War and Emancipation Day walking tour, which began on the front steps of the State Capital at 11 a.m.
Knowing that the walk was only going to cover two miles in two hours, I walked to the Capital, adding another mile each way to the trek.
I've been on enough walking tours to know that the first rule of them is that most of the people who attend really don't like walking.
The theme was the 1863 Richmond Bread Riot, which, if you don't know, was an uprising by local women who were hungry and tired of their husbands and sons being away at war.
When the large group got divided into thirds, I opted for the only female tour guide, Ashley who was with the National Park Service, because why hear about women from a man?
Since each guide had devised their own notes, I wanted to hear the version told by someone with girl parts.
One of the crowd "herders" was a male volunteer with the Park service and he cracked wise almost at once.
Leaning into a clutch of women, he joked, "Any of you ladies decide to start a riot, here's my Martin's card, you can go get all the bread you want. Or white house rolls."
It was an auspicious day to commemorate the bread riot since it had happened almost exactly 150 years ago, on April 2, 1863.
Ashley talked about how Richmond's population had swollen from 38,000 pre-war to over 100,000 during the war and how food prices had climbed with all the new residents.
Tea went from $1 a pound in 1860 to $8 in 1863, but the most painful jump was in bacon, which went from $1.25 for ten pounds to $10.
Those hucksters and speculators should have known better than to mess with the price of a woman's bacon.
Next thing you know, they got uppity and became political activists, meeting at a church in Oregon Hill and allowing a woman (!) to climb the pulpit and entreat the women to riot.
A woman named Mary Tucker exhorted them, "Don't act like heathens, act like ladies. Unless we don't get what we want."
It was gender anarchy!
Chanting "bread or blood," the women took to the streets on April 2 to appropriate the things they didn't have and needed.
After meeting at the State Capitol, the women headed east (as did we) where Richmond Segway is now and the former site of the first store the women looted, Pollard and Walker Wholesale Market.
To their credit, they focused on looting the stores where hucksters and speculators had been selling necessities at jacked-up prices.
Grabbing everything they could and throwing some on wagons and carrying the rest, they moved on to 14th and Cary, as did we.
"By this time, you could say all hell was breaking loose on the tour, I mean, riot, " Ashley said.
One rioter walked out with a big slab of bacon on her head and a ham in each arm, where a man tried telling her, "Madam, you are forgetting yourself."
She put the hams down and spit in his face.
They also broke into the many shoe stores along Main Street, where now the state parking garage sits, absconding with white satin slippers and cavalry boots.
As we made our way down to the farmer's market, the culmination of the looting, with the group straggling down the block, it occurred to me that even emaciated and starving, the Richmonders of 1863 were in far better shape than this group.
And they hadn't been wearing walking shoes, either, I'm quite sure.
Tour guide Ashley noted something similar, saying, "It's hard enough to get this tour done in two hours, much less a riot."
The winded group was amazed to hear that the women had managed to loot along Cary, Main and the city market in a brief two-hour period, making off with a huge amount of bacon, flour and soap, among other things.
By the second hour of the riot, the Public Guard had been called to suppress the women's riot and it was there that a woman observed, "I couldn't have done this riot with all these hills."
I'm quite sure they considered the geography of their uprising, honey.
Ashley said the only injury of the riot was when a woman put her arm through the glass in a shop window and the shop owner proceeded to cut off four of her fingers.
There's a visual I wish I didn't have.
Near the end of the riot, shop owners wised up and began opening their doors to the women rather than have them destroy the windows and doors of their shops.
Of course, the papers that night were full of stories about the badly-behaving women, labeling them, "Prostitutes, thieves, Irish and Yankee hags."
As both part Irish and a Yankee woman, I resemble that remark.
It didn't take long for the governor to ban the newspapers from writing about the incident, hoping to keep a good face on the southern cause, just in case they could get some European aid.
Besides, no true Richmond lady would have participated in such a thing, right?
Interestingly enough, by the 1880s they'd changed their tune and were far more understanding of the women's actions.
After seeing all the sites where the rioters had taken what was justifiably theirs, we remounted the hill to the Capital for some discussion of the impact of the women's bread riot.
I told Ashley, that in my opinion, the bread riot was a gender issue as much as an historic issue and she agreed.
The idea of genteel Southern women taking control by taking to the streets, looting and defying authority, showed that the war extended far beyond the battlefields.
And while the women got chided for taking things they couldn't eat (dress silks, shoes, jewelry, hats), by the third year of the war, it's easy to imagine how the women just wanted something to make them feel normal again.
By the time I left the group and headed back up Grace Street toward Jackson Ward, all I wanted was a little bread, maybe with some bacon on it.
You know, in honor of those Richmond women who took matters into their own, delicate hands back when that just wasn't done.
Redefining gender norms would have been right up my alley.
I wouldn't have cared about the shoes, but I'd have joined them in a heartbeat for the bacon.
Friday, April 5, 2013
Chocolate Cheese and Empty Tombs
Give me a reason for a road trip and a new CD and I'm in heaven.
Today I put the pedal to the floor and headed east to Hague, a place I hadn't heard of, but one which is home to three wineries.
Conveniently, I had an assignment to wrote about all three.
Given the sunny skies and open fields, it was an easy drive despite being unfamiliar territory.
Listening to Twin Shadow's "Confess" and passing rural statements like a church sign saying, "Easter surprise! The tomb is empty!" and a gas station marquee with "Come on, Spring!" made for a most pleasurable hour and a half cruise.
My first stop was the Hague Winery where the owner poured for me and told me about all the interesting places to eat and drink in the neighborhood.
I learned about chardonel, a hybrid varietal with which I was not familiar, tasted the 2009 Merlot along with some Old Church Creamery chocolate cheese (yep, that's what it was alright) and a luscious Meritage reserve I'd have bought a case of if I could have afforded it.
Other visitors came in and joined in the conversation about nearby wineries and what there is to do in the area.
One couple from upstate New York was staying at Westmoreland State Park and making a day of winery hopping.
Another came in and didn't bother with a tasting, cutting right to full glasses and a table with a view.
After chatting for a while, the owner offered to show me their guest house, a place they rent out for visitors.
The 19th century building had been converted to a charming space for a 2-4 and, as I pointed out, you can't go wrong with a winery on the premises.
As I was getting ready to leave, one of the couples asked for directions to General's Ridge Winery a few miles away, coincidentally just where I was heading.
I got delayed by the winery dog, a sweet, old thing who wanted nothing more than to walk beside me where ever I went.
Which was to my car to drive the few miles to my next vineyard.
Walking up to General's Ridge tasting room, I spotted one of the couples from The Hague and they waved hello.
"What took you so long?" they laughed.
Um, going the speed limit?
This winery had far more extensive plantings and two tasting rooms, the smaller of which used old doors from the manor house as the counter tops for the tasting bar.
After meeting the owner inside, we headed down to the smaller tasting room to talk, causing one of the women I'd seen at The Hague to say, "You just walk in a winery and grab a man wherever you go!"
Well, yes, when I can, I certainly do.
It was great fun talking to the owners about their decision to start a winery, with the Mrs. telling me, "I told him we'd only do it over my dead body. But I'm still here!"
They told me how they were originally going to build a boys' school there but when their benefactor died, they regrouped.
We lingered so long sharing stories that I didn't have time for a tasting, so I made sure to get some grape to go, scoring a bottle of their General's Nightcap, a petit manseng dessert wine that was delightfully tropical rather than cloying.
"Have some before bed," the owner suggested. "You'll sleep like a baby!"
I usually accomplish that by staying up until 2 or 3 a.m.
My last stop was Vault Fields, who may have had today's smallest tasting room but because they make their wine on the estate, smelled most like a winery.
I had time for a tasting with the friendly pourer, especially enjoying the 2009 Conundrum, a blend of Chardonnay and Vidal Blanc and the 2008 Meritage Reserve, which would be a thing of beauty with lamb or veal.
After chatting up the owner, I had to hit the road toute suite to make it back in time for my evening's plans.
Keeping with today's theme, I came home, cleaned up and immediately headed to the Library of Virginia for a night of Virginia wine.
"Straight from the Vine: The History of Virginia Wine" was part talk and part tasting.
Arriving after the talk starts means standing in the back of the auditorium since it's pretty packed.
Wine guru Richard Leahy, author of "Beyond Jefferson's Vines: The Evolution of Quality Wine in Virginia" is trying to cover a fraction of what is in his book in this brief talk.
Asking if any of us have heard of RdV Winery, I am one of a dozen or so who raise my hand.
"They're so exclusive you have to make an appointment to go and pay to taste and maybe they'll let you buy some," he says, which gets a big laugh.
What's funny is that The Roosevelt carries RdV wines, so it's much easier to head to Church Hill than make a road trip to Fauquier County and pay forty bucks for a tasting.
Leahy talked about how well represented Virginia wines are in London, while few California wines are available there.
I like to think that Londoners remember the Virginia Company of 1606 and have a soft spot for us.
He got another laugh when he said, "More people would rather own wineries than grow grapes," meaning the actual farming aspect of viticulture is far less glamorous.
"It takes $12,00 per acre to develop a wine crop, without the cost of the land. And that's before machinery and supplies."
Well, no wonder people only want the fun, meeting people and drinking part of being an owner.
Who's got that kind of disposable income these days?
But, honestly, after having spoken to three Virginia winery owners today, I know that plenty of people are willing to do both, own and grow, for the sake of producing the best possible grapes.
After the talk, the large group moved to the lobby for the tasting and reception.
While Leahy signed books, people moved from table to table sampling Virginia wines.
I began with James River Cellars' Petit Verdot since they usually only sell that to wine club members.
Over at the Horton table, I was surprised to see they had a pinotage, a favorite South African grape of mine.
I was surprised to learn that Horton had put in pinotage grapes ten years ago and was working on finessing the flavor profile with each harvest.
Keep up the good work, boys.
Moving around the room, I ran into the Frenchman (who, leaving the talk, had whispered, "Let's go drink!"), saw a familiar wine geek and tried more wines.
There was Jefferson Vineyards' Cabernet Franc and, surprisingly, Barboursville's stellar "Octagon."
I overheard a woman tell her husband, "I just had the Williamsburg winery's red and it's so good I would actually buy it!"
With praise like that, how could I not go taste their Claret and inform the pourer of the compliment?
As I moved around the room tasting and nibbling hors d'oeuvres, it was obvious from the conversations I overheard that many people were unfamiliar with Virginia wines.
If they were smart, they'd do like me: get a new CD and head in almost any direction to check out some Virginia wineries.
After a nice drive with new music blaring, they might find a wine so good they actually want to buy it.
It's a lot easier than they think.
Today I put the pedal to the floor and headed east to Hague, a place I hadn't heard of, but one which is home to three wineries.
Conveniently, I had an assignment to wrote about all three.
Given the sunny skies and open fields, it was an easy drive despite being unfamiliar territory.
Listening to Twin Shadow's "Confess" and passing rural statements like a church sign saying, "Easter surprise! The tomb is empty!" and a gas station marquee with "Come on, Spring!" made for a most pleasurable hour and a half cruise.
My first stop was the Hague Winery where the owner poured for me and told me about all the interesting places to eat and drink in the neighborhood.
I learned about chardonel, a hybrid varietal with which I was not familiar, tasted the 2009 Merlot along with some Old Church Creamery chocolate cheese (yep, that's what it was alright) and a luscious Meritage reserve I'd have bought a case of if I could have afforded it.
