The Beat of Dancing Feet

It's not summer in Richmond without a trip to the Dell.

The combination of perfect weather and opening night for "42nd Street" was cause enough for a picnic at Dogwood Dell with a friend.

Claiming it had been 20 years since she'd last been to the city's annual summer Festival of the Arts, she nonetheless knew to pack a picnic cloth, chair and corkscrew.

It's like riding a bike. You never really forget how it's done.

Of course, there's also the little matter of house rules such as no glass and no alcoholic beverages, so we just thought of our Le Petit Rouviere Rose as pink grape juice and drank it out of plastic cups while munching on sandwiches and salads.

The evening's emcee greeted us with, "Let's talk about this weather. This doesn't happen very often in July." It was nice enough that I'd brought a sweater and beach towel to keep me warm once it got dark (and needed both).

Unfortunately, beautiful weather and absence of humidity did not eliminate the bugs, though, so we slathered on bug spray and gave props to those around us who'd been clever enough to bring big citronella candles to burn (note to self).

Once again, I was at a play as a first-timer. I'd neither seen the original 1933 film or the 1980 play of "42nd Street." Hell, I hadn't even known that movie musicals ever got made into plays. Idiot.

So you can imagine how dazzling the opening number was to this newbie, with 30-some tap dancers creating a Busby Berkley-like spectacle right there on the Dell stage.

I'll put it this way: it was everything I thought "42nd Street" would be in one number. Not to mention how gratifying it is to see a play with that many female roles in it.

And speaking of my people, most of the costumes were on point, evoking both 1933 and the way chorus girls dressed in rehearsal. All except one anyway.

For some reason, one actress wore her blouse outside of her skirt instead of tucked in, something no woman in the '30s would have done unless she was cleaning house or working on a farm. It looked totally out of place next to all the other women and their cinched waisted ensembles.

So much of the dialogue was funny, such as an exchange between members of the chorus about men.

What is it about tenors that makes them wolves?
Must be all that tight underwear they wear.
No, that's what makes them tenors.

Despite my "42nd Street" virgin status, I soon discovered I knew many of the songs from it - "We're in the Money," "Lullaby of Broadway," "Shuffle Off to Buffalo" and, of course, the title song.

But you could have knocked me over with a feather when the prima donna character, Dorothy, began singing "I Only Have Eyes for You," one of my all-time favorite songs.

Turns out that's a song written by Warren and Dubin, the talent behind all the songs in "42nd Street," although not part of the 1933 film version.

So there I was, lucky enough to be at Dogwood Dell sipping Rose, listening to one of my all-time favorite romantic songs with stars twinkling above me. My smile was as wide as our picnic blanket.

While that may have been the musical high point for me, make no mistake, I enjoyed every minute of the colorful spectacle that was "We're in the Money."

I don't think I was the only one, either, because at intermission (at almost 10:00) almost no one in the capacity crowd left. Even the pre-teen boys in the chairs next to me seemed enthralled.

Given all the hoofing and high kicking, it could have been that they were leg men. Maybe they were first timers at Dogwood Dell.

Or maybe they were just as enthralled with getting to see a free production under the stars of a big, glitzy musical, complete with chorus girls, set at the height of the Depression.

Goodness knows I was.

What Will Be, We'll See

To stay or not to stay, that was the question.

I almost had a date tonight, which would have ended my sojourn at the beach this afternoon.

But that didn't pan out (que sera, sera), meaning I could stay over an extra night and sleep to the sound of the surf again.

Life is full of trade-offs. Luckily.

When Pru and I woke up this morning, it was to an ocean that had gone from docile and inviting to chaotic and intimidating.

The good news was, the water temperature was still a thing of beauty, so when I left for my walk (and she caffeinated), it was just along the water's edge to enjoy the foam blowing off the roiling surf.

I didn't get a mile down the beach before the beach patrol sped by, inserting red "NO Swimming" flags all along the shoreline.

That's one way to ensure that I finally finished my beach read rather than spending another day pruning in the water.

So I'd been mistaken. Apparently we had pissed off the reading gods Wednesday by not so much as cracking a book.

Despite the unavailability of the main attraction, the weather was magnificent, moving from a morning sky filled with clouds doing their best to block the sun to an afternoon one of almost solid blue with a few wisps merely for decoration.

