Time in a Bottle

With only a week left, I needed to get in one more wearing of my white shorts before Labor Day.

That need paired with temperate weather and a constant breeze told me it was a Lilly Pad kind of day.

Not that any sunny day isn't suitable for hanging out at a cinderblock building (incidentally, one with a mural on the back reading, "Having an affair? with an image of a 40s-era couple) next to a boat landing in Varina.

So mid-afternoon, my date and I pulled in behind one of many mammoth trucks and SUVs parked in the lot with boat hitches attached. Judging by the sheer number of them, the river had to be chockablock with boats and jet skis.

Walking into the Lilly Pad, I ran into a guy I hadn't seen in ages, despite knowing him for  20+ years. Saying that he was the last person I expected to see this far out, I looked to his side to see another face from the past, this one from a decade ago.

Grinning at me after hugging and saying hello, he asked, "Am I the second to last person you expected to see out here?"

After introducing my date, we chatted with them for a while. It was their first time at the Pad and they'd liked it, they'd really liked it. Grinning like fools, they were now headed back to the city to see what they could get in to.

We intended to do the same, only on premises.

That required scoring a bottle of wine in an orange beach bucket from the kite enthusiast I know behind the bar ("Don't believe a word they said!" he tells me as if I don't know this) and staking a claim on a patio table that had a generous umbrella.

I thought I was prepared, having brought a hat just in case (didn't need it), but a woman a few tables away had shown up with her own umbrella and a Chinese fan.

She also turned out to be a major Jim Croce fan, so "Bad, Bad Leroy Brown" got her up and dancing (albeit alone) and later, "You Don't Miss Around with Jim" did the same. Strange, I never saw Jim Croce as particularly dancey music until today.

The live music featured Chris Grigg playing guitar and singing a hell of a range of song choices. I mean, how often does a set list range from Kenny Rogers' "Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town" to George Michael's "Father Figure" with a detour of "All Along the Watchtower?"

Only in Varina, folks.

People-watching at the Lilly Pad is always fabulous. Only here do you see people smoking as casually as if it's 1967. One guy lit up a cigar and blew the smoke directly at the people at the next table. Several people lit one cigarette from their last one.

Next to us, two women discussed back when they got their long hair cut into shags and the trauma that caused them. When one said, "Who wears a shag anyway?" I just smiled at her with my shag haircut.

It's the kind of joint where I'm standing in line for the ladies' room and the guy going into the men's room feels my pain, pointing inside it and saying, "Sorry, it's a one-holer."

Over on the side of the patio sits a bar, but not a service bar, just a beat-up old bar where customers can sit and have a place to put their bucket of Buds or rum and Coke. It's Lilly Pad fancy, though, with a bar-shaped canopy over it.

95% of the men on the patio have on black t-shirts of one kind or another. One says, "I love pig butts" and I'm okay with that. Another has a Confederate flag on it, the words, "We the people" and then a passage from the second amendment and I wasn't okay with that.

Over by the wall, a large table is intently listening to their drunk friend blather over the music. "You might make a left turn on Williamsburg Road, but I'll make you turn around!" he crows.

All afternoon, boats of every stripe come and go from the dock, some tying up to come into the Pad and others just heading out on the river. It was the ideal moving visual to complement the sparkling water and soft breeze.

About 6:30, the yellow A & B snack boat pulls in after another successful day hawking chips and candy to boaters.

Guitarist Grigg didn't disappoint when ending his set, first doing Johnny Cash's "Folsom Prison Blues" and then, of all the unlikely choices, "I Will Survive."

I'm telling you, this guy's set pendulum swung wide.

By the time we headed out, the sun was low in the sky and the air was feeling crisp, at least to those of us who prefer summer in our veins. My white shorts felt a tad inadequate come dusk.

Luckily, we didn't have far to go for dinner. Tonight was pizza club at Nota Bene and since we couldn't very well get back to my place without passing the restaurant, it only made sense to stop. That and a favorite wine rep had designed this month's pizza club pie and cocktail.

We'd just claimed stools at the end of the bar when she came over to greet us. The Facebook oracle had told me she'd recently sprained her ankle the last day of her beach vacation, but she was without crutches tonight and hobbling around.

It didn't take long to find out that it was after she'd been experimenting with tonight's pizza club cocktail - gin, Aperol, radler, bitters, lime cordial and basil - that she'd tripped on the steps of the beach house and sprained her ankle.