Other visitors came in and joined in the conversation about nearby wineries and what there is to do in the area.
One couple from upstate New York was staying at Westmoreland State Park and making a day of winery hopping.
Another came in and didn't bother with a tasting, cutting right to full glasses and a table with a view.
After chatting for a while, the owner offered to show me their guest house, a place they rent out for visitors.
The 19th century building had been converted to a charming space for a 2-4 and, as I pointed out, you can't go wrong with a winery on the premises.
As I was getting ready to leave, one of the couples asked for directions to General's Ridge Winery a few miles away, coincidentally just where I was heading.
I got delayed by the winery dog, a sweet, old thing who wanted nothing more than to walk beside me where ever I went.
Which was to my car to drive the few miles to my next vineyard.
Walking up to General's Ridge tasting room, I spotted one of the couples from The Hague and they waved hello.
"What took you so long?" they laughed.
Um, going the speed limit?
This winery had far more extensive plantings and two tasting rooms, the smaller of which used old doors from the manor house as the counter tops for the tasting bar.
After meeting the owner inside, we headed down to the smaller tasting room to talk, causing one of the women I'd seen at The Hague to say, "You just walk in a winery and grab a man wherever you go!"
Well, yes, when I can, I certainly do.
It was great fun talking to the owners about their decision to start a winery, with the Mrs. telling me, "I told him we'd only do it over my dead body. But I'm still here!"
They told me how they were originally going to build a boys' school there but when their benefactor died, they regrouped.
We lingered so long sharing stories that I didn't have time for a tasting, so I made sure to get some grape to go, scoring a bottle of their General's Nightcap, a petit manseng dessert wine that was delightfully tropical rather than cloying.
"Have some before bed," the owner suggested. "You'll sleep like a baby!"
I usually accomplish that by staying up until 2 or 3 a.m.
My last stop was Vault Fields, who may have had today's smallest tasting room but because they make their wine on the estate, smelled most like a winery.
I had time for a tasting with the friendly pourer, especially enjoying the 2009 Conundrum, a blend of Chardonnay and Vidal Blanc and the 2008 Meritage Reserve, which would be a thing of beauty with lamb or veal.
After chatting up the owner, I had to hit the road toute suite to make it back in time for my evening's plans.
Keeping with today's theme, I came home, cleaned up and immediately headed to the Library of Virginia for a night of Virginia wine.
"Straight from the Vine: The History of Virginia Wine" was part talk and part tasting.
Arriving after the talk starts means standing in the back of the auditorium since it's pretty packed.
Wine guru Richard Leahy, author of "Beyond Jefferson's Vines: The Evolution of Quality Wine in Virginia" is trying to cover a fraction of what is in his book in this brief talk.
Asking if any of us have heard of RdV Winery, I am one of a dozen or so who raise my hand.
"They're so exclusive you have to make an appointment to go and pay to taste and maybe they'll let you buy some," he says, which gets a big laugh.
What's funny is that The Roosevelt carries RdV wines, so it's much easier to head to Church Hill than make a road trip to Fauquier County and pay forty bucks for a tasting.
Leahy talked about how well represented Virginia wines are in London, while few California wines are available there.
I like to think that Londoners remember the Virginia Company of 1606 and have a soft spot for us.
He got another laugh when he said, "More people would rather own wineries than grow grapes," meaning the actual farming aspect of viticulture is far less glamorous.
"It takes $12,00 per acre to develop a wine crop, without the cost of the land. And that's before machinery and supplies."
Well, no wonder people only want the fun, meeting people and drinking part of being an owner.
Who's got that kind of disposable income these days?
But, honestly, after having spoken to three Virginia winery owners today, I know that plenty of people are willing to do both, own and grow, for the sake of producing the best possible grapes.
After the talk, the large group moved to the lobby for the tasting and reception.
While Leahy signed books, people moved from table to table sampling Virginia wines.
I began with James River Cellars' Petit Verdot since they usually only sell that to wine club members.
Over at the Horton table, I was surprised to see they had a pinotage, a favorite South African grape of mine.
I was surprised to learn that Horton had put in pinotage grapes ten years ago and was working on finessing the flavor profile with each harvest.
Keep up the good work, boys.
Moving around the room, I ran into the Frenchman (who, leaving the talk, had whispered, "Let's go drink!"), saw a familiar wine geek and tried more wines.
There was Jefferson Vineyards' Cabernet Franc and, surprisingly, Barboursville's stellar "Octagon."
I overheard a woman tell her husband, "I just had the Williamsburg winery's red and it's so good I would actually buy it!"
With praise like that, how could I not go taste their Claret and inform the pourer of the compliment?
As I moved around the room tasting and nibbling hors d'oeuvres, it was obvious from the conversations I overheard that many people were unfamiliar with Virginia wines.
If they were smart, they'd do like me: get a new CD and head in almost any direction to check out some Virginia wineries.
After a nice drive with new music blaring, they might find a wine so good they actually want to buy it.
It's a lot easier than they think.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Albatrosses and Lowlands
It started with eating crabcakes on the stairs and ended with tequila.
What, again?
The Library of Virginia was doing another in their "Books on Broad" series, this one with Mary Jane Hogue of Historic Richmond Foundation.
Graciously, things began with a reception, meaning they were serving shrimp skewers, chicken skewers and even crab cakes along with wine.
If they're trying to make evening lectures more appealing, they're doing a fine job of it.
While many people seemed to be going for a full meal, I kept it simple with a mini-crabcake and a skewer eaten on the impressive staircase that leads upstairs to the stacks.
A half dozen other people joined me there and we got some cocktail party chatter going despite being strangers.
In front of us was a table with old and new photographs laid out on it.
The old ones had been taken by commercial photographer Adolph Rice back in the '50s and were laid next to current photos of the same scenes.
The purpose was for people to identify anything they knew of the scene- long-gone buildings, stores or landmarks- to help future historians better understand them.
Since I wasn't here in the '50s, all I could do was marvel at how quaint the city looked back then.
Before long the talk began and Hogue, the executive director of HRF, said that women had started historic preservation in Richmond, creating the group that became HRF.
She showed us slides of buildings while sharing their stories.
The "pilot" block of 2300 E. Grace Street in Church Hill, the first block the group had saved in 1957 because of its proximity to St. John's church.
The 200 block of W. Franklin, destined to be torn down, was purchased from Dr. Tucker and saved in 1977.
The Linden Row Inn, which had been left to HRF by Mary Wingfield Scott, was saved by HRF in 1979.
Unbelievably, Old City Hall was slated to be torn down when the group "put up an unbelievable fight" to save it in 1981.
Was the city really still that short-sighted as recently as the eighties? Apparently so.
In 1983, the saved "our love and our albatross," according to Hogue, Monumental Church, now a popular site for weddings (who knew?).
Seems the center-aisle is more desirable than St. John's side aisles.
"People thought we were crazy," she said about the block with the National Theater on it.
The doctor who owned it (we were seeing a pattern) wanted to demolish the entire block and build a parking lot, so HRF paid rent on the building for two years while they raised $1.5 million to buy it.
They ended up saving the whole block, but they had to hold onto it for 17 years before they found someone willing to rehab the theater.
Thank goodness the HRF has patience or I'd never have seen so many great bands so close to my house.
The lecture went on like that, with pictures and stories of so many significant buildings saved (an 1813 house, a pre-Civil War warehouse) at the eleventh hour by the women's passion for preservation.
What would this city look like without their estrogen-fueled efforts?
As Hogue pointed out, both Savannah and Atlanta offered much larger incentives for Spielberg to film "Lincoln" in their cities, but he took Virginia's measly $4 million because we had the best buildings.
Don't we know it..
After the talk, I stayed in the neighborhood and stopped by Saison for a bite.
"How's your day going?" a friendly barkeep inquired as I sat down between the turntable and a friendly couple and ordered some Espolon while considering the menu housed in a book.
Mine was about Mexico and the couple had one about cats, which they were making fun of in the best kind of way.
After a couple of cat cracks, they paused and checked to make sure I didn't mind anti-cat jokes.
As if.
But you can only trash talk cats for so long before hunger kicks in so I ordered oxtail sopes with lime cream, pickled onion, and some crunchy pickled curtido.
I heard tell of brunch coming soon and even the possibility of them taking over the old Jackson Ward Deli space next door for lunch.
Amen to that. Anytime we can get life back in a neighborhood building, I'm all for it.
I was told how much fun vinyl night is on Tuesdays, with customers sharing their favorite records.
As I was finishing it up, another guy behind the bar inquired what I was drinking.
When he learned it was tequila, he grabbed a small menu and told me it was tequila/mezcal flight night.
Drat! How had I not been told this when I arrived?
Seems the bartender was filling in and had been unaware himself.
As consolation, I was allowed to order one flight pour (instead of the usual three).
Asking for a recommendation, I was told that the server's favorite was Tres Agaves from the lowlands.
I was game and my 3/4 ounce pour delivered a peppery and lightly floral tequila I could get used to.
Except that there are so many others on the menu I need to try, too.
"You'll have to come back on another Wednesday," the bartender told me. Or on Tuesdays for record playing. Or for $2 tamales.
I couldn't very well call myself J-Ward Girl otherwise.
What, again?
The Library of Virginia was doing another in their "Books on Broad" series, this one with Mary Jane Hogue of Historic Richmond Foundation.
Graciously, things began with a reception, meaning they were serving shrimp skewers, chicken skewers and even crab cakes along with wine.
If they're trying to make evening lectures more appealing, they're doing a fine job of it.
While many people seemed to be going for a full meal, I kept it simple with a mini-crabcake and a skewer eaten on the impressive staircase that leads upstairs to the stacks.
A half dozen other people joined me there and we got some cocktail party chatter going despite being strangers.
In front of us was a table with old and new photographs laid out on it.
The old ones had been taken by commercial photographer Adolph Rice back in the '50s and were laid next to current photos of the same scenes.
The purpose was for people to identify anything they knew of the scene- long-gone buildings, stores or landmarks- to help future historians better understand them.
Since I wasn't here in the '50s, all I could do was marvel at how quaint the city looked back then.
Before long the talk began and Hogue, the executive director of HRF, said that women had started historic preservation in Richmond, creating the group that became HRF.
She showed us slides of buildings while sharing their stories.
The "pilot" block of 2300 E. Grace Street in Church Hill, the first block the group had saved in 1957 because of its proximity to St. John's church.
The 200 block of W. Franklin, destined to be torn down, was purchased from Dr. Tucker and saved in 1977.
The Linden Row Inn, which had been left to HRF by Mary Wingfield Scott, was saved by HRF in 1979.
Unbelievably, Old City Hall was slated to be torn down when the group "put up an unbelievable fight" to save it in 1981.
Was the city really still that short-sighted as recently as the eighties? Apparently so.
In 1983, the saved "our love and our albatross," according to Hogue, Monumental Church, now a popular site for weddings (who knew?).
Seems the center-aisle is more desirable than St. John's side aisles.
"People thought we were crazy," she said about the block with the National Theater on it.
The doctor who owned it (we were seeing a pattern) wanted to demolish the entire block and build a parking lot, so HRF paid rent on the building for two years while they raised $1.5 million to buy it.
They ended up saving the whole block, but they had to hold onto it for 17 years before they found someone willing to rehab the theater.