The gusty breezes that kept the waves out of reach for us mere mortals brought a series of para-surfers, hanging on with all their might to brightly colored, comma-shaped sails and whizzing down the shoreline at an unbelievable speed while hurtling through the rough water attached to their boards.

All I could think was that if it were me, I'd make sure someone was picking me up at the other end because i sure wouldn't want to traipse back up the beach to where I started after that wild ride.

But then I don't really have an adventurous bone in my body, at least not that extreme kind of adventure, so I won't be needing to make those arrangements any time soon.

My concern, as always, was food.

We did a lovely beach picnic for lunch, spreading out Olli salame, two kinds of cheese, heirloom grape tomatoes, watermelon (a beach requirement), a baguette, plus the house-specialty dip (of which I'd heard so much but never actually had it cross my lips) and chips on a towel and grazed happily, until napping on the beach seemed like a better idea.

What better place or time to give myself over to such indulgences?

To sleep to the ocean's lullaby, perchance to dream of dates to come.

Simple Sunday Gifts

Order in : A September celebration of summer

Ingredients:
exquisite weather
picnic supper
stirring live music
dessert bonanza

Step one:

It was a day with a sky so blue it hurt and not a trace of humidity in the air.

A drive through the bowels of Chesterfield county deposited us at Pocahontas State Park for a winding walk through the trees to a clearing in the woods.

There, in the lat afternoon sun, stood the Heritage Amphitheater aglow in the late afternoon sun.

Making our way to the front row of wooden benches, we secured four places (front row center) with purple velvet pillows and an outstretched black sweater.

Step two:

Taking a blanket and our picnic in hand, we climbed the rolling hillside behind the benches where some people had already chosen to put down stakes, despite plenty of bench space still being available.

When we reached the top of the hill, we spread out the blanket under the canopy of trees facing the amphitheater, a gentle breeze all around us.

Supper was a simple one of shrimp salad wraps, a marinated salad of cucumbers and tomatoes, watermelon and red grapes with vinho verde.

As we sat there eating, we were treated to the Richmond Symphony musicians warming up.

Bits of a famous movie theme drifted up, but in a deconstructed manner.

Here were the woodwinds playing one part, a horn doing another entirely and a couple of strings playing something else.

I spotted Russell Wilson, pianist for the Richmond Symphony, walking by and called out to him.

Strolling over with his ubiquitous camera slung over his shoulder, I went to meet him.

"You didn't have to get up," he said smiling and reaching out to embrace me in a hug, "But since you did..."

Fact: I will always happily stand to hug a symphony musician who will come play a free concert in a park.

Step three:

We slid into our front row seats just as the conductor walked onstage and the couple joining us arrived just after the "Star Spangled Banner."

Tonight's program was all about American composer John Williams, he of the "Jaws" theme.

One of the first pieces we heard was :"Air and Simple Gifts," the moving piece Williams had written for Obama's inauguration.

It set the bar very high for the evening.

The conductor had chosen the Sibileus' piece used in "The Hunt for Red October," as an example of the style of Williams' music.

We heard a piece from "Schindler's List" with a haunting violin solo that could break hearts.

Donning a Harry Potter-style hooded cape, the conductor announced that selections from H.P. were next.

"I think I'm going to cry," said the H.P. lover in our group.

For the record, she did tear up, later saying, "I can't believe it's really over."

At one point during "Hedwig's Theme," Russell moved from his piano to play what looked like a tiny piano but produced a tinkling sound.

I had no clue what it might be.

No John Williams evening could be complete without the theme to "Star Wars," but first we heard music from another in the "Star Wars" series before getting to the original.

And while I'm no Skywalker fan, it was positively stirring to hear that familiar theme played live by a symphony orchestra from a few feet away.

Once it was all over, I saw a familiar face onstage.

It was Matt Gold, a symphony member and friend, and surely he could tell me what the tinkling sound had come from.

He could. It was a celesta, a keyboard instrument where hammers strike steel plates suspended over wooden resonators.

It was the cap on the performance. My favorite experiences are where I learn something.

Step four:

After a scenic drive out of the park at dusk, we motored back to the city and met our symphony companions at Garnett's for dessert.

Over black and white cake and hummingbird cake (the women) and strawberry-peach pie (both guys), we discussed the recent Democratic convention and the rousing speeches of Michelle Obama and Clinton.

"Why can't Bill be our president again?" the black and white cake eater asked half seriously.

All of a sudden, our server joined the conversation.