That's some real dedication to pizza club research right there.

On the owner's recommendation, we began with a salad of roasted local beets, goat cheese, mint, olive oil and lemon so good it had my date recanting his distaste for beets. Holmes had done the same about cauliflower in the same restaurant.

Just as wonderful was a riff on panzanella: a bowl of heirloom cherry and grape tomatoes with basil, pickled red onion, bread and a creamy ball of burrata to take it over the top. Eating all the heirlooms I can right now, I'm all about savoring every last taste of summer before it's gone.

But the main event, the reason for the evening and the creation of the hobbled wine rep was a pizza layered with housemade sausage, rosemary, hot peppers, honey and - be still, my heart - Tallegio.

For the second time in my life, it was left to me to introduce a man of Italian decent to this semi-soft cheese from his motherland. If I were the judgmental type, I'd say some mothers were asleep at the wheel to raise sons with no knowledge of Tallegio.

Everything about the pizza combination worked, from the earthy sausage to the fruity cheese to the heat of the peppers and sweet notes of honey, all on that stellar crust from a wood-burning oven.

And this is why you go to pizza club: it's a tonight-or-never proposition.

The same could be said for white short season. Shags, though, they're timeless.

Company Charm

If you're going to hang out with someone who's still getting his feet wet in the Richmond scene, it only makes sense to offer up a wide variety of experiences.

If you're going to start by going to Garnett's for lunch, go late.

Even on a Sunday afternoon, regulars know that the more traditional lunch hours tend to be the busiest, but when you don't plan to arrive until 1:30ish, you can anticipate soon having the dining room to yourself. Completely.

You can also expect the servers to be gracious enough to tailor the soundtrack to the remaining guests' taste (or, perhaps, era? hmm...) and in this case, the result was vintage soul: Al Green, Marvin Gaye and the like. Whether the wine pours got more generous or they just felt that way because of the wide-ranging conversation, I really can't say.

In any case, it was an ideal setting for a discussion  of how some people can sleep to music or read and watch TV and the consensus, at our table at least, was that music and reading are all-encompassing and not meant to be multi-tasked.

If you're going to leave the city for the Lilly Pad Cafe on an afternoon when the Pinewood Boys are playing, you'd best bring your luck.

We came in from the back door because that's the new entrance now that they've fenced off the outside "patio" - and I use that word loosely because it's really more of a concrete slab - and joined the line at the bar waiting for service.

I couldn't have been more surprised when one of the bartenders recognized me and welcomed me back (we have a guitar player in common) or less surprised when the wine we ordered came straight out of a 1.5 liter bottle of Woodbridge Chardonnay.

Meanwhile, even though the chalkboard behind the bar clearly stated, "No buckets after 4!" I know I saw at least half a dozen fluorescent plastic buckets full of canned beer pushed across the bar and scooped up by thirsty/drunk customers headed outside for music.

It wasn't my first Lilly Pad rodeo or even my first time hearing live music there but never have I seen the place so thoroughly packed, with people occupying every square inch and plenty of them standing around for lack of a place to sit.

That's where the luck comes in and I wasn't shy about scouting for unused chairs at otherwise full tables and dragging them to a shady spot near the stage. Voila! The first time visitor I'd brought along now had a front row seat for the Pinewood Boys and a river view, although, like the musician that he is, he commented on the dobro being played before even noticing the water.

Best of all, there was a stellar breeze and that, combined with our shady spot, made for the best possible introduction for a newbie to a particular kind of Richmond summer pleasure.

I heard my name a second time when a food friend and her husband walked by en route to the bar. When she commented on the large crowd, I said I'd never seen it so crazy, which is how I discovered that they live barely a mile away.

"We don't usually come on Sundays for that reason but it was such a nice day!" she explained. The temptation of the Pad must be mighty when it's so convenient.

Not everyone has all their teeth at the Lilly Pad and the percentage of smokers is unusually high even for tobacco-loving Richmond, but this was the first time I ever saw someone come in with a firearm tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

When the band began playing "Will the Circle Be Unbroken," my musician companion, a pro, remarked that that usually meant it was the last song and I, a Lilly Pad pro, let him know that we should now be alert to the status of the wooden gliders.

Yes, they were both currently occupied, but I knew chances were good a lot of the crowd would head out once the band stopped playing.

