Tomorrow, More Sun

Winter is on my head, but eternal Spring is in my heart. ~ Victor Hugo

Hello, Winter Solstice. And, may I say, helluva disguise you got there.

When we left for Christmas revelry in NOVA yesterday morning, it was chilly and the sky looked leaden. Driving home last night, it would have been warm enough to open the car windows had the rain not been falling in buckets. Not the transition I expected weather-wise.

Waking up to find that it was already 64 degrees this morning - we should have been suspicious when the heat barely ran all night - meant dressing for my walk with Mac like it was Spring. Or Fall.

But certainly not the Winter Solstice.

I compromised by wearing a thin t-shirt, an even thinner hoodie, my standard athletic skirt/shorts (often referred to by Mr. Wright as my pink tutu) and tights. Mac showed up in leggings, a t-shirt and a jacket, so I immediately began razzing her. A jacket?

For a smart woman, she sure can overdress.

We got two blocks away and I decided to go back for my sun hat because despite a sky full of turbulent and dramatic clouds, it was obvious the sun was trying to come through.

We got four blocks away and paused to tease a friend - the guy who works in the window restoration shop - about not having his garage door rolled up on such a glorious morning. He pointed to the multiple stacks of windows leaning against the door that were preventing opening it, a good reason, if unfortunate for him. I pointed to Mac, overdressed in a jacket, and asked if she could leave it there.

After all, what are friends for?

It was somewhere over on Fourth Street where we spotted the guy in the fur-trimmed, short red skirt (the  kind usually seen on Santa's shapely young elves), black socks and brown shoes, his bald spot a shining circle around which hung limp, gray hair. Very festive.

We got almost to Brown's Island before Mac suggested we walk Belle Isle instead, an idea that had also occurred to me, since we haven't been able to get on the pipeline in what feels like months. Mac said she needed to hear water today and with the James above flood stage, we were guaranteed plenty of roaring river sounds.

Walking across the pedestrian bridge, we got behind a couple of slow-walking guys and Mac asked them how with their much longer legs were they slowing our roll. One claimed he was already short of breath from walking, so just smiled and passed them by. 

On the island, the path was a muddy, puddle-filled mess, but the sounds of a rushing river was just what we wanted after a sweaty walk to get there. I'd long since tied my hoodie around my waist, but if you want to know how hot it was, I stopped in one of the Porta-Potties - holding my breath all the while - and took off my leggings so I'd be cooler.

That's right, I walked bare-legged on this Winter Solstice and I feel fine.

As if we weren't sweaty enough, I caved to Mac and we started home by walking up Brown's island Way, the ridiculously steep hill I usually avoid unless it's night time and I'm at the Folk Fest. But for Mac, I agreed to do it, even if it did mean pit stains to beat the band by the time we made it up to Second Street.

And although we never spotted another fur-trimmed mini-Santa skirt, we passed more than a few people in Santa hats, including one woman we said good morning to who iced us out. As Mac pointed out, if you're going to make the effort to wear a Santa hat, shouldn't you at least return a friendly greeting?

The first thing I did when I got home was open every window in my apartment to let in the sunshine and air far warmer than what my heat pump produces. It's a pain to open storm and regular windows, but there was no way I was going to pass up a chance to air out the place, especially given predicted temperatures in the '40 for the next week.

I know that my least favorite season, Winter, is just starting and there's nothing I can do about that, but I prefer to focus on the fact that starting tomorrow, daylight begins to return. Every day will be a tiny step closer to the weather and seasons that make me happiest.

Truth be told, I feel better already and not just because we're turning the page on losing daylight. Getting to take a sweaty walk bare-legged in shorts today is about the closest thing to a Christmas miracle a heathen like me could hope for.

I've no doubt the guy in the Santa skirt was feeling the same thing. Those of us with Spring in our hearts are so obvious.

Ogle 'Em If You See 'Em

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just not quite as titillating as half-clad guys.

Plan A, Plan B

Let the season begin. I have waded in the James.

Mac and I walked down to Belle Isle and around it, past new steps for the Folk Fest stage, dodging weekday running warriors and bikini-clad students to stake out our claim on a rock and remove our shoes to revel in the impending arrival of summer.

The sparkling blue water wasn't anywhere near as cold as I'd anticipated, while the air didn't have nearly the distinctive briny smell we'd thrilled to when we'd walked the pipeline just last Friday, but so what? Some people were at work on a Monday morning and we were in the river.

Don't drink and drive
Take acid and teleport

Right?

Making our way up the grade toward Oregon Hill, that pithy piece of graffiti greeted us. Mac spotted a cache of new water bottles under the bridge, accompanied by a notebook paper sign inviting sweaty types like us to help ourselves. Hell, yea.

Further up Pine Street, we met Jake the beagle, a spry six year old who'd never been neutered, perhaps accounting for his swaggering attitude. Nothing wrong with a little swagger.

Plenty of it was in evidence tonight when I walked over to Strange Matter for a killer Monday night show of energetic pop-punk with two Seattle bands (one written up in Rolling Stone last week) and two Richmond bands.

Despite a musician friend saying, "People are afraid of a Monday night show," I knew I could count on seeing familiar faces ignoring the day of the week for the quality of the music.

Local but new to me was Atta Girl, succinctly described to me by the shoegaze master as "twee punk," meaning a wholesome looking front woman in a dress snarling over short, fast, loud songs.

For the record, it should be noted that only a twee punk ban would get the show started right on time, at precisely 9 p.m.