"Yea, Clinton is my first choice for make-out president," she said smiling. "Obama is my number two make-out president."

And while I'd never pondered which presidents I might choose to suck face with given the chance, I saw her point.

I could make out with Bill or Barack, too.

Order out: A practically perfect picnic and rousing performance on an exquisite late summer evening, followed by cake and make-out fantasies.

Yield: Unadulterated Sunday night happiness and complete surrender to it.

Not Quite Mile High Club

I've long said that you can't count yourself a real Richmonder if you haven't had a picnic on top of city hall.

The observation deck situated on the 18th floor offers, hands down, the best view of our city in every direction.

So on this beautiful sunny afternoon with a picnic lunch in hand, I took the elevator to the top.

But which direction to face for enjoying my meal? I finally settled on east although given the views, there's really no bad choice.

At the beginning, it was just me and the birds.

And while I never actually saw them, they never stopped cheeping, so I guessed they were just under the eaves - and a lot of them.

And as good as my lunch was, the visual treats began with my walk around the deck afterwards.

Cumulus clouds were stacked up along the horizon in every direction.

Looking south, the river was viewable in small segments only, but looking east, I got the same bend in the river view that had given Richmond its name.

A guy joined me on the deck, eagerly snapping photos from all sides as we wound our way around again and again.

He told me he'd been at the credit union downstairs and made a crack about the view only to be informed about the observation deck, which he'd never even heard of.

Looking out with me, we marveled at our vantage point for admiring old city hall and the state capital, both magnificent from above.

He told me he'd once lunched on the top floor of the Federal Reserve building, but that the view wasn't nearly as impressive.

We watched a crane in action just north of the Altria building.

A couple of worker bees joined us for a cigarette break, undoubtedly the most scenic smoking lounge anywhere.

I could see west on Broad Street all the way to the WTVR tower, but no further, which is fine considering that Broad goes all the way to god-forsaken Short Pump.

We laughed at the Coliseum, deciding that it resembled a rusty 1950s-era notion of a space ship.

I tried to point out my beloved Clay Street, but it was barely visible given our location two blocks south and eighteen floors up.

By the time I was ready to go, he must have taken twenty or more pictures and was still crowing about having finally discovered the deck.

For the record, I did not welcome him to the real Richmonder club.

But I did make him promise that next time he comes up there, he has to bring lunch.

Give Up the Funk

You've got a real type of thing going down, getting down
There's a whole lot of rhythm going round

I can always tell when the Down Home Family Reunion starts because I can hear it through my open windows.

After all, I'm only two blocks from Abner Clay Park.

I'd invited a non-family member to join me and he arrived with a picnic, so we took our chairs and dinner and walked the short distance toward the sound.

The Down Home Family Reunion isn't like any other festival I've been to, which is exactly what I love about it.

Besides the fact that it's two blocks away.

You see people dressed up at this one.

Like a leopard print jumpsuit.

Jean shorts, a red t-shirt and red and gold pumps.

His and her black leather chaps.

Skintight paisley bell-bottoms and a purple polyester shirt and hat.

I don't even try to compete with the likes of that.

Settling in with our picnic, the emcee said, "I wish y'all could see what y'all look like from up here!"

I'll bet the two of us looked starved, considering how we dug into roast chicken, caprese salad, bean and olive salad, hummus and peach pie.

We took a break to move closer when the Kenya Safari Acrobats took the stage.

Part dance, part magic, part gymnastic, part yoga, they amazed.

One condensed his body to almost nothing in the way they were taught to do in Kenya and Tanzania when confronted with a leopard.

Another got on a table and proceeded to bend his body backwards until his feet were resting on his head.

He even removed his hat with his toes.

There was a limbo dance (done to win a wife) with a stick on fire, making it essential to go as low as the limber, brave man could go.

He did.

For their final act, they created a human pyramid using a woman as the base.

It was significant because no acrobatic troupes there will use women because the men presume a woman will drop them.

Aminia, the female base, went on to support all kinds of men in various configurations, even walking a short distance while supporting them all.

The entire act required such skill and precision as to have been absolutely Olympic-worthy.

Meanwhile, I ran into a friend (and pianist for the Richmond Symphony) and caught up with his escapades (turkey burgers! Chopin! Pocahontas Park!)

And that's exactly what's supposed to happen at the Reunion.

I spent over six hours behind a woman who was serially greeted by no less than thirty people.