The music hadn't been switched over to classic rock radio for more than a handful of songs when I spotted and we scored one of the gliders and made ourselves at home. From there, we had far better views of the incoming and outgoing boat traffic, including the snack boat, its lighted "open" sign still on even once it tied up at the dock.

We watched people arrive in their boats, climb up on the dock to pull on jeans or shorts and t-shirts over their bathing suits (the sign on the door of the Lilly Pad is quite firm: shirts and shoes required for service) and wander over for a beer or a bucket.

Our decision to sit facing west meant we had spectacular sunset views over the river and only after admiring the dramatic sky for a while had the sense to turn around and see the moon making its way up the still-blue sky. Before the sun even fully set, one of the servers stuck his head out of the door and hollered, "Last call!" but we weren't the only ones who stayed put until our glasses were empty.

If you're going to head back to the city for dinner and you're still trying to ensure a memorable experience, My Noodle's dining rooms provides charm few first-timers can resist and food reliably fresh and delicious.

We got the far tiki booth - the one without the curtain for privacy - near the sound system which poured forth two hours worth of gems ranging from Roxy Music to Nirvana unplugged while we devoured dumplings, inhaled entrees and sipped a Rittenhouse Rye cocktail.

If you're going to sum up a 10 1/2 hour Sunday, consider the delight of the first-timer (seemingly extensive), the multiple soundtracks live and recorded (consistently enjoyable) and the number of weapons brandished (zero).

Bonus points awarded for eating the sandwich named after me. A bon vivant always notices.

Won't You Smile a While for Me?

Yesterday's escape to the river was enough to make me forego poetry.

My Tuesday evening plan had been to go to Poetic Principles at the Library of Virginia, an event I always look forward to.

The only problem was that it was still 82 degrees when I got home from my road trip and I couldn't bear the thought of being inside while all that summer-like warmth was still outside.

I laid out a Plan B and my fellow poetry-lover was gracious enough to agree to a change in plans.

The river it was, albeit the James this time, by way of my favorite waterfront stopover, the Lilly Pad. Expecting it to be mobbed on such a gorgeous evening, we found only one large table celebrating a birthday, complete with balloons tied to the chairs.

Inside, we inquired what our choices were in white wine and were told, "I have this Chardonnay," as she hauled out a big 1.5 bottle and looked at us expectantly. Well, if that's what the options are, we'd love two glasses of it.

Looking at the chalkboard menu, I gravitated to the adjective adorned "juicy cheeseburger" and since it was also sushi night, the poet chose a spicy roll to round out our pan Asian-American meal.

Back outside, we headed straight for the coveted glider table closest to the river, aiming for the most distance from the raucous birthday celebrants and the best views of the goings-on near the water.

Boaters were pulling their boats out of the river and a couple of small crafts were still making their way along the dock. On the other side were what looked like a couple of houseboats with the blue light of TV screens glowing from within and the occasional occupant on the upper deck.

It must be an interesting life living on a houseboat. I met a woman a couple of years ago who had a house in Urbanna but chose to live on a houseboat at the end of her dock rather than in the house, which is where she let her guests stay when she had visitors.

Touring the boat with her, I couldn't help but be impressed with what an efficient use of space it was while they still had everything they needed. She was a talented cook who whipped up elaborate meals on the boat every night for her husband after a liberal happy hour on the deck above first. It sounded like a pretty good life to me.

For all I knew, some of those houseboat residents we were looking at were doing the same.

After polishing of the (juicy) cheeseburger and spicy roll, we wasted time gliding in the warm night air and watching new arrivals - a couple who surprisingly chose to eat inside, a biker who arrived on a chopper and then walked around to get feeling back in his legs before going in - help populate the place.

I know it's October, but I was still surprised that more people hadn't been lured down to the river on this beautiful evening like we had.

The only problem with the Lily Pad is how early it closes, so we stopped on the way back to the city for a nightcap at the Checkered Flag, a place I knew I was going to like as soon as I approached the door and could hear the jukebox playing "Me and Mrs. Jones."

Inside, we were welcomed warmly and a couple gave up their stools to go play video bowling so we could sit down.

The bartender, affable, welcoming and attentive, looked pleased as punch when I asked for 1800. "I got a bottle already in the freezer, honey" she said, beaming. After asking us our names, she used them every time she addressed us, as if were old friends.