Thank goodness the HRF has patience or I'd never have seen so many great bands so close to my house.
The lecture went on like that, with pictures and stories of so many significant buildings saved (an 1813 house, a pre-Civil War warehouse) at the eleventh hour by the women's passion for preservation.
What would this city look like without their estrogen-fueled efforts?
As Hogue pointed out, both Savannah and Atlanta offered much larger incentives for Spielberg to film "Lincoln" in their cities, but he took Virginia's measly $4 million because we had the best buildings.
Don't we know it..
After the talk, I stayed in the neighborhood and stopped by Saison for a bite.
"How's your day going?" a friendly barkeep inquired as I sat down between the turntable and a friendly couple and ordered some Espolon while considering the menu housed in a book.
Mine was about Mexico and the couple had one about cats, which they were making fun of in the best kind of way.
After a couple of cat cracks, they paused and checked to make sure I didn't mind anti-cat jokes.
As if.
But you can only trash talk cats for so long before hunger kicks in so I ordered oxtail sopes with lime cream, pickled onion, and some crunchy pickled curtido.
I heard tell of brunch coming soon and even the possibility of them taking over the old Jackson Ward Deli space next door for lunch.
Amen to that. Anytime we can get life back in a neighborhood building, I'm all for it.
I was told how much fun vinyl night is on Tuesdays, with customers sharing their favorite records.
As I was finishing it up, another guy behind the bar inquired what I was drinking.
When he learned it was tequila, he grabbed a small menu and told me it was tequila/mezcal flight night.
Drat! How had I not been told this when I arrived?
Seems the bartender was filling in and had been unaware himself.
As consolation, I was allowed to order one flight pour (instead of the usual three).
Asking for a recommendation, I was told that the server's favorite was Tres Agaves from the lowlands.
I was game and my 3/4 ounce pour delivered a peppery and lightly floral tequila I could get used to.
Except that there are so many others on the menu I need to try, too.
"You'll have to come back on another Wednesday," the bartender told me. Or on Tuesdays for record playing. Or for $2 tamales.
I couldn't very well call myself J-Ward Girl otherwise.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Tales From Another Era
Everybody should be able to love and marry whomever they choose, right?
Well, yes, except if you were of different races and unfortunately living in Virginia in the 1950s.
The one film I'd missed seeing at VCU's Southern Film Festival had been "The Loving Story" about the interracial couple who fought for the right to be married all the way to the Supreme Court, and tonight it was being shown at the Library of Virginia.
Sitting waiting for the film to begin, I couldn't help but notice an interracial couple in the row in front of me.
Behind me, two older men sat down and began discussing their familiarity with tonight's topic.
"If you think about it, Virginia's got 100 counties and six million people, so I knew there had to be some out there," one commented. "It's just my observation, but I think a lot of them aren't legally married, they're just couples. I went to the Folk Fest and I was shocked at the scores of them! Shocked at how many black and white couples I saw. Younger people wouldn't even probably notice."
And if this old coot was shocked at what he saw last Fall, it's inconceivable what an uphill battle the interracial Lovings must have fought to be able to live together during the Eisenhower years.
They'd married in D.C. and were happily living in Caroline County when a sheriff broke their door down at 4 a.m. to arrest them for having the audacity to live together in the commonwealth.
Because apparently interracial marriage was still illegal in 24 states so as to preserve the purity of the race.
The film was a documentary dork's dream because they had so much vintage footage, black and white and color, taken when all this was happening back in the '60s.
Husband Richard was pretty monosyllabic but wife Mildred was articulate and sweetly charming.
"When we first met, I didn't like him," she admits to the camera, her pretty, young face riveting to watch. "He was arrogant!"
But she also talks about how in Caroline County, blacks and whites all grew up together happily. "We didn't know nothing about this racism stuff," she naively admits.
And even her redneck husband waxed on poetically to the camera, saying, "If they tell me to leave again, I will because I am not going to divorce her."
They tried living in D.C., but hated city life and missed their small rural community, so eventually they sought help to make it possible for them to move back to Virginia.
They were advised, "Write to Bobby Kennedy. He'll help you. That's what he's there for," so Mildred sat down and wrote a lovely letter to the then-attorney general.
The world was a far simpler place back then.
He passed them on to the ACLU, where two fresh-faced young lawyers got the case of a lifetime and fought it all the way to the Supreme Court.
The film showed reaction to the case, with ignorant white people with southern accents saying things like, "I am white today because my parents practiced segregation!" and, "Some of my best friends are niggers."
During these scenes, people around me shook their heads in disbelief and mortification. Interestingly, I heard nothing from the two gents behind me.
There was plenty of footage of the young lawyers talking about the case as well as recent interviews of them as elder statesmen recalling their incredible luck in getting the Loving case.
"We had to pinch ourselves because of what we were doing," one said about getting to argue the case to the Supreme Court.
We even saw footage from in front of the federal courthouse in Richmond circa 1967.
The Lovings didn't come to court ("Just tell the court I love my wife," Richard instructed the lawyers) because Richard couldn't be bothered and Mildred wouldn't go without him.
Not that it mattered.
The Supreme Court handed down a unanimous decision and bans on interracial marriage had to be repealed.
But not as quickly as I would have thought.
Unbelievably, Alabama just repealed theirs in 2000.
2000! Hard to comprehend.
The saddest part of the story was how eight years after the decision, the couple's car was hit by a drunk driver and Richard was killed.
Such a tragic ending for two people who had spent so long just trying to legally live together.
I was just glad that I'd finally seen this amazing documentary.
My fellow filmmaker and I had a brief window to eat before moving on to the music portion of the evening and Olio got the nod for their superior sandwiches.
Fancy fast food, so to speak.
My Italian Picnic layered turkey, Granny Smith apple slices, my beloved Tallegio, fig jam and garlic aioli on a crusty baguette and I scarfed it down like I hadn't just had Roy's Big Burger for lunch..
Now that's what the 4th Earl of Sandwich was talking about.
The last stop of the evening was Balliceaux for a Steady Sounds listening party.
Walking in, I saw Marty, one of the owners of my local record shop and the sponsor of tonight's program and PJ the band photographer.
Seeing me, PJ raised his hand to hi-five me. "Yes!" he squealed. "I beat Karen!"
Satisfaction comes where you take it, my friend.
Marty came over and asked, "Want a free raffle ticket for a chance to win a free record?"
Why, yes, I did.
"The Trash Company: Earle Hotel Tapes 1979-1993" was the featured record and it was going to be played on what looked like a '70s record player from somebody's school AV club.
Being played was a brand-new reissue of fourteen years of music made by local musician Max Monroe.
And, no, not a one of us had heard of him before this.
He'd been part of a Jackson Ward funk band called the Trash Company back in the '70s and then left over artistic differences.
What was cool was that he'd spent the next fourteen years recording music in his bedroom at the seedy Earle Hotel and those demos were what we'd come to listen to tonight.
Part funk, part psychedelic, part lo-fi soul, it didn't sound like anything else I could think of.
It wasn't derivative, it was a pastiche obviously made by a talented man with a soulful voice and no musical outlet other than some cheap equipment.
The room began to fill up not long after the record was put on, with my only complaint being that many people were there to socialize rather than listen.
When side one ended, it took a minute for someone to realize and go flip the record over.
I don't have a record player, so I didn't buy a copy although I saw several people do so, a wise move since the initial pressing is already almost sold out.
Go Steady Sounds.
I can't fathom what it must feel like for this musician who continued to create music long after the world had forgotten him to suddenly find himself with a new album.
Probably almost as wonderful as being allowed to live legally with the person you love.
Sometimes you just have to pinch yourself to remember life is real.
Well, yes, except if you were of different races and unfortunately living in Virginia in the 1950s.
The one film I'd missed seeing at VCU's Southern Film Festival had been "The Loving Story" about the interracial couple who fought for the right to be married all the way to the Supreme Court, and tonight it was being shown at the Library of Virginia.
Sitting waiting for the film to begin, I couldn't help but notice an interracial couple in the row in front of me.
Behind me, two older men sat down and began discussing their familiarity with tonight's topic.
"If you think about it, Virginia's got 100 counties and six million people, so I knew there had to be some out there," one commented. "It's just my observation, but I think a lot of them aren't legally married, they're just couples. I went to the Folk Fest and I was shocked at the scores of them! Shocked at how many black and white couples I saw. Younger people wouldn't even probably notice."
And if this old coot was shocked at what he saw last Fall, it's inconceivable what an uphill battle the interracial Lovings must have fought to be able to live together during the Eisenhower years.
They'd married in D.C. and were happily living in Caroline County when a sheriff broke their door down at 4 a.m. to arrest them for having the audacity to live together in the commonwealth.
Because apparently interracial marriage was still illegal in 24 states so as to preserve the purity of the race.
The film was a documentary dork's dream because they had so much vintage footage, black and white and color, taken when all this was happening back in the '60s.
Husband Richard was pretty monosyllabic but wife Mildred was articulate and sweetly charming.
"When we first met, I didn't like him," she admits to the camera, her pretty, young face riveting to watch. "He was arrogant!"
But she also talks about how in Caroline County, blacks and whites all grew up together happily. "We didn't know nothing about this racism stuff," she naively admits.
And even her redneck husband waxed on poetically to the camera, saying, "If they tell me to leave again, I will because I am not going to divorce her."
They tried living in D.C., but hated city life and missed their small rural community, so eventually they sought help to make it possible for them to move back to Virginia.
They were advised, "Write to Bobby Kennedy. He'll help you. That's what he's there for," so Mildred sat down and wrote a lovely letter to the then-attorney general.
The world was a far simpler place back then.
He passed them on to the ACLU, where two fresh-faced young lawyers got the case of a lifetime and fought it all the way to the Supreme Court.
The film showed reaction to the case, with ignorant white people with southern accents saying things like, "I am white today because my parents practiced segregation!" and, "Some of my best friends are niggers."
During these scenes, people around me shook their heads in disbelief and mortification. Interestingly, I heard nothing from the two gents behind me.
There was plenty of footage of the young lawyers talking about the case as well as recent interviews of them as elder statesmen recalling their incredible luck in getting the Loving case.
"We had to pinch ourselves because of what we were doing," one said about getting to argue the case to the Supreme Court.
We even saw footage from in front of the federal courthouse in Richmond circa 1967.
The Lovings didn't come to court ("Just tell the court I love my wife," Richard instructed the lawyers) because Richard couldn't be bothered and Mildred wouldn't go without him.
Not that it mattered.
The Supreme Court handed down a unanimous decision and bans on interracial marriage had to be repealed.
But not as quickly as I would have thought.
Unbelievably, Alabama just repealed theirs in 2000.
2000! Hard to comprehend.
The saddest part of the story was how eight years after the decision, the couple's car was hit by a drunk driver and Richard was killed.
Such a tragic ending for two people who had spent so long just trying to legally live together.
I was just glad that I'd finally seen this amazing documentary.
My fellow filmmaker and I had a brief window to eat before moving on to the music portion of the evening and Olio got the nod for their superior sandwiches.
Fancy fast food, so to speak.
My Italian Picnic layered turkey, Granny Smith apple slices, my beloved Tallegio, fig jam and garlic aioli on a crusty baguette and I scarfed it down like I hadn't just had Roy's Big Burger for lunch..
Now that's what the 4th Earl of Sandwich was talking about.