It was impressive to see.

A girl asked me to take a survey about the festival, inquiring about how far I'd come to see it, how much I might spend and if I'd been before.

I'm always happy to share my opinions.

Next onstage were NYCE, a local group who wore matching salmon-colored outfits while executing synchronized steps and singing '60s and '70s R & B.

Stuff like Bill Withers, Stevie Wonder and the Temptations, but not the Top 40 stuff.

Their set got people in the mood, like when a man walked by, spotted a friend and did a synchronized dance move in front of him before saying hello.

The Elegba Folklore performance group played drums and danced while a costumed figure on stilts moved through the crowd.

"If you can walk, you can dance," the group's director shouted.

I would have broken it down even more basically than that.

Periodically, the scent of incense wafted by.

Once the sun went down and I lost my companion to work, I was glad I had a blanket to drape over my legs.

"You had the right idea with that blanket," a man said to me when he saw me getting cozy.

By the time the big names arrived, the crowd was large and feisty.

Original P, comprised of four of the original members of Parliament Funkadelic and eight of their siblings and children, took the stage like they owned it.

"We're ready to party like it's 1975!" leader Calvin shouted to raucous response.

Almost at once, a freaky-looking guy started walking through the crowd with a large sign saying, "One Nation Under a Groove."

A guy came by to check on me. "How you doing?" he inquired sweetly. "You look comfortable! Enjoy yourself."

Of course the twelve piece had a big horn section and an array of back-up singers, but I was unprepared for the keytar.

Damn, we were taking it all the way back.

The crowd went wild for "We Want the Funk," but they also went crazy for tales of booty patrols and an extended psychedelic jam that had people dancing in the field.

By that point, audience and band were feeding off of each other under the night sky.

"Richmond Vee-Yay in the mother-fu*kin' house!" the bandleader yelled as people waved glow light swords and hands in the air.

I alternated between staying in my seat (where a guy came over to ask if I was okay by myself over there) and standing closer to the stage to enjoy the sheer spectacle of so many musicians clearly having a ball.

"If y'all don't get up off your asses now, I'm gonna be forced to get mean," we were informed.

It only took one warning for everyone but the oldest and most infirm to follow P-Funk's advice: "Free your mind and your ass will follow."

When the band finally ended, it was only because the organizers told them they had to.

The band made it clear that they wanted to keep playing.

Danced out, the crowd resignedly started packing up.

Original P serenaded us as we made our way out to the streets of Jackson Ward.

If you're not gonna get it on
Grab your date and take her home

My date long gone, it looked like I wasn't going to get it on.

But my answer to the final survey question had been confirmed in spades.

Would I come back to the festival next year?

Hell, yes. We want the funk.

Glowing a Golden Haze of Sweat

It's a damn shame when you can't even find your way to a party.

A friend had provided directions, but after multiple trips up and down the street, his house was nowhere to be found.

In my own defense, I don't know southside very well.

So, we abandoned Plan A and moved on to Plan B, which involved barbecue at Alamo.

After ordering a pig and slaw sandwich and a sampler platter (brisket, barbecued chicken, cornbread, cowboy beans and collard greens), we headed up the hill to the park.

There was a lovely breeze blowing, a welcome contrast to the late afternoon sun and heat.

There, from our lofty perch atop Chimborazo, we poured Adega de Pegoes, a Portuguese blend made for barbecue.

It was a meal eaten with sporks and fingers and a couple of dog visitors, no doubt attracted by the mounds of meat.

We took our sticky fingers directly to Strange Matter, where the perennial latecomer greeted me as I got my wristband by making sure I knew he'd arrived first.

Since he's usually the late or later type, I ceded the victory to him. This time.

Super Vacations were already playing and it was barely 8:10 and still light outside.

Such is the nature of an all ages show. Get 'em in early and get 'em out to their parents early.

I'd seen Super Vacations before, so knew what to expect with their psych-surf, albeit a dark and sometimes aggressive sound.

As their energetic set progressed, I began to feel as hot and sweaty as they looked.

And the night was young.

White Laces played next and they continue to sound tighter with every show I hear them.

Their set was essentially a preview of their soon-to-be released album, "Moves," which promises to be a game-changer for them.

Since I first saw them play at Fridays in the Courtyard back in May 2010, I have watched in amazement as they have grown as a band and developed their distinctive sound.