Turns out her mother owns the bar and it'll become hers in a few more years, something she was clearly looking forward to. So now that we knew her five-year plan, we kind of did qualify as friends. That and when we asked if the kitchen was still open, she went right in the back and perfectly fried up some chicken wings for us.

I was way into the music someone had selected on the jukebox and when it ended, the woman who'd been bowling got up to put more money in, inviting me to join her to make selections while her boyfriend did a quick shot at the bar.

Since it was her money, I didn't want to foist my taste on her, but luckily I didn't have to because she was as big a fan of old-school soul as I am. Between the two of us, we chose Marvin Gay, Four Tops, Bill Withers, Stevie Wonder and a bunch of others.

When I asked her what her first concert had been, she didn't hesitate. "Hall and Oates, Three Rivers Stadium, 1987" and then selected "Sara Smile" from the Hall and Oates offerings on the screen.

Not a personal favorite, but it wasn't my money.

Returning to the bar, we chatted with her and her younger boyfriend who didn't recognize a lot of the old R & B we'd chosen. Technically, she was also too young to recognize it but she said her taste reflected her mother's taste and that her mother had been young.

And by young, she meant fourteen.

When you're told such personal facts as that by a stranger, you just take a sip of your 1800 and smile.

With apologies to the Sundays, poetry was not for me tonight.

Slamming and Hanging

My "real job" days are a distant memory.

It'll be six years in December since I last worked 9 to 5. Granted, I make a third of what I used to make, but the trade off is immeasurable.

A position for which I'd be well-suited recently recently came up and I didn't for a minute consider applying. As a trusted friend put it, why on earth - besides money - would I give up the freedom I have?

Short answer: I wouldn't.

Not when I can have adventures any day, any time I want to. Not when I can pick up and go out of town on a whim. Not when I can stay out as late - or early the next morning - as the fun's still happening.

Thursday's escapades, all focused eastward, began with a drive to Kilmarnock to meet my parents for lunch at Northern Neck Burger Company.

Written on the walls were aphorisms such as, "Every so often, go where you can hear a wooden door slam," which had no attribution.

I pointed out one from Winston Churchill on the wall behind us and Mom read it to Dad as he smiled and nodded in agreement, "The most beautiful voice in the world is that of an educated southern woman."

Mom and I are southern women only by virtue of where we live, both of us having been born in Washington, D.C., a city of, as JFK famously put it, northern charm and southern efficiency.

But we understood the point.

Over decidedly tasty burgers laden with grilled onions, bacon and cheese, they told me the continuing saga of getting their house put back together after a storm in late May sent a massive tree through two stories of it.

Things move slow in these parts.

Kilmarnock is the kind of small town where a man reading the local paper as he eats doesn't throw it away afterwards, he takes it to a couple at a nearby table and offers it to them, saying it's only been read once.

The beautiful weather and low humidity made for glorious road trip weather, never more so than on my maiden voyage crossing the wide bridge near the mouth of the river and so close to the bay that takes me to and from Kilmarnock.

Once back in Richmond, I had just enough time to get cleaned up for a date, which also moved progressively eastward.

There was a Rose and corn fritter pit stop at Lucy's where the always-charming bartender posed philosophical questions about the nature of people in the restaurant industry, pulling in Meyers Briggs and positing that the only difference in front of the house and back of the house is extroversion versus introversion.

As a full on ENFP, I guess that means I'm front of the house material.

From there, we set our sites on Osbourne boat landing and the Lilly Pad for dinner, expecting a crowd given what a beautiful evening it was.

No crowd, but we did find both table gliders occupied so contented ourselves with tumblers of Chardonnay, dumplings and cheeseburgers enjoyed at a table while perusing a map of the Northern Neck to plan an upcoming road trip.

Once sated, we moved over to the swing for a view of the river, the bikers who came in for a bucket of beer and the three very drunk young guys on the nearest glider.

We had the same amiable server we'd had last time and she's a hoot, keeping a cigarette burning just outside the cafe door and taking a drag on it every time she walks out to serve something or pick up dishes.

At one point, she brought the remains of the bottle of wine out, filled our glasses to the brim and left a plastic cup with the last little bit of wine with us.

That's east end service for you.

The little boom box that provides the music outside there was set to K95, meaning all kinds of deplorable modern country music auto-tuned and sounding so generically pop and bland that finally one woman got fed up, walked over and changed the station to classic rock.

Hello Bad Company, Supertramp and Tom Petty, each song already heard hundreds of times in my lifetime.