The last stop of the evening was Balliceaux for a Steady Sounds listening party.
Walking in, I saw Marty, one of the owners of my local record shop and the sponsor of tonight's program and PJ the band photographer.
Seeing me, PJ raised his hand to hi-five me. "Yes!" he squealed. "I beat Karen!"
Satisfaction comes where you take it, my friend.
Marty came over and asked, "Want a free raffle ticket for a chance to win a free record?"
Why, yes, I did.
"The Trash Company: Earle Hotel Tapes 1979-1993" was the featured record and it was going to be played on what looked like a '70s record player from somebody's school AV club.
Being played was a brand-new reissue of fourteen years of music made by local musician Max Monroe.
And, no, not a one of us had heard of him before this.
He'd been part of a Jackson Ward funk band called the Trash Company back in the '70s and then left over artistic differences.
What was cool was that he'd spent the next fourteen years recording music in his bedroom at the seedy Earle Hotel and those demos were what we'd come to listen to tonight.
Part funk, part psychedelic, part lo-fi soul, it didn't sound like anything else I could think of.
It wasn't derivative, it was a pastiche obviously made by a talented man with a soulful voice and no musical outlet other than some cheap equipment.
The room began to fill up not long after the record was put on, with my only complaint being that many people were there to socialize rather than listen.
When side one ended, it took a minute for someone to realize and go flip the record over.
I don't have a record player, so I didn't buy a copy although I saw several people do so, a wise move since the initial pressing is already almost sold out.
Go Steady Sounds.
I can't fathom what it must feel like for this musician who continued to create music long after the world had forgotten him to suddenly find himself with a new album.
Probably almost as wonderful as being allowed to live legally with the person you love.
Sometimes you just have to pinch yourself to remember life is real.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Mackerel by Monlight
The irony of it set in at the parking garage.
Pulling in under the Library of Virginia, I was told that it was full due to the General Assembly being in session and using all the spaces.
Leave it to the Gen Ass to make it more difficult to get to a lecture on John Randolph of Roanoke, a man who served in the House of Representatives and the Senate.
Speaker David Johnson began by saying, "I spent ten years with John Randolph of Roanoke and a lot of people say, why?"
The why soon became apparent as he told of Randolph's personal eccentricities, acerbic wit, penetrating looks, flashy dressing and quick-thinking oratory skills.
He was Jefferson's confidante, at least until they parted ways on ideology.
According to Johnson, Randolph linked every issue to a higher power, always expounding on principle.
Clearly that's no longer a requirement of serving in Congress.
As the son of a planter (read: rich), he said things like, "I am an aristocrat. I love liberty. I hate equality."
Chances are, plenty of rich people still feel that way.
But I had to admit, the man had a way with words.
"He is a man of splendid abilities, but utterly corrupt," Randolph claimed. "He shines and stinks, like a rotting mackerel by moonlight."
As one who makes her living with words, I only wish I'd written that last sentence.
Randolph referred to Congress as "a mass of mediocrity," a phrase both prescient and apt.
And, by god, he was a Virginian, in that way that the forefathers were devoted to this place.
"When I speak of my country, I mean the Commonwealth of Virginia."
Ah, yes, that country. The one of landed gentry and slavery.
His 20-year battle with Henry Clay ended in a duel, with Clay's bullet going through his outer garment and Randolph demanding, "You owe me a coat."
Johnson was full of fun facts like that.
Randolph was an opium smoker, likely impotent and brought his hunting dogs to the House floor.
I'm guessing that you couldn't say those three things about any other representative, then or now.
When he died and was buried, per his request his face was turned westward so he could keep an eye on Henry Clay.
They later moved his body to Hollywood Cemetery, but no word on where his head and eye were placed.
An hour spent listening to a lecture about a cocky man whose main cause was liberty left me older and wiser, but needing to get out.
After all, our very own "mass of mediocrity" had forced me into a one-hour parking space and I didn't want to risk a ticket.
Especially for a man who hated equality.
Pulling in under the Library of Virginia, I was told that it was full due to the General Assembly being in session and using all the spaces.
Leave it to the Gen Ass to make it more difficult to get to a lecture on John Randolph of Roanoke, a man who served in the House of Representatives and the Senate.
Speaker David Johnson began by saying, "I spent ten years with John Randolph of Roanoke and a lot of people say, why?"
The why soon became apparent as he told of Randolph's personal eccentricities, acerbic wit, penetrating looks, flashy dressing and quick-thinking oratory skills.
He was Jefferson's confidante, at least until they parted ways on ideology.
According to Johnson, Randolph linked every issue to a higher power, always expounding on principle.
Clearly that's no longer a requirement of serving in Congress.
As the son of a planter (read: rich), he said things like, "I am an aristocrat. I love liberty. I hate equality."
Chances are, plenty of rich people still feel that way.
But I had to admit, the man had a way with words.
"He is a man of splendid abilities, but utterly corrupt," Randolph claimed. "He shines and stinks, like a rotting mackerel by moonlight."
As one who makes her living with words, I only wish I'd written that last sentence.
Randolph referred to Congress as "a mass of mediocrity," a phrase both prescient and apt.
And, by god, he was a Virginian, in that way that the forefathers were devoted to this place.
"When I speak of my country, I mean the Commonwealth of Virginia."
Ah, yes, that country. The one of landed gentry and slavery.
His 20-year battle with Henry Clay ended in a duel, with Clay's bullet going through his outer garment and Randolph demanding, "You owe me a coat."
Johnson was full of fun facts like that.
Randolph was an opium smoker, likely impotent and brought his hunting dogs to the House floor.
I'm guessing that you couldn't say those three things about any other representative, then or now.
When he died and was buried, per his request his face was turned westward so he could keep an eye on Henry Clay.
They later moved his body to Hollywood Cemetery, but no word on where his head and eye were placed.
An hour spent listening to a lecture about a cocky man whose main cause was liberty left me older and wiser, but needing to get out.
After all, our very own "mass of mediocrity" had forced me into a one-hour parking space and I didn't want to risk a ticket.
Especially for a man who hated equality.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
To Live This Life
Almost back in the saddle again, with only an occasional reach back.
Things got rolling at the Library of Virginia for Poetic Principles, a reading by Joshua Poteat and Henry Hart.
Arriving in the Library of Virginia garage, it was just me and one other woman and the parking attendant knew nothing of a poetry reading.
In the elevator going upstairs, we wondered if we'd both gotten the wrong date.
It seemed unlikely.
She introduced herself ("Hi, I'm Carol") as we took the elevator up.
Fortunately, there was a poetry reading when we got there, but we were the only attendees.
I've been an audience of one before, so I have no problem being an audience of two.
Eventually others arrived, meaning Carol and I had not been mistaken.
Best line overheard as I sat waiting for the reading to begin?
"Ever hear of the singer Elliot Smith?" a 20-something guy asks of a girl entranced by her phone. "He sang really sad songs."
Nope, she replied, going back to her phone.
Silly me, I'd have thought Elliot Smith would have been a terrific conversation-starter at a poetry reading.
Eventually Josh Poteat began the reading by thanking us for coming rather than going to the Byrd Theater for author Tom Robbins and a screening of "Even Cowgirls Get the Blues."
I've heard him read before (in fact, I have one of his lines of poetry etched into a piece of collaged wood hanging over a doorway), but he was reading new stuff tonight.
He dedicated "Curiosities of Puritan Nomenclature" about the strange names given Puritan children by their crazed parents (favorite line: "Make sweet what's given") to his wife.
From there, he spoke of a project where his inspiration came from the city of Richmond and the 1900 Sears & Roebuck catalog.
Wonderful imagery arose from poems with departmental names.
"Department of Telescopes" provided, "There in the night orchard of the clumsy city."
Oh, but we can be such a clumsy city sometimes.
In "Department of Taxidermy" came, "When there is another darkness, I'll admit it."
Between poems, it occurred to him that this was not a feel-good kind of reading.
"These are kind of bummer poems," he confessed. "Richmond isn't as bad as these poems make it sound."
Actually, Richmond is pretty cool if you ask me. Not perfect, but better all the time.
He introduced "Department of Masonry" by saying, "This poem begins with death metal bands and ends with me pouting in the backyard."
If that isn't the defining range of a whole generation of men, I don't know what is.
Best line: "It isn't enough, but I'll take what I can get."
About an unfinished poem concerning his obsession, the slave Gabriel Prosser, Poteat admitted, "This poem could be 120 pages long and that's a bad sign."
What was good were lines like, "The houses didn't know enough to be afraid" and "Help me, moonlight."
In "Department of Hymnals," we heard, "The night has used itself up" and "There's nothing I won't do to live this life."
I am particularly taken with the passion of the latter line.
Just before starting "Lighting Department," he said, "Thanks for coming and I hope I will see all of you again someday."
My guess would be at the next poetry reading.
Next up was Henry Hart who referred to Carol, the woman I had met in the garage, as "the guardian angel of poets."
Turns out Carol was Carol Weinstein, she who funds the series Poetic Principles and supports residencies for poets to work.
You know, that Carol.
Hart began with what he called an old poem, "A Gift of Warblers" about the art project he'd made for his grandfather who was always supportive of his poetic leanings.
"Janet Morgan and the Moon Shot" was about the moon landing in 1969 and had the line, "Discovering grace still depended on shifting weight."
"Mystery Play: November 22, 1963" was about his performance anxiety at being in the school musical when he couldn't sing.
"You know how some teachers like to torture students?" he said as if it were fact.
I didn't but he's a teacher, so I took his word for it.
Best line: "His face had hardened to a ridgeless nickle."
I've seen the ridgeless nickel look and it's not one I want directed my way.
A poem about his mother's occasional need to escape her three sons was called "Independence Day" with the line, "All summer she dreamed of storms."
"I doubted everything but luck" came from "Crossing the Gobi Desert Summer 1900," a poem about days lost crossing the desert.
When he finished reading, he offered to take questions, but none were forthcoming, so we scattered like crows.
I decided to go east to the Roosevelt for dinner, arriving to find I was one of scads of people who had made the same decision.
Every table was full, every bar stool was taken and there was a six-top ahead of me waiting for a table.
Even so, Sam Cook's "Chain Gang" was rising above the level of the chattering masses, so I wasn't going anywhere.
Since I had just come from hearing lines like, "Wind droned like bees," I took the drone of chatter for something more appealing and sat down on the waiting bench.
I was perfectly content crowd watching when a server offered to bring me a libation, swearing he had nothing else to do at the moment.
Not long after, a girl at the bar spotted me and reminded me she'd waited on me at Bistro Bobette.
She especially remembered a man I'd come in with, according to her, someone with a very dry British sense of humor, and I had no idea who she meant.
Still, it's always nice to be remembered.
White Hall Cabernet Franc was delivered and sipped until, as if an alarm went off, suddenly tables and bar stools were emptied.
Starving by then, I looked at the menu for new dishes to try, eventually deciding on rice grits, risotto, ham, crab and purple cape beans.
When I placed my order, bartender T. looked at me like I was crazy.
"Really, Karen? Risotto? Didn't you just get back from Italy?"
As I tried to sputter a justification, he went into full placating mode.
"No, no, that's good. You've got to wean yourself off slowly. You're doing the right thing."
I laughed out loud at that, but didn't have the heart to tell him I'd almost ordered the gnocchi as well.
Just as I was finishing the lovely combination of flavors, Chef Lee came out to chide me.