I remember the drummer breaking a drumstick that breezy May night (and bandleader Landis imploring the crowd, "Anyone got a spare drumstick?" No one did) and tonight's set ended with the drummer sending a stick flying out into the crowd.

Afterwards, I grabbed some hot people and headed outside in search of oxygen and a chance to cool my core.

It was hot as hell inside Strange Matter, so you take your breaks where you can.

But I made sure to be back in my spot by the sound booth when Wild Nothing took the stage.

This is a band I was turned on to by a new friend last year.

Listening to his album of bedroom pop, I remember being awed at how one guy had created so much sound all by himself.

And now that he was touring, he'd necessarily had to assemble a band around him to recreate what he'd once done solo.

I wasn't even sure how many musicians it would take to do that.

The answer was five (all very young and earnest looking) and the sound was spot-on.

Jack, who was once all of Wild Nothing, acknowledged the show as like a homecoming, since he went to college at Tech and recorded the CD that won my heart there.

Did I mention it was called "Gemini," also this fan's astrological sign?

In fact, his parents were at the show along with other relatives, he said.

From the first guitar strains that proclaimed "I love the '80s" to the final sweaty song, I was thrilled to be as impressed with the sound live as I had been with the record.

My date, who knew nothing of the band, turned to me four songs in and said, "Well, he's certainly done his Cure homework."

And for those of us who loved the Cure the first time around, it was a real pleasure to hear it being reinterpreted by a younger generation.

Another WRIR DJ made his opinion known by pantomiming "83" to indicate the year of the sound we were hearing.

Frankly, I don't care how derivative a band is when they're delivering catchy choruses, longing dreamgaze and jangly guitars with an unabashed nod to their predecessors.

The crowd seemed to agree with me no matter the age, dancing in place and sometimes even singing along to lyrics no doubt learned in their own bedrooms.

By the final sweaty song (the one with the riff reminiscent of Railway Children's "Every Beat of the Heart"), Jack looked justifiably well pleased with himself and his band.

"You could start a Slip 'n Slide with my body," he joked.

By that point, every body in the room had that potential because all the oxygen in the room was long gone and sweat was running down everyone's neck, face and any other exposed body parts.

Perhaps my date put it best.

"You should call your post "Sweating to the Oldies," he cracked.

Considering my penchant for twenty somethings interpreting music I liked the first time around, I'd rather call it "When Bedroom Pop Goes Live."

No, no. Check that.

"When Young Man's Music Made Me Hot." That's it.

By Cock and Pie

"Wait till you see me in my doublet sweating my heiney off."

If that isn't an invitation to experience Shakespeare in the courtyard of Agecroft Hall, I don't know what is.

And it wasn't even said to me, merely overheard.

As if I needed more incentive, it was the closing night of "Merry Wives of Windsor," the weather was decidedly less July-like than usual and a friend had been called a standout in the cast.

We picnicked on the grass behind the grand house, with a view of the James and a series of trains chugging along the riverside.

Members of the company's young troupe, calling themselves Lord Moxley's Players, wandered from picnic to picnic, offering to do monologues.

When it was our turn, I chose Kate from "Taming of the Shrew" and heard Kate lament her fate as Petrucchio's soon-to-be wife.

Waiting in line to enter the courtyard, I spoke with some first-timers to Agecroft and Richmond Shakespeare.

When they asked me where the best place to sit was, I didn't hesitate.

The front row is my favorite because it allows me to see the actors spit, both literally and figuratively.

As proof, spit began flying during the first scene,

That's what I'm talking about.

I spy entertainment in her. She discourses, she carves, she gives the leer of invitation.

Personally, I would be flattered if a man spied entertainment in me.

The story of the large and boastful knight Falstaff wooing two middle-aged wives who in turn trick and degrade him is one of my favorites, mainly for the substance of the characters.

The appetite of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a burning glass!

The role of Falstaff is key to this play and Todd Schall-Vess nailed it, doing buffoonery and humanity equally well.

It's so easy to overdo the role and leave the audience uncaring about Falstaff, but that wasn't the case.

After he is dumped into the river with the laundry and comes out sputtering and sneezing, a tiny fish comes out of his nose (mouth?) as he blusters about such indignities.

Brilliant.

Can I love her? I hope so.

The entire cast was assured, no doubt partly a function of this being the fourth week of production.

Evan Nasteff as the French Dr. Caius managed to be hysterical and dashing at the same time.