Still, it beats Florida Georgia Line, or whatever other new country band we'd been subjected to earlier.

But the Lilly Pad only stays open so late (and that's not very late at all: 9ish) so we knew we had to find another fine east end establishment to entertain us.

Enter Bubba's, a place I hadn't been in years, much less for karaoke night which tonight just happened to be.

Could we have been any luckier?

There wasn't much of a crowd, but there were several guys clearly there for the purpose of singing country songs.

One must have had a fear of performing because he'd get up there and turn away from the room and toward the wall to belt it out.

Once everyone got enough liquor in them, some girls got up and began dancing, squatting over a bucket inexplicably placed in the center of the dance floor.

Because it doesn't seem to be possible for me to go to a redneck bar without making friends - although at least no one motorboated me this time - a woman I met in the restroom later approached my date to inform him, "You're a lucky man, you know that?"

Doesn't every girl want her date to think that?

I wasn't surprised when the DJ started playing "Sweet Home Alabama," only the song stopped playing after the first few seconds.

I laughed out loud when the big guy sitting in the bar stool next to me intoned with no irony, "That's a hanging offense in Florida," but fortunately no noose was necessary because the song came back on.

At Bubba's, you don't mess with Skynyrd.

But you do dance. And when the DJ plays a few slow songs late in the evening and I'm dancing with my date, I'm hardly surprised when I see a stranger at the bar giving me a thumbs up and a big grin, for what I'm not sure, but I smile back.

Because, let's face it, when a person can be in a smoky east end dive bar in the wee hours of a weekday night dancing, her life is pretty sweet.

And that's got everything to do with not having a real job and having the time to go hear wooden doors slam any time I care to.

Just call me lucky.

Rock With You

Busy as I can be, it's amazing how much I can enjoy doing nothing.

With the entire day ahead and no real plans, I suggested the Lilly Pad to my lunch date as a way to be outside eating, drinking and enjoying a river view on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

As we pulled up to the big parking lot filled with monster trucks and boat trailers, I spotted an empty glider table but by the time we got over there, a quintet of bikers had staked it out as theirs.

You snooze, you lose.

Fortunately we had hours to wait them out and nothing better to do so our first stop was inside to order a bottle of Douglass Hill Chardonnay, their only white wine offering besides bubbles from the same place, along with a couple of pounds of spiced shrimp.

Right behind us were the fine folks from Anderson's Neck Oyster company ordering the same wine.

The Lilly Pad tends to be more of a beer and mixed drink crowd, so I got the feeling that the Lilly Pad wasn't used to so many people ordering bottles of wine.

Back outside with our pink sand bucket full of ice and wine, we were greeted by a crackly boombox playing Boston and chose a table and umbrella near the glider.

Not to meddle in other people's affairs, but I soon told my date that it was only a matter of time before I'd have to go work on the tuning of that boombox.

A server came out to let us know our shrimp would be up soon and to ask if we wanted melted butter or cocktail sauce. When we both chose the latter, she made a crack about how one of us was skinny so that's why she didn't want butter.

I called out to her to bring me melted butter then. Don't challenge my eating habits, sweetie.

With some nice honeysuckle notes, the wine wasn't half bad and watching the jet skiers, spotting herons and a crane perched at the river's edge and the coming and going of boats of every kind made for easy entertainment while we peeled shrimp and listened to cheesy rock music.

You know I hate my classic rock, but there couldn't have been a more appropriate soundtrack for where we were,so I was happy with it.

It was during a Stevie Nicks' song that I finally got fed up with the snap, crackle and pop of the boombox and put myself in charge to go do some fine tuning. Much better.

Just after my companion went inside for more wine, the bikers decided to head out and I moved in on their glider like a pro. One of the bikers stopped to admire the contraption, noting to his girlfriend, "I could build one of these." I told him my date had uttered the same words an hour earlier.

By the time he returned with a full bucket, I was already rocking back and forth as more bikers arrived.

The Lilly Pad is a casual place and our server had let it be known to everyone outside that she would be off duty soon and once she was, she brought her Coors Light and cigarette over to join us on our glider to chat for a while.

She was a hoot, a blond Highland Springs girl who'd been mostly happily married for 27 years ("Well, it can't be good all the time") but her husband was away working in Kentucky and she was working Sunday at the Pad to help out her sister, one of the regular waitresses, a flaming redhead.