"You went to Italy for two weeks and you come here and order that shit?" he teased, pointing at my empty risotto bowl. "It's not going to be any good."
Of course, it was very good, but I understood his point.
To make peace in the kitchen, I promptly ordered Lee's chicken skin slider with kimchee mayo and pickles, hoping to use southern to knock Italian out of my head.
Kind of like rebound dating after a bad breakup.
As Neko Case's "Favorite" played, I ate fried chicken skin with my fingers, the better to reprogram my brain and taste buds.
That, my friends, is how I replace the pleasures of Italy with those of Richmond.
Poetically speaking, that's the way to make sweet what's been given to me.
Things got rolling at the Library of Virginia for Poetic Principles, a reading by Joshua Poteat and Henry Hart.
Arriving in the Library of Virginia garage, it was just me and one other woman and the parking attendant knew nothing of a poetry reading.
In the elevator going upstairs, we wondered if we'd both gotten the wrong date.
It seemed unlikely.
She introduced herself ("Hi, I'm Carol") as we took the elevator up.
Fortunately, there was a poetry reading when we got there, but we were the only attendees.
I've been an audience of one before, so I have no problem being an audience of two.
Eventually others arrived, meaning Carol and I had not been mistaken.
Best line overheard as I sat waiting for the reading to begin?
"Ever hear of the singer Elliot Smith?" a 20-something guy asks of a girl entranced by her phone. "He sang really sad songs."
Nope, she replied, going back to her phone.
Silly me, I'd have thought Elliot Smith would have been a terrific conversation-starter at a poetry reading.
Eventually Josh Poteat began the reading by thanking us for coming rather than going to the Byrd Theater for author Tom Robbins and a screening of "Even Cowgirls Get the Blues."
I've heard him read before (in fact, I have one of his lines of poetry etched into a piece of collaged wood hanging over a doorway), but he was reading new stuff tonight.
He dedicated "Curiosities of Puritan Nomenclature" about the strange names given Puritan children by their crazed parents (favorite line: "Make sweet what's given") to his wife.
From there, he spoke of a project where his inspiration came from the city of Richmond and the 1900 Sears & Roebuck catalog.
Wonderful imagery arose from poems with departmental names.
"Department of Telescopes" provided, "There in the night orchard of the clumsy city."
Oh, but we can be such a clumsy city sometimes.
In "Department of Taxidermy" came, "When there is another darkness, I'll admit it."
Between poems, it occurred to him that this was not a feel-good kind of reading.
"These are kind of bummer poems," he confessed. "Richmond isn't as bad as these poems make it sound."
Actually, Richmond is pretty cool if you ask me. Not perfect, but better all the time.
He introduced "Department of Masonry" by saying, "This poem begins with death metal bands and ends with me pouting in the backyard."
If that isn't the defining range of a whole generation of men, I don't know what is.
Best line: "It isn't enough, but I'll take what I can get."
About an unfinished poem concerning his obsession, the slave Gabriel Prosser, Poteat admitted, "This poem could be 120 pages long and that's a bad sign."
What was good were lines like, "The houses didn't know enough to be afraid" and "Help me, moonlight."
In "Department of Hymnals," we heard, "The night has used itself up" and "There's nothing I won't do to live this life."
I am particularly taken with the passion of the latter line.
Just before starting "Lighting Department," he said, "Thanks for coming and I hope I will see all of you again someday."
My guess would be at the next poetry reading.
Next up was Henry Hart who referred to Carol, the woman I had met in the garage, as "the guardian angel of poets."
Turns out Carol was Carol Weinstein, she who funds the series Poetic Principles and supports residencies for poets to work.
You know, that Carol.
Hart began with what he called an old poem, "A Gift of Warblers" about the art project he'd made for his grandfather who was always supportive of his poetic leanings.
"Janet Morgan and the Moon Shot" was about the moon landing in 1969 and had the line, "Discovering grace still depended on shifting weight."
"Mystery Play: November 22, 1963" was about his performance anxiety at being in the school musical when he couldn't sing.
"You know how some teachers like to torture students?" he said as if it were fact.
I didn't but he's a teacher, so I took his word for it.
Best line: "His face had hardened to a ridgeless nickle."
I've seen the ridgeless nickel look and it's not one I want directed my way.
A poem about his mother's occasional need to escape her three sons was called "Independence Day" with the line, "All summer she dreamed of storms."
"I doubted everything but luck" came from "Crossing the Gobi Desert Summer 1900," a poem about days lost crossing the desert.
When he finished reading, he offered to take questions, but none were forthcoming, so we scattered like crows.
I decided to go east to the Roosevelt for dinner, arriving to find I was one of scads of people who had made the same decision.
Every table was full, every bar stool was taken and there was a six-top ahead of me waiting for a table.
Even so, Sam Cook's "Chain Gang" was rising above the level of the chattering masses, so I wasn't going anywhere.
Since I had just come from hearing lines like, "Wind droned like bees," I took the drone of chatter for something more appealing and sat down on the waiting bench.
I was perfectly content crowd watching when a server offered to bring me a libation, swearing he had nothing else to do at the moment.
Not long after, a girl at the bar spotted me and reminded me she'd waited on me at Bistro Bobette.
She especially remembered a man I'd come in with, according to her, someone with a very dry British sense of humor, and I had no idea who she meant.
Still, it's always nice to be remembered.
White Hall Cabernet Franc was delivered and sipped until, as if an alarm went off, suddenly tables and bar stools were emptied.
Starving by then, I looked at the menu for new dishes to try, eventually deciding on rice grits, risotto, ham, crab and purple cape beans.
When I placed my order, bartender T. looked at me like I was crazy.
"Really, Karen? Risotto? Didn't you just get back from Italy?"
As I tried to sputter a justification, he went into full placating mode.
"No, no, that's good. You've got to wean yourself off slowly. You're doing the right thing."
I laughed out loud at that, but didn't have the heart to tell him I'd almost ordered the gnocchi as well.
Just as I was finishing the lovely combination of flavors, Chef Lee came out to chide me.
"You went to Italy for two weeks and you come here and order that shit?" he teased, pointing at my empty risotto bowl. "It's not going to be any good."
Of course, it was very good, but I understood his point.
To make peace in the kitchen, I promptly ordered Lee's chicken skin slider with kimchee mayo and pickles, hoping to use southern to knock Italian out of my head.
Kind of like rebound dating after a bad breakup.
As Neko Case's "Favorite" played, I ate fried chicken skin with my fingers, the better to reprogram my brain and taste buds.
That, my friends, is how I replace the pleasures of Italy with those of Richmond.
Poetically speaking, that's the way to make sweet what's been given to me.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Italians and the Jefferson
I figured if I was going to hear tales of the Jefferson, I should go with someone I met at the Jefferson.
The Library of Virginia was hosting author Paul Herbert as he spoke about his book, "The Jefferson Hotel: The History of a Richmond Landmark."
And while the title is snooze-worthy, the subject was overdue for re-examination since the last book on the Jefferson had been in 1941.
As it turned out, the stories he shared were fascinating.
When he heard that the Jefferson had used a 12-year old clock cleaner, he tracked down the now 72-year old man to get the story.
When he was told a story of two young girls being asleep in the hotel when it caught on fire, he tracked down the girls.
"The thing about history is," he said with understated but obvious enthusiasm, "If you can find the people who were there."
Most of his stories ended with him meeting or talking to the person something happened to as a way yo corroborate the tales told in the book.
He clarified once and for all that the Jefferson's famed alligators lasted only until 1948, except for special occasions.
Billy Joel was an investor in the Jefferson, albeit a silent one. Herbert said he did once visit and play the piano, though.
I learned that the check-in desks used to be downstairs by the Main Street entrance, in front of what is now TJ's.
That there was a writing room in the lobby.
And, when it opened in 1895, a rooftop garden where entertainment was held.
Vaudeville from the roof of the Jefferson, can you imagine?
In the hotel's restaurant, Elvis ate bacon with his fingers, to the horror of one of the employees.
At one point in the evening, Herbert looked at the crowd and said, "In Richmond, everything ties back to the Jefferson. Everyone has a connection. It's like that seven degrees of separation with Kevin Bacon game. Everyone has a Jefferson story."
Who was I to argue?
I was sitting next to someone I'd met at the Jefferson two decades ago. Clearly there's a story there.
Dinner followed further east at Maximo's, the new tapas place in the Bottom.
It was livelier than I'd expected and the Spanish music was, too.
The menu was a bit of a split personality with tapas on one side and Italian on the other.
With a bottle of Verdejo, we ate around the tapas side, trying apple salad, chorizo in cherry sauce and a soft shell crab in a white wine cream sauce.
The people watching was colorful inside and outside the restaurant, with both Italian and New Jersey being spoken.
We finished with Warre's "Warrior" Port, leaving some Verdejo to go.
Our eager sever rushed off to get a bag for it, returning with a large brown grocery bag and saying apologetically, "We have one size bag: giant!"
So it was that we left with a giant bag with our leftover Verdejo and full bellies.
As if the evening needed any further enhancement, we made for Strange Matter to see an Italian band, Sultan Bathery.
What are young guys from Venice playing these days, you wonder?
Let me tell you. The best kind of lo-fi, garage (almost surf) pop in two to three minute bursts.
The bass player wore a long orange scarf wrapped around his forehead in that Steven Tyler-kind of way.
The guitarist would have looked right at home in the Trillions. Even better, he sang every song peering through curly bangs.
The drummer's non-stop arms were encased in a Cramps t-shirt with sleeves so short it looked like a girl's t-shirt.
In other words, they were adorable. And very young.
Even so, what came through was their Euro-swagger as they rocked hard and fast without ever really losing it.
And everyone, repeat, everyone in that room was constitutionally unable to stand still as a result.
After their 45-minute set (fact: you can only go so hard so long), the band made a plea in mostly Italian for support.
"We have not so much money," the singer said sweetly.
I bet they have no place finding a place to stay tonight, either.
And while I doubt it'll be the Jefferson, no doubt they'll find southern hospitality in Richmond.
I figure if I got to see a dynamite Italian band here on a Wednesday night, they're going to be just as lucky.
Cute can take Italians a long way.
The Library of Virginia was hosting author Paul Herbert as he spoke about his book, "The Jefferson Hotel: The History of a Richmond Landmark."
And while the title is snooze-worthy, the subject was overdue for re-examination since the last book on the Jefferson had been in 1941.
As it turned out, the stories he shared were fascinating.
When he heard that the Jefferson had used a 12-year old clock cleaner, he tracked down the now 72-year old man to get the story.
When he was told a story of two young girls being asleep in the hotel when it caught on fire, he tracked down the girls.
"The thing about history is," he said with understated but obvious enthusiasm, "If you can find the people who were there."
Most of his stories ended with him meeting or talking to the person something happened to as a way yo corroborate the tales told in the book.
He clarified once and for all that the Jefferson's famed alligators lasted only until 1948, except for special occasions.
Billy Joel was an investor in the Jefferson, albeit a silent one. Herbert said he did once visit and play the piano, though.
I learned that the check-in desks used to be downstairs by the Main Street entrance, in front of what is now TJ's.
That there was a writing room in the lobby.
And, when it opened in 1895, a rooftop garden where entertainment was held.
Vaudeville from the roof of the Jefferson, can you imagine?
In the hotel's restaurant, Elvis ate bacon with his fingers, to the horror of one of the employees.