Use your art of wooing. Win her to consent to you.

That particular line was followed by a flock of geese flying over Agecroft, honking in the dark blue almost-night sky.

It was a sky that eventually changed over to a moonlit one which we enjoyed from the veranda during intermission.

I assure thee, setting the attractions of my good parts aside, I have no other charms.

Guitar and cello music came courtesy of Matt Treacy, whom I've seen at Richmond Shakespeare's staged readings.

He managed to imbue any kind of scene, comical or fighting, with just the right musical emphasis.

I must advance the colours of my love.

If ever a play focused on the art of wooing, it's this one.

Watching men, young and old, try to win the affection of the objects of their affection (or at least, lust) was probably the equivalent of a chick-flick.

And while I don't go see those, I'd happily watch Shakespeare's characters woo and charm any night of the week.

Sure, partly it's the language ("I rather will suspect the sun of cold than you of wantoness"), but also the humor ("I'll no pullet sperm in my brewage").

And all from the front row where twice actors gazed into my eyes to deliver their lines.

No rom-com at a multi-plex is capable of giving me that distinct pleasure.

Have I lived to stand at the taunt of one who makes fritters of English?

Have I lived to savor a talented cast who woo with language on a moonlit night?

I hope so. After all, there is entertainment to be spied in me.

Get Out Your Peeler

Following the instincts of generations of Richmonders since Byrd saw the bend, I spent a July afternoon on Belle Isle.

With sandwiches from Nick's Market ("You don't want mayo, we don't give you mayo"), half of a perfectly ripe cantaloupe and an enormous bunch of red grapes, we found a shady rock and spread a beach towel.

With the burble of the rushing water nearby, we'd scored a sweet oasis away from the families and hardbodies

We'd purposely waited for late afternoon, knowing it would be easier parking and less competition for good rocks.

The people watching as we ate was superb.

It's a lot like the Folk Festival. Everybody comes to Belle Isle.

There was drama: two hat boys facing off in overly loud and inane obscenities, like "You Church Hill, pregnant f**k-off!" said to a guy.

Physical comedy: the guy walking slowly into the river with a cup of beer in his hand, only to go head over heels in a slippery spot. Bye bye, beer.

Adventure: rafting parties going earnestly by only to take a rock break a few yards ahead.

Curious: two guys walking their bikes through the river's edge, carefully staying in the water.

And heartwarming: a young mom sitting herself down in shallow water with her baby on her lap and doing endless water play to his great delight.

Since I'd been at the Rappahannock just this week and recalled how warm it had been, I was eager to compare the temperature of the James.

Right about the same, which is to say mighty warm.

We moved closer to rushing water, hoping it would be cooler, but mostly it just knocked into us, making us lose our footing.

Current aside, we stayed in for a good long while just enjoying being immersed in the wet.

Meanwhile, the crowds continued to disperse as the sun moved lower.

Eventually I put my shorts back on over my bathing suit and we ambled back over the footbridge, emitting that damp essence of summertime wet bodies.

I got asked about my evening's plans but hadn't decided yet. We'll see, I said.

Coming home, I was greeted by the pile of peaches I'd recently picked, here.

It was like being figuratively hit over the head by the back of my Richmond grandmother's hand (not that she ever did such a thing).

And just like that, instinct kicked in and I peeled off my shorts and began peeling peaches for ice cream.

They were so perfectly ripe that the skins came off almost in one piece, all but begging to be peeled.

It was 7:53 and there was still enough light in in the kitchen window to make peach ice cream.

And people ask me how I can love summer?

Until you've stood in your kitchen making peach ice cream wearing a bathing suit and covered in sticky peaches and cream plus sweat and river water from an afternoon at Belle Isle, you haven't experienced one of a Richmonder's distinct summer pleasures.

Who needs an apron?

And how many generations of Richmond woman have used a warm Saturday evening in July to make peach ice cream?

I think I may have figuratively proved my southern woman chops to my long-gone grandmother today.

But I also happen to think that if she had a choice of feeling boastful about my practicality or having a bowl of my peach ice cream, no one would ever hear about me from her lips.

Never underestimate the power of peach ice cream. Or how much of it will end up on your bathing suit.

Eastward, Ho!

All bases were covered for Memorial Day and all in the east end, it should be noted

First there was the history component which took us down to the river to see the reproductions of the Nina and the Pinta that are here this week.