When the occupants of the other glider table got up to leave, she insisted we move to that one because it was right on the river and therefore even more desirable. She'd been unhappy with that table anyway because they'd camped out for hours and spent very little money.

Understandable. She was the boss, so we moved.

While we were closer to the water, that also meant closer to the gas fumes when the boats started up but the breeze was much better and no denying it was a great view. Besides, we'd earned it at that point, having been in residence longer than anyone except the staff.

We watched an interesting looking boat arrive, my date noting its tug-like bow and party boat-like stern, so I dubbed it a mullet boat - business up front and party in back.

It was a colorful crew that got off it, taking the table next to us and getting a bucket of Bud Heavies while engaging us in conversation so we soon knew the boat's story (a steal of a deal) and theirs (raising a granddaughter).

When one in their group put her head down on the table for a wee nap, they had to get going. They were planning to grill hot dogs on the boat and people were getting hungry.

Sit at the Lilly Pad long enough - I think we clocked in at just over four hours -and you're bound to hear some interesting stories.

You may deplete their limited wine inventory, you may be unexpectedly joined by strangers, hell, you may have a guy lick his chops as you pass by on your way to the bathroom, but so what?

From what I know of the Lilly Pad, it can be a good time all the time. Okay, maybe not for 27 years.

Doc Comes Alive

I got my passport stamped in the east end for the fourth time in three days.

Admittedly my day got off to a late start - noon - given that Pru and I had closed down Cullen's Cove last night.

But after a hearty breakfast, a walk and a workout, I was ready for some holiday weekend action. Since a solo cookout seemed pathetic, I decided to make tracks for the Lilly Pad at Osborne boat landing.

It was the ideal distance for a mini road trip with Matt Kearney's "City of Black and White" blasting and the seductive scent of masses of honeysuckle rushing in the open car windows. I passed two little girls with a lemonade stand set up in the median, along with lots of people cutting grass and doing yard work.

The boat landing was buzzing with cars, trailers and boats so I swung around all that and parked by the Lilly Pad where both the double-sided glider tables were in use (no surprise, who would sit at an ordinary table and chairs if a glider table was free?), although one had a sole occupant on it.

Debating whether to ask to join a stranger, I didn't and ordered a barbecued shrimp with bacon and Ranch pita pocket and found a shady table to wait for it.

The river was a popular place today with every kind of boat and lots of jet skis fighting for water space. The piers were lined with fishermen, children being taught the basics and even one guy throwing out nets.

I was pulled out of my water reverie when the guy sitting alone at the glider got up and went inside the cafe. Was he abandoning the glider? Could I snake him while he was inside? What was the etiquette here?

Before I could make my move, a woman came out of the cafe and, beer and cigarette in hand, made a bee line for the glider.

Now look who had been snaked.

Unable to resist, I called out to her that I was just going to grab that glider and she shouted back, "Come on over then."

I sat down across from her and instinctively, we both pushed off at the same moment so the glider began its rhythmic rocking. "Everyone needs one of these in their yard," she pronounced with no argument from me.

And that's how I met Doc, nee Deidre (the name came from the other woman in her mother's hospital room who'd planned to name her baby Deidre until she'd had a boy) and tired of the over-popular at the time nickname DeeDee.

Doc was deeply tanned, skinny and taut because she does construction and gardening work for a living and lives in Carytown with a country house in Dinwiddie.

The first thing she explained to me was that she'd be turning 50 in August and was having her celebration at the Lilly Pad with two bands playing: Nitro and Rough Stuff.

"This is going to be my seat for the party," she said, patting the glider on which she sat. "I'll have my Jello shots right here next to me and the waitress can bring me my beers."

You have to admire a woman with a plan and Doc certainly had one.

I told her my birthday had been yesterday and she cheerfully wished me a happy one. She explained that she liked to stretch her birthdays out for a month, meaning we are kindred souls when it comes to birthdays.

Five minutes later, one of the guys at a nearby table coming back from the cafe with a beer called out happy birthday to me. The Lilly Pad is nothing if not a communal space.

My sandwich arrived with a paltry amount of chips on the plate and the server apologized, saying she'd spilled the plate on the way out but that she'd bring me more chips (a bag was shortly delivered), essential for the proper sandwich to chip ratio. Good girl.