At one point in the evening, Herbert looked at the crowd and said, "In Richmond, everything ties back to the Jefferson. Everyone has a connection. It's like that seven degrees of separation with Kevin Bacon game. Everyone has a Jefferson story."
Who was I to argue?
I was sitting next to someone I'd met at the Jefferson two decades ago. Clearly there's a story there.
Dinner followed further east at Maximo's, the new tapas place in the Bottom.
It was livelier than I'd expected and the Spanish music was, too.
The menu was a bit of a split personality with tapas on one side and Italian on the other.
With a bottle of Verdejo, we ate around the tapas side, trying apple salad, chorizo in cherry sauce and a soft shell crab in a white wine cream sauce.
The people watching was colorful inside and outside the restaurant, with both Italian and New Jersey being spoken.
We finished with Warre's "Warrior" Port, leaving some Verdejo to go.
Our eager sever rushed off to get a bag for it, returning with a large brown grocery bag and saying apologetically, "We have one size bag: giant!"
So it was that we left with a giant bag with our leftover Verdejo and full bellies.
As if the evening needed any further enhancement, we made for Strange Matter to see an Italian band, Sultan Bathery.
What are young guys from Venice playing these days, you wonder?
Let me tell you. The best kind of lo-fi, garage (almost surf) pop in two to three minute bursts.
The bass player wore a long orange scarf wrapped around his forehead in that Steven Tyler-kind of way.
The guitarist would have looked right at home in the Trillions. Even better, he sang every song peering through curly bangs.
The drummer's non-stop arms were encased in a Cramps t-shirt with sleeves so short it looked like a girl's t-shirt.
In other words, they were adorable. And very young.
Even so, what came through was their Euro-swagger as they rocked hard and fast without ever really losing it.
And everyone, repeat, everyone in that room was constitutionally unable to stand still as a result.
After their 45-minute set (fact: you can only go so hard so long), the band made a plea in mostly Italian for support.
"We have not so much money," the singer said sweetly.
I bet they have no place finding a place to stay tonight, either.
And while I doubt it'll be the Jefferson, no doubt they'll find southern hospitality in Richmond.
I figure if I got to see a dynamite Italian band here on a Wednesday night, they're going to be just as lucky.
Cute can take Italians a long way.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Avoid Blockhead Suitors
I'd have been awful as a founding daughter.
Take Martha Jefferson Randolph, for instance. Daughter of Thomas Jefferson and wife of Thomas Mann Randolph.
The woman had thirteen pregnancies and eleven children. Basically, she was pregnant every two years from the moment she got married.
In that respect, it must have sucked to have been Martha.
Today's noontime lecture at the Library of Virginia was "Martha Jefferson Randolph: Daughter of Monticello," given by author Cynthia Kierner who wrote a book of the same title.
As I've said before, I like my history with breasts.
In a break from the usual eventual focus on T.J., the book and talk approached Martha with the eye of an historian of southern woman.
Because, blasphemous as it sounds in Virginia, all roads don't necessarily lead back to Jefferson.
Not that being his daughter didn't have perks for Martha.
She went to convent school in Paris while Dad was Minister to France.
At a time when few Southern women were educated, she wrote and spoke four languages (Kierner asked for a show of hands of who in the room could do the same. Zero hands shot up).
Her social skills were said to be fit for any court in Europe. Her niece claimed she had a "perfect temper."
Cosmopolitan and used to an upscale social life, Martha was considered an exemplary woman.
I bet the definition of what that means has changed in the past couple of centuries.
Even so, before her marriage at age 18 after a two-month whirlwind courtship, her father openly worried that she might "marry a blockhead."
Turns out her beloved wasn't the best land or money manager, but ole Martha kept both his plantation and Monticello running as well as could be expected considering how in debt they both were.
That's when she wasn't off in Washington at the White House making Dad look more wholesome after the whole Sally Hemmings unpleasantness.
Which brings up Kierner's whole point. Well-behaved women seldom make history, it's been said.
And yet Martha, the exemplary women, made quiet history without exhibiting any improper actions or habits.
I can admire her, but I sure wouldn't want to have been her.
And I'm guessing that the heavily female audience (so large it went into the back room) felt the same.
You can only ask so much of a woman.
Martha's strength was doing so much more than any modern woman would consider doing.
Exemplary womanhood must be so much more easily attained when you're not squeezing out babies every other year.
No doubt about it. I'd have been an epic failure as a founding daughter.
Hell, I'm still working on acquiring that perfect temper.
Take Martha Jefferson Randolph, for instance. Daughter of Thomas Jefferson and wife of Thomas Mann Randolph.
The woman had thirteen pregnancies and eleven children. Basically, she was pregnant every two years from the moment she got married.
In that respect, it must have sucked to have been Martha.
Today's noontime lecture at the Library of Virginia was "Martha Jefferson Randolph: Daughter of Monticello," given by author Cynthia Kierner who wrote a book of the same title.
As I've said before, I like my history with breasts.
In a break from the usual eventual focus on T.J., the book and talk approached Martha with the eye of an historian of southern woman.
Because, blasphemous as it sounds in Virginia, all roads don't necessarily lead back to Jefferson.
Not that being his daughter didn't have perks for Martha.
She went to convent school in Paris while Dad was Minister to France.
At a time when few Southern women were educated, she wrote and spoke four languages (Kierner asked for a show of hands of who in the room could do the same. Zero hands shot up).
Her social skills were said to be fit for any court in Europe. Her niece claimed she had a "perfect temper."
Cosmopolitan and used to an upscale social life, Martha was considered an exemplary woman.
I bet the definition of what that means has changed in the past couple of centuries.
Even so, before her marriage at age 18 after a two-month whirlwind courtship, her father openly worried that she might "marry a blockhead."
Turns out her beloved wasn't the best land or money manager, but ole Martha kept both his plantation and Monticello running as well as could be expected considering how in debt they both were.
That's when she wasn't off in Washington at the White House making Dad look more wholesome after the whole Sally Hemmings unpleasantness.
Which brings up Kierner's whole point. Well-behaved women seldom make history, it's been said.
And yet Martha, the exemplary women, made quiet history without exhibiting any improper actions or habits.
I can admire her, but I sure wouldn't want to have been her.
And I'm guessing that the heavily female audience (so large it went into the back room) felt the same.
You can only ask so much of a woman.
Martha's strength was doing so much more than any modern woman would consider doing.
Exemplary womanhood must be so much more easily attained when you're not squeezing out babies every other year.
No doubt about it. I'd have been an epic failure as a founding daughter.
Hell, I'm still working on acquiring that perfect temper.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Iron Maidens
As much as I like hearing train whistles in Jackson Ward, I had no idea that railroads were such a popular topic.
It was near standing room only for today's Library of Virginia lecture, "The Iron Way: Railroads, the Civil War and the Making of Modern America" by Dr. William Thomas.
And trust me, I've been to plenty of their noon lectures and not seen as many attendees.
Even UR's President Ed Ayers, apparently one of Thomas' former teachers, found a seat at the last minute.
Operating from the premise that the railroads were a modern way of unifying the country, he made a strong case for their divisiveness, too.
And while I've no doubt that the railroad-savvy audience already knew, I was a tad surprised to learn that thousands of enslaved men had worked on building railroads in the South.
Railroad companies apparently began by renting the men and moved on to buying them. More cost effective, I'm sure.
Thomas showed a picture of the Appomattox High Bridge, an impressive and picaresque structure, but it was the numbers that stuck in my head.
When built in the 1850s, it cost $167,000, and required 1,000 slaves and 200 horses to build.
We heard about "railroad Republicans" who saw railroads as the future to push their agenda forward.
One of the most interesting topics was that of Northern soldiers as tourists.
Arriving by train or steamboat, these men who'd never ventured south of the Mason Dixon line documented what they saw in this foreign place.
In letters to family back home, they described the locals (a different breed, surely, to them), the flora and fauna.
They were even known to stand on the top of railroad cars and shoot at local animal life (turtles, snakes) like they were on safari or something.
But the railroads had better uses, too; escaping slaves were able to get away in 48 hours instead of two weeks on foot.
Thomas cracked wise when he said, "For those of you who are observant or aren't asleep" before sharing how a former slave became the "Pickle King" once he got to New York.
By the end of his lecture, Thomas had proven that railroads had brought about a great compression of space and time, meaning that the Civil War was not the "local" war of high school history books.
How could it be when people, free and enslaved, were now moving freely between North and South with regularity?
The lecture closed with Thomas explaining how news traveled on the train.
An approaching train that blew a long whistle told listeners that there had been a Confederate victory. A short whistle meant a defeat.
"Everybody sure did listen to that train," a man of the time observed.
I know I sure do.
Best of all, it no longer has to do with victory or defeat.
Just a lovely sound.
It was near standing room only for today's Library of Virginia lecture, "The Iron Way: Railroads, the Civil War and the Making of Modern America" by Dr. William Thomas.
And trust me, I've been to plenty of their noon lectures and not seen as many attendees.
Even UR's President Ed Ayers, apparently one of Thomas' former teachers, found a seat at the last minute.
Operating from the premise that the railroads were a modern way of unifying the country, he made a strong case for their divisiveness, too.
And while I've no doubt that the railroad-savvy audience already knew, I was a tad surprised to learn that thousands of enslaved men had worked on building railroads in the South.
Railroad companies apparently began by renting the men and moved on to buying them. More cost effective, I'm sure.
Thomas showed a picture of the Appomattox High Bridge, an impressive and picaresque structure, but it was the numbers that stuck in my head.
When built in the 1850s, it cost $167,000, and required 1,000 slaves and 200 horses to build.
We heard about "railroad Republicans" who saw railroads as the future to push their agenda forward.
One of the most interesting topics was that of Northern soldiers as tourists.
Arriving by train or steamboat, these men who'd never ventured south of the Mason Dixon line documented what they saw in this foreign place.
In letters to family back home, they described the locals (a different breed, surely, to them), the flora and fauna.
They were even known to stand on the top of railroad cars and shoot at local animal life (turtles, snakes) like they were on safari or something.
But the railroads had better uses, too; escaping slaves were able to get away in 48 hours instead of two weeks on foot.
Thomas cracked wise when he said, "For those of you who are observant or aren't asleep" before sharing how a former slave became the "Pickle King" once he got to New York.
By the end of his lecture, Thomas had proven that railroads had brought about a great compression of space and time, meaning that the Civil War was not the "local" war of high school history books.
How could it be when people, free and enslaved, were now moving freely between North and South with regularity?
The lecture closed with Thomas explaining how news traveled on the train.
An approaching train that blew a long whistle told listeners that there had been a Confederate victory. A short whistle meant a defeat.
"Everybody sure did listen to that train," a man of the time observed.
I know I sure do.
Best of all, it no longer has to do with victory or defeat.
Just a lovely sound.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Aiming for Stylish and Utilitarian
I've always said that I like my history with breasts; I can only hear about old white guys for so long before wanting to hear about an historic woman.
Today's came courtesy of the Library of Virginia's noon lecture, "Beth Barnard Nickels: A Very Surprising Virginia Architect."
I think the main reason she was labeled surprising was because she had girl parts.
Researcher Erin Myers read a lecture on Nickels' life, beginning with the early years at her family home, Sunnyside, in Prince George County.
And if you think because the home had a name that it was elaborate or large, you'd be mistaken.