Floating in the James were the two small, black boats like the ones Columbus used to sail from Spain to this country.

Walking down toward them, the RVA skyline was glistening behind the ropes and lines of the ship.

The view looked like it had been Photo-shopped in.

Shocking was the scale of the Nina which was built for the average male size in 1492, namely 4'8" to 5'3." Even I felt cramped at 5'5".

Honestly, it was a little Alice in Wonderland-like with the low ceilings, short doors and abbreviated sleeping quarters we got to see.

The Pinta was the same as the Nina except at one and a half times the scale, so it seemed less claustrophobic.

One of the guys aboard the Nina scoffed at the over-sized Pinta, saying, "That's why we make fun of them when we're not working. We have fierce Nina pride."

All I can say is you'd have to in order to be willing to be crammed onto such a small boat and sail from port to port like they're doing.

They are on a North American tour, after all. I know; I saw the t-shirts.

But there's more. A sign seeking "Crew Wanted" was very specific.

"If you don't mind working on little sleep, having little privacy, getting some blisters, possibly suffering seasickness, taking orders and sharing in menial tasks, you're our type of candidate."

I accept that I am not.

The best view was from the poop deck of the Pinta where a good breeze and the view from downriver made me forget the cramped heat of the captain's quarters, a veritable sweatbox.

Turns out that they'd even fired the cannon yesterday, bringing scads of local people to their windows and doors to see if the world was coming to an end.

I was sorry to have missed the cannon, but the history nerd part of me was satisfied, so we took off for something more mindless, although certainly holiday-appropriate.

Namely, strawberry picking.

True, I'm not really a hunter/gatherer, but I can play one for an afternoon.

And yes, it's definitely the end of strawberry picking season, but what the hell?

If you can't have fresh-picked strawberries on Memorial Day you may as well hang up your Yankee doodle dandy.

By the time we got to the Berry Patch, it was late in the day and there was only one other person picking.

It didn't matter. One of us had never picked strawberries before and the other was a pro, so as long as we got some berries, everyone would be happy.

The rows were definitely picked over, but with half an eye and a willingness to bend over to find the berries remaining red and plump on the interior of the plants, the pickin's were good.

As we worked our rows to fill a basket, a man started down the driveway and called to us.

"You gotta pick 'em yourself and then you still gotta pay?" he asked incredulously, noting, "I thought they were bigger!"

I could have made a corny joke but didn't. And on some farms they do grow gigantic varieties, but not this place.

Here they grow a smaller, sweeter type (without pesticides, so even better) that take longer to pick but reward with truer strawberry flavor, which I told the guy.

Not persuasively enough apparently, because he eventually left rather than take on the challenge.

What, everyone doesn't want to sweat in the late afternoon sun gathering crops like we did?

The cashier was surprised at how quickly we'd picked almost four pounds and sent us on our way, mentioning that it was the last day for picking there.

Timing is everything, at least in fruit picking and romance.

We made the final stop Osborne boat landing so we could have a waterside picnic.

Settling on a pink spread under the shade of tall trees, we watched boats pass as we dug into roast chicken, legume and olive salad, fruit salad, watermelon (duh, it's Memorial Day) and leftover savory tarts from last night's superb picnic.

After a leisurely repast, we strolled down to the river to see the sunset and the source if all the childish screaming that inevitably accompanies water play.

Sitting on a large piece of driftwood on the sand provided a placid view of the river headed east.

Up on the pier we saw people fishing ("You should see the size of the catfish that guy just caught!" we were told) while we admired the sunset reflecting on the water.

Our final resting place was a bench in a wooded area near the gazebo where a family group had set up their outdoor meal and was now happily splashing in the river, taking turns riding a jet ski.

It was a 21st century Norman Rockwell scene, "Memorial Day in the County."

We headed out, passing Poe's Pub where a sign said, "Sorry, we're open."

Tempting as that was (and it wasn't), we decided to end our day in a most Memorial Day-like fashion.

Warm berries freshly picked were washed and hulled while heavy cream was beaten into submission with a touch of sugar to become whipped cream.

Forget history, watermelon and endless motorcyclists on the road today.

Nothing says summer's practically here like a big bowl of picked strawberries smothered in whipped cream.

I'd even go so far as to say it was as fine a way as any to bring to a close a worthy celebration of Memorial Day.

And definitely worthy of firing a canon.