On the plate were two wooden skewers, each with seven barbecued shrimp and two pita halves stuffed with bacon, lettuce, tomato and ranch dressing. I wasted no time in removing the shrimp form the skewers ("They could have taken the tails off," Doc sniffed, but I didn't mind) and stuffing them into the pita halves.

When I mentioned that I hadn't expected bacon, Doc said that it was the smell of cooking bacon that had caused the glider's former occupant to come into the cafe and order a BLT.

I was more brilliant than I knew. My order had not only resulted in a fat and tasty lunch, but delivered the seat I'd been coveting.

As I ate, a couple of boats came up into the boat slip area next to where we were sitting. One was a tiny john boat with a father and young son, a very sweet sight and probably a memory in the making for the toddler and the other was even better.

A canoe had been painted to look like a shark, then outfitted with two flotation devices painted to look like jumping sharks and powered by three colorful sails and a small trolling motor. Someone was not only creative but had a sense of humor.

Before long, Doc headed into the cafe for beer, returning with a yellow, plastic beach bucket filled with ice and Budweisers.

I'd already heard the six top next to us go inside for the same, one guy inquiring of the table first, "We want Bud Heavies, right?"

Doc and I got to blathering and all of a sudden, she commented on the lack of music. I agreed that the music playing inside should have been piped outside, but wasn't.

It didn't matter because Doc pulled her iPhone out of its waistband holster, holding it up and crying, "I've got three Pandora stations!"

Sam Cooke, Joe Bonamassa and classic blues guitarists were the options. In another situation, there were many things I might have said, but I held my tongue. She played one Sam Cooke song and then moved right into Clapton.

That was my signal to ask about her first concert and her story was a doozy.

"Did you ever see Streisand's 'A Star is Born'?" she asked as prelude. Of course I had. "My first concert was Peter Frampton and it was the show they filmed for the scene in 'A Star is Born' where Kris Kristofferson drives his motorcycle off the stage. First we got to see Frampton and then they told us if we stayed, we'd be the extras in a movie so we all stayed."

Naturally, that led to a discussion of how handsome, smart and talented Kristofferson is/was, at least to women of a certain age.

Considering we were strangers, the conversation was far-reaching as she puffed through her pack of Marlboro Golds and downed Buds.

Doc showed me pictures of her one-acre garden in Dinwiddie from last summer, a lush bed of corn, squash, tomatoes, peppers and god knows what else. I saw a shot of the magnificent salt water pool they put in the backyard, agreeing with her disdain for the chemical usage required for fresh water pools.

When the subject of duct tape came up, she referred to it as "love tape." That was one conversational tangent I did not take with Doc.

But over the next few hours we covered such things as the use of credit cards, feminism, sisters (I trumped her two with my five but she has a twin, so she ultimately beat me) and her spirited 74 year old mother who had double knee replacement at the same time and was back doing yoga in a month.

But her favorite story about her Mom involved a trip to Italy where Mom and her sister planned to take a Vespa sightseeing tour. Only problem was you had to take a class and test first. Sis passed no problem, being a motorcycle owner.

Mom, however, didn't. Doc was suspicious because that left Mom to ride on the back of the Vespa of the young, handsome Italian tour guide. "I think she was brilliant!" Doc laughed, cigarette in hand.

We even exchanged work around tips. When she'd pulled out her phone for music, she'd lamented not having her blue tooth speaker and I'd told her how to use a metal bowl for amplification when nothing else was available. "Like my mixing bowl!" she'd squealed with glee.

She shared that she often gets sun spots from so much working outside and her dermatologist had recommended the dandruff shampoo Selsun Blue to remove them. "You just rub it in every day for a few weeks and they blend right in," she said. "Look!" and showed me her nut brown shoulder with no visible sun spots.

Eventually her man and their dog (whom they both referred to as each other's daughter) arrived and joined us, sharing stories about boating parties, helping to build the Lilly Pad and their biker friends, one of whom had introduced them to Blue Ray.

As if on cue, one of those biker friends showed up and joined us on the glider as we all chatted about Nick's Seafood in Yorktown and the antics of VCU students in their neighborhood (a tree limb covered sofa placed in the middle of the street at 5 a.m.) and mine (parties that start at 1 and end at 6 a.m.) until I realized that I probably needed to get going.

"Already?" Doc asked despite the nearly three hours we'd been gliding and chatting. "Keep on enjoying your birthday month!"

Even without Jello shots at my side, Doc, that's a pretty safe bet.