The simple wooden structure with a separate building for the kitchen had remained as it had been built in the 19th century until Nickels renovated it after becoming an architect.
And even then she did it her way.
Nickels loved to cook, so when she enlarged the house and joined the two separate buildings, she naturally remodeled the kitchen.
Did she turn it into a showplace kitchen? She did not.
Never able to tolerate having another person in the kitchen when she cooked, she purposely designed a room that could only hold one.
That's thinking ahead and I admire that.
Originally a teacher like her mother and grandmother, she went on to follow in her handsome engineer father's footsteps and took classes in drafting and design.
When she began working for the prestigious firm of Marcellus Wright and Son in 1947, he new boss observed that she wore skirts and high heels to the job sites every day.
Nickels was smart, though, acknowledging that the contractors and sub-contractors treated her very well on site.
Never, I repeat never, underestimate the power a of a skirt and heels.
God knows I don't.
That said, she made some concessions to being a woman in a man's world, not wearing too much makeup and always speaking first to the wives of her coworkers at work functions.
You know how distracting we womenfolk in lipstick can be.
Myers' lecture touched on many of the buildings around town that Richmond's first female architect had a hand in.
One I recognized at once now houses Vogue Flowers downtown on Main Street; she also worked on several homes in Windsor Farms.
Her buildings were characterized as "stylish and utilitarian," a description I wouldn't mind hearing applied to myself.
But more than that, Nickels did things her way.
She never took the State Boards to become certified as an architect, not needing the validation (or the A.I.A. after her name).
"Yep, I don't live by the rules," Nickels was quoted by Myers as having said last year before her death in March. "Sorry 'bout that."
My hero!
A friend recently said of me, "Oh, Karen knows the rules. She just chooses not to play by them."
Beth Barnard Nickels and I: cut from the same cloth apparently.
Is it any wonder I like my history with girl parts?
Today's came courtesy of the Library of Virginia's noon lecture, "Beth Barnard Nickels: A Very Surprising Virginia Architect."
I think the main reason she was labeled surprising was because she had girl parts.
Researcher Erin Myers read a lecture on Nickels' life, beginning with the early years at her family home, Sunnyside, in Prince George County.
And if you think because the home had a name that it was elaborate or large, you'd be mistaken.
The simple wooden structure with a separate building for the kitchen had remained as it had been built in the 19th century until Nickels renovated it after becoming an architect.
And even then she did it her way.
Nickels loved to cook, so when she enlarged the house and joined the two separate buildings, she naturally remodeled the kitchen.
Did she turn it into a showplace kitchen? She did not.
Never able to tolerate having another person in the kitchen when she cooked, she purposely designed a room that could only hold one.
That's thinking ahead and I admire that.
Originally a teacher like her mother and grandmother, she went on to follow in her handsome engineer father's footsteps and took classes in drafting and design.
When she began working for the prestigious firm of Marcellus Wright and Son in 1947, he new boss observed that she wore skirts and high heels to the job sites every day.
Nickels was smart, though, acknowledging that the contractors and sub-contractors treated her very well on site.
Never, I repeat never, underestimate the power a of a skirt and heels.
God knows I don't.
That said, she made some concessions to being a woman in a man's world, not wearing too much makeup and always speaking first to the wives of her coworkers at work functions.
You know how distracting we womenfolk in lipstick can be.
Myers' lecture touched on many of the buildings around town that Richmond's first female architect had a hand in.
One I recognized at once now houses Vogue Flowers downtown on Main Street; she also worked on several homes in Windsor Farms.
Her buildings were characterized as "stylish and utilitarian," a description I wouldn't mind hearing applied to myself.
But more than that, Nickels did things her way.
She never took the State Boards to become certified as an architect, not needing the validation (or the A.I.A. after her name).
"Yep, I don't live by the rules," Nickels was quoted by Myers as having said last year before her death in March. "Sorry 'bout that."
My hero!
A friend recently said of me, "Oh, Karen knows the rules. She just chooses not to play by them."
Beth Barnard Nickels and I: cut from the same cloth apparently.
Is it any wonder I like my history with girl parts?
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Downstairs with the Dead
The dead people outnumbered the living four to one.
We were in the crypt underneath Monumental Church when it occurred to me how many more of them there were than us.
After a recent lecture at the Library of Virginia, here, I'd had a chance to sign up for a tour of the church built on the site of the Richmond Theater fire in 1811.
I'd always been curious driving by the building on Broad Street and here was my chance to see what it looked like from the inside.
When it was built in 1814, the congregation was shocked by its modernity (for the time) and keenly aware of how plain it looked.
And it still looks very unadorned with no ornamentation, no stained glass windows or elaborate sculpture.
As someone who grew up going to Catholic churches, it was downright stark. And lovely in its simplicity.
The color scheme of salmon walls, gray pews and a deep blue altar is original and based on paint analysis so I knew I was seeing the interior as it would have looked in the mid-19th century.
I found it fascinating that the congregation used only the east and west doors, except for at Easter when everyone entered through the front door.
Designed by Robert Mills, who also did the Washington Monument as well as several other octagonal buildings, the design incorporates all kinds of funerary and Egyptian symbols as a tribute to the theater dead.
Of course like any city project, the funding ran out so the steeple never got added and there's no statue in the portico.
But who needs a steeple when you have a crypt in the basement?
After a perilous walk down a narrow staircase, we were in a low-ceilinged, dirt-floored subterranean space with two mahogany caskets holding the charred remains of the 72 people who died at the theater that night in 1811.
The large bricked crypt didn't just hold the dead, though; it was also part of the foundation of the church.
Beams and joists sat atop the brick crypt to support the floor of the church above.
As I walked around the crypt, I was surprised to see a half dozen folding chairs in a semi-circle at the far end of it.
Seance, perhaps? It would be a convenient place to commune with the nearby dead, I would think.
There was also a door that connected to the infamous underground tunnels around Capital Square.
Our guide postulated that both insane patients from the hospital as well as sneaky politicians used the tunnels to move around out of sight.
On our way back upstairs I saw a small, old wooden box on a mantle labeled "Monumental Church Endowment Fund."
Perhaps dropping something in might have guaranteed me an invitation for the next seance.
We were in the crypt underneath Monumental Church when it occurred to me how many more of them there were than us.
After a recent lecture at the Library of Virginia, here, I'd had a chance to sign up for a tour of the church built on the site of the Richmond Theater fire in 1811.
I'd always been curious driving by the building on Broad Street and here was my chance to see what it looked like from the inside.
When it was built in 1814, the congregation was shocked by its modernity (for the time) and keenly aware of how plain it looked.
And it still looks very unadorned with no ornamentation, no stained glass windows or elaborate sculpture.
As someone who grew up going to Catholic churches, it was downright stark. And lovely in its simplicity.
The color scheme of salmon walls, gray pews and a deep blue altar is original and based on paint analysis so I knew I was seeing the interior as it would have looked in the mid-19th century.
I found it fascinating that the congregation used only the east and west doors, except for at Easter when everyone entered through the front door.
Designed by Robert Mills, who also did the Washington Monument as well as several other octagonal buildings, the design incorporates all kinds of funerary and Egyptian symbols as a tribute to the theater dead.
Of course like any city project, the funding ran out so the steeple never got added and there's no statue in the portico.
But who needs a steeple when you have a crypt in the basement?
After a perilous walk down a narrow staircase, we were in a low-ceilinged, dirt-floored subterranean space with two mahogany caskets holding the charred remains of the 72 people who died at the theater that night in 1811.
The large bricked crypt didn't just hold the dead, though; it was also part of the foundation of the church.
Beams and joists sat atop the brick crypt to support the floor of the church above.
As I walked around the crypt, I was surprised to see a half dozen folding chairs in a semi-circle at the far end of it.
Seance, perhaps? It would be a convenient place to commune with the nearby dead, I would think.
There was also a door that connected to the infamous underground tunnels around Capital Square.
Our guide postulated that both insane patients from the hospital as well as sneaky politicians used the tunnels to move around out of sight.
On our way back upstairs I saw a small, old wooden box on a mantle labeled "Monumental Church Endowment Fund."
Perhaps dropping something in might have guaranteed me an invitation for the next seance.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Sound of Chitchat
Leave it to the Japanese to come up with a methodology for the ADD set.
PechaKucha, from the Japanese term for the sound of chitchat, involves a presentation of 20 images discussed for 20 seconds.
Kind of like presentation Twitter, if you will.
Not surprisingly, it's also known as "ignite" or "lightening talk" but no matter what you call it, things move quickly.
The Library of Virginia did a pechakucha event today using members of the staff all talking about their personal collections.
It's tied into the new "Lost and Found" exhibit which examines the changing fabric of the world, what we keep, what gets destroyed and what we toss away.
I'll say this for pechakucha; it's tough for even the briefest of attention spans to get bored in 20 seconds.
A church choir singer was the first speaker and collected old hymnals and tune books, mainly Presbyterian (making for numerous jokes on her part).
Next up was Greg Kimball who collected old 78 records, his first having been acquired for a penny each.
He showed an old Blind Lemon Jefferson record, then others called "Cotton Mill Colic" and "Death's Black Train is Coming."
His was the only pechakucha that included sound. He not only occasionally played music clips, but finished with playing a record on an old Victrola.
One woman collected old school globes, commemorative state plates and vintage telephones.
She got a laugh when she showed a closeup of her Kansas plate.
"Kansas is the plate that rattles every time my furnace comes on," she informed us.
An Air Force brat who'd moved around her whole life showed her collection of childhood memories.
There was doll house furniture, a pretend check she'd written to her grandfather, a notebook of girly stuff (romance tips, a PMS diet, pictures of hottie boys) and her passports since birth.
One woman's stuff revolved around her beloved grandparents.
Granny Franni loved culture, art and travel; her grandfather Alan loved Franni.
When Franni was in her sixties, she commissioned a nude painting of herself which hung in their living room.
"It was unnerving to sit in her house under a nude of my grandmother," she laughed, showing the painting.
She finished by acknowledging, "It's amazing that what belongs to other people can become so important to us."
The last series of slides were from a home movie collector and he showed some great stuff.
His earliest reel was from 1926 and had been found at a flea market.
Footage of a little dog nipping at a kid's leg had the kid in tears. On camera.
You gotta love parents who keep rolling film even when the child is clearly distressed.
He had film of kids having a mock wedding, a flailing baby's first haircut and endless vacation video.
He explained that while finding old home movies on e-Bay wasn't as much fun as discovering them at a flea market, in either case you had no way of knowing what you'd bought until you screened it.
Kind of like I had no idea what pechakucha was until I sat through the lightening fast parade of images and words.
The Library of Virginia is hoping to do another such event and invite the public to share this time.
I'm thinking of digging up old ticket stubs to shows I've seen over the years.
The hard part for me will be limiting myself to only 20 seconds worth of words for each concert story.
Brevity has never been my strong suit.
In fact, now that I think about it, I am so not pechakucha material.
Not that I won't happily go watch others do it Japanese-style.
I do like to watch.
PechaKucha, from the Japanese term for the sound of chitchat, involves a presentation of 20 images discussed for 20 seconds.
Kind of like presentation Twitter, if you will.
Not surprisingly, it's also known as "ignite" or "lightening talk" but no matter what you call it, things move quickly.
The Library of Virginia did a pechakucha event today using members of the staff all talking about their personal collections.
It's tied into the new "Lost and Found" exhibit which examines the changing fabric of the world, what we keep, what gets destroyed and what we toss away.
I'll say this for pechakucha; it's tough for even the briefest of attention spans to get bored in 20 seconds.
A church choir singer was the first speaker and collected old hymnals and tune books, mainly Presbyterian (making for numerous jokes on her part).
Next up was Greg Kimball who collected old 78 records, his first having been acquired for a penny each.
He showed an old Blind Lemon Jefferson record, then others called "Cotton Mill Colic" and "Death's Black Train is Coming."
His was the only pechakucha that included sound. He not only occasionally played music clips, but finished with playing a record on an old Victrola.
One woman collected old school globes, commemorative state plates and vintage telephones.
She got a laugh when she showed a closeup of her Kansas plate.
"Kansas is the plate that rattles every time my furnace comes on," she informed us.
An Air Force brat who'd moved around her whole life showed her collection of childhood memories.
There was doll house furniture, a pretend check she'd written to her grandfather, a notebook of girly stuff (romance tips, a PMS diet, pictures of hottie boys) and her passports since birth.
One woman's stuff revolved around her beloved grandparents.
Granny Franni loved culture, art and travel; her grandfather Alan loved Franni.
When Franni was in her sixties, she commissioned a nude painting of herself which hung in their living room.
"It was unnerving to sit in her house under a nude of my grandmother," she laughed, showing the painting.
She finished by acknowledging, "It's amazing that what belongs to other people can become so important to us."
The last series of slides were from a home movie collector and he showed some great stuff.
His earliest reel was from 1926 and had been found at a flea market.
Footage of a little dog nipping at a kid's leg had the kid in tears. On camera.
You gotta love parents who keep rolling film even when the child is clearly distressed.
He had film of kids having a mock wedding, a flailing baby's first haircut and endless vacation video.
He explained that while finding old home movies on e-Bay wasn't as much fun as discovering them at a flea market, in either case you had no way of knowing what you'd bought until you screened it.
Kind of like I had no idea what pechakucha was until I sat through the lightening fast parade of images and words.
The Library of Virginia is hoping to do another such event and invite the public to share this time.
I'm thinking of digging up old ticket stubs to shows I've seen over the years.
The hard part for me will be limiting myself to only 20 seconds worth of words for each concert story.
Brevity has never been my strong suit.
In fact, now that I think about it, I am so not pechakucha material.
Not that I won't happily go watch others do it Japanese-style.
I do like to watch.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
I'll Take a Seat in the Gallery
Sometimes it doesn't pay to be a female.
It certainly didn't if you were at the Richmond Theater on December 26, 1811. That was the night that the theater caught fire and over 50 of the 72 dead had two X chromosomes.
Like me.
Elaborate and bulky clothing, likely seating in the impossible-to-escape box seats and a decided lack of chivalry ensured that the fairer sex never had a chance.
I know all that only because of today's Library of Virginia lecture with Meredith Henne Baker on her new book, "The Richmond Theater Fire: Early America's First Great Disaster."
She began by rhapsodizing about time spent at the Library of Virginia "at these book talks, in the archives and fighting with the coin lockers."
Ah, memories.
As many of these lectures as I've been to, this was easily one of the largest crowds, so clearly the fire and the resulting dozens of deaths are like a reality history show.
Painful but no one can look away.
I found it fascinating that because free blacks, slaves and prostitutes were relegated to gallery seating, few of them were killed in the fire because they could get out while most of the others struggled to find the limited exits.
I'm sure it didn't help that for a venue that comfortably held 500 people, 580 tickets had been sold that night.
Sounds a little like what the National did the night of the Sufjan Stevens show. Just saying.
No doubt they were eager to see a four-hour performance that began with drama, moved on to music and concluded with a melodrama.
And what a melodrama! Kidnappings! Bandits! Nuns bleeding! Who could resist all that?
Sadly, the sets caught fire mid-performance and moved very quickly to the seating areas where people fought to escape, some even jumping out of upper story windows.
One man who lost his wife and son in the fire referred to the tragedy as "an event that unhinges the intellect."
Monumental Church was the collective conscience's salve to deal with the loss of such a large percentage of Richmond's population at the time.
Because the bodies had been left where they'd fallen, the ground was consecrated and the church stands as a tribute to the people who never made it out.
But perhaps the biggest surprise of the fire was that people started attending church in droves.
That awful fire opened the door to a new religious climate in Virginia, so there's the unexpected legacy of the fire.
In yet more over-reaction to it, Baker said that Richmond had no theater for the next eight years.
As it was, they enacted a $6.66 fine for Richmonders going to public amusement.
Let's hope our sometimes myopic state government never does something that foolish again. Do I look like I can afford $6.66 every night of my life?
Walking out after Baker's excellent talk, I heard my name called from behind.
"I'd recognize that advance and retreat anywhere," said the history-loving man about town, who was gallant enough to walk a few blocks with me before catching his bus back to work.
He even kissed my hand before climbing on board.
If only there had been more men of his caliber in the Richmond Theater that awful night in 1811. Or any night.
Fortunately, no bulky clothing is ever going to prevent me from escaping anywhere.
Nor are my two X chromosomes afraid to jump.
Preferably into chivalrous arms.
It certainly didn't if you were at the Richmond Theater on December 26, 1811. That was the night that the theater caught fire and over 50 of the 72 dead had two X chromosomes.
Like me.
Elaborate and bulky clothing, likely seating in the impossible-to-escape box seats and a decided lack of chivalry ensured that the fairer sex never had a chance.
I know all that only because of today's Library of Virginia lecture with Meredith Henne Baker on her new book, "The Richmond Theater Fire: Early America's First Great Disaster."
She began by rhapsodizing about time spent at the Library of Virginia "at these book talks, in the archives and fighting with the coin lockers."
Ah, memories.
As many of these lectures as I've been to, this was easily one of the largest crowds, so clearly the fire and the resulting dozens of deaths are like a reality history show.
Painful but no one can look away.
I found it fascinating that because free blacks, slaves and prostitutes were relegated to gallery seating, few of them were killed in the fire because they could get out while most of the others struggled to find the limited exits.
I'm sure it didn't help that for a venue that comfortably held 500 people, 580 tickets had been sold that night.
Sounds a little like what the National did the night of the Sufjan Stevens show. Just saying.
No doubt they were eager to see a four-hour performance that began with drama, moved on to music and concluded with a melodrama.
And what a melodrama! Kidnappings! Bandits! Nuns bleeding! Who could resist all that?
Sadly, the sets caught fire mid-performance and moved very quickly to the seating areas where people fought to escape, some even jumping out of upper story windows.
One man who lost his wife and son in the fire referred to the tragedy as "an event that unhinges the intellect."
Monumental Church was the collective conscience's salve to deal with the loss of such a large percentage of Richmond's population at the time.
Because the bodies had been left where they'd fallen, the ground was consecrated and the church stands as a tribute to the people who never made it out.
But perhaps the biggest surprise of the fire was that people started attending church in droves.
That awful fire opened the door to a new religious climate in Virginia, so there's the unexpected legacy of the fire.
In yet more over-reaction to it, Baker said that Richmond had no theater for the next eight years.
As it was, they enacted a $6.66 fine for Richmonders going to public amusement.
Let's hope our sometimes myopic state government never does something that foolish again. Do I look like I can afford $6.66 every night of my life?
Walking out after Baker's excellent talk, I heard my name called from behind.
"I'd recognize that advance and retreat anywhere," said the history-loving man about town, who was gallant enough to walk a few blocks with me before catching his bus back to work.
He even kissed my hand before climbing on board.
If only there had been more men of his caliber in the Richmond Theater that awful night in 1811. Or any night.
Fortunately, no bulky clothing is ever going to prevent me from escaping anywhere.
Nor are my two X chromosomes afraid to jump.
Preferably into chivalrous arms.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Dirty Poem Inspiration
Poe said "The death of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world."
Operating from that premise, author John Milliken Thompson gave a talk at the Library of Virginia about his new book, "The Reservoir" about a young (and pregnant) woman found floating in the city reservoir in 1885 and the sensational trial that followed.
Working from an actual murder case, Thompson researched extensively to learn about the case, only to realize that because the characters were obscure people, not much was known about them.
Well, that's just a challenge to a writer (who referred to himself as a "haphazard plotter"), so he took it upon himself to imagine the thoughts and conversations of the people involved and the search for the seducer.
"Search for the seducer," is that a great phrase or what?
So his book is a fictional telling of real people's stories, minus the "dirty poem" that was central to the case ("Pretty raunchy," he grinned. "We've got nothing on them back then.").
He said his editor had referred to it as "In Cold Blood meets Cold Mountain."
And while I'm not much of a fiction reader, the "romance wrapped in a mystery wrapped in an historical crime story" sounded pretty fascinating.
A lot of the people in the audience, many of whom had read the book already, ate their lunch as he talked.
I held out to meet a friend for midday eats at the Franklin Inn, home of the best $3.95 burger in town.
He was late so I sat at a table with my back to the front window with the server noting, "You have a good spot there in the sun."
Indeed I did and the old-fashioned peach-colored roses on the table smelled almost as pretty as they looked, so the wait was actually very pleasant.
So of course I gave him a hard time for being five minutes late.
We caught up over lunch and I heard tales of cookie parties (a friend was counting on me to be there and I let her down...for music), venue parties ("Everyone was plastered by 9:00") and potential jobs (his and he wouldn't take it if it was offered, apparently).
There was even gossip about former co-workers.
With no seducer in sight and my own haphazard plotting skills, it was not exactly a poetical ending to my mid-day interlude.
But then, no beautiful woman had to die, either.
Operating from that premise, author John Milliken Thompson gave a talk at the Library of Virginia about his new book, "The Reservoir" about a young (and pregnant) woman found floating in the city reservoir in 1885 and the sensational trial that followed.
Working from an actual murder case, Thompson researched extensively to learn about the case, only to realize that because the characters were obscure people, not much was known about them.
Well, that's just a challenge to a writer (who referred to himself as a "haphazard plotter"), so he took it upon himself to imagine the thoughts and conversations of the people involved and the search for the seducer.
"Search for the seducer," is that a great phrase or what?
So his book is a fictional telling of real people's stories, minus the "dirty poem" that was central to the case ("Pretty raunchy," he grinned. "We've got nothing on them back then.").
He said his editor had referred to it as "In Cold Blood meets Cold Mountain."
And while I'm not much of a fiction reader, the "romance wrapped in a mystery wrapped in an historical crime story" sounded pretty fascinating.
A lot of the people in the audience, many of whom had read the book already, ate their lunch as he talked.
I held out to meet a friend for midday eats at the Franklin Inn, home of the best $3.95 burger in town.
He was late so I sat at a table with my back to the front window with the server noting, "You have a good spot there in the sun."
Indeed I did and the old-fashioned peach-colored roses on the table smelled almost as pretty as they looked, so the wait was actually very pleasant.
So of course I gave him a hard time for being five minutes late.
We caught up over lunch and I heard tales of cookie parties (a friend was counting on me to be there and I let her down...for music), venue parties ("Everyone was plastered by 9:00") and potential jobs (his and he wouldn't take it if it was offered, apparently).
There was even gossip about former co-workers.
With no seducer in sight and my own haphazard plotting skills, it was not exactly a poetical ending to my mid-day interlude.
But then, no beautiful woman had to die, either.
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