Playing out for the first time in ages was Positive No with a new bass player (see: shoegaze wizard) and drummer completing Tracey and Kenny's musical world, a very happy, brightly colored place with stellar music, kind of like their house.

She was especially excited about how many show-goers were wearing bright colors when usually S'Matter is a sea of black. Let's just say I'd known to wear a color like orange.

When Kenny's guitar strap came off mid-high energy song, she managed to reattach it while still singing every word of the song. It's no wonder he loves her.

The first Seattle band was Boyfriends (who claim to worship Freddy Mercury and host frequent nail-painting parties), my main competition in the legs department, since three of the guys wore shorts (the singer's were maybe two inches longer than his over-sized t-shirt) and the fourth guy had donned leopard leggings.

The bass player (who had the shortest shorts) announced, "I love Richmond. Today I found the Hello, Kitty earrings that I've been looking for for six months!"

It may have been Monday night, but of course everyone who'd come out stayed to hear Seattle's finest surf-punk feminist band, Tacocat - who, by the way,  bring their own Tacocat banner complete with a spaceship on it to hang behind the drummer - three women, one man, two brunettes, two blonds, two with blue/green hair, all sweaty as hell on this unseasonably warm April East Coast night they claimed was making them drowsy.

You'd never know it by the way they play their surfy guitars and sing lyrics only a woman would write dressed up in the sparkling pop mode of the Go-Gos, except with blue hair and bras showing.

I'm talking songs like "FDP" about the first day of your period ("Stay away from me!"). How about "Hey, You!" about street harassment? Don't get me started on "Men Explain Things to Me" because they do.

Only a service industry worker could have written "I Hate the Weekend," which lead singer Emily apparently is. When she said the next song was called "Internet," and a guy called out, "What's the Internet?" she retorted immediately, "Trolls!" Asking who in the room had been "teenage horse girls," only three women reluctantly raised their hands.

"Come on, I know you all were," Emily teased.

I wasn't - no, really - but I'm also not afraid of a Monday night show, especially when three of the bands are female-fronted (polka dots abounded) and Boyfriends may as well have been with their fashion style, lipstick and nail polish.

Thank goodness I wasn't shamed, having had the foresight to come home from Belle Isle and paint my toenails silver to kick off the season.

Lamenting her inability to attend tonight's show earlier, a friend had warned me, "Don't tell me how good it is! I love that Tacocat record so damn much."

There is nothing quite like female swagger to the fourth power to kick off a sunny week. Okay, I won't tell you.

Just Like Christmas

Only on a leap year's extra day might I walk outside on a balmy February evening and hear the bells of the ice cream truck on the next block.

If that doesn't scream global warming, I don't know what does.

In between writing sessions, I roped a willing walking partner into doing a seven mile loop with me that took us down to Belle Isle where winter's heavy precipitation left trees with roots exposed and sunning rocks still completely underwater.

We ran into a friend of his out walking his dog and his comment about the weather was the pithiest of the day. "Don't you love this Spring-like weather? Hell, it hasn't been this warm since Christmas Day!"

Hilarious and true.

Starved from all the walking, we lunched mid-afternoon in a restaurant with the door wide open, a warm breeze blowing in and jazz standards playing overhead.

After closeting myself away, albeit with windows wide open, to work for the rest of the daylight hours, or, at least until I heard the ice cream truck, I decided to keep tonight simple with some British humor.

For my evening's entertainment, I'd chosen the play-turned-movie based on mostly true events and starring the inimitable Maggie Smith - incidentally speaking fluid French and playing the piano flawlessly - as "The Lady in the Van," who takes up residence in the driveway of playwright Alan Bennett for 15 years.

Describing her scent as equal parts lavender talc (such an old lady thing), latrine and sherbet lemons, the story of why this reclusive writer with no social life and a fair amount of guilt about not seeing his aging mother more often would allow such a cantankerous and demanding person to take over his property works because every scene with Dame Maggie is like watching a master class in acting.

What she does with one withering look represents a lifetime of acting experience.

Watching the film, which takes place between 1970 and 1989, I was struck by how accepting of this essentially homeless person with a van the middle class London neighborhood was.

Parents and their children deliver Christmas gifts, people bring her fruit and desserts (which she accepts most ungraciously or turns down entirely), everyone accepts that she's taken up residence, even when she surrounds the van with plastic bag full of junk and feces.

It occurred to me that at some point since 1989, we crossed over into the NIMBY zone, as in "not in my backyard" and that few middle-class neighborhoods today would put up with a smelly, unfriendly, mostly alienating and hugely selfish person basically camping out on their street.

Happily, all this transpired in a different world and, luckily for successive generations, it was a writer's driveway she unknowingly sought for her final resting place (if by final you mean a decade and a half) so that the saga could be recorded for the ages.

Or until global warming reaches the heat intensity of the Grippo's barbecue potato chips I was turned on to today, whichever comes first.

Doors Into Summer

I don't know if Art on Wheels did it with me in mind, but it's working out awfully well for me.

Last Tuesday they launched their summer project, "Find Art Doors," a group of 40 salvaged doors that were then painted by local artists and planted in the ground around town to be discovered.

So far, I've come across five, all by well-know and talented artists: Mickael Broth (the guy who did the looming wizard mural at the GRTC depot), Ed Trask (with his signature bird), Jackson Ward native Sir James Thornhill (right on Clay Street, so mere blocks from my house!), Noah Scalin (but of course there's a skull on it) and today's find, Chris Milk (in Oregon Hill, natch, and with his trademark bicycles).

Every time I come upon one, I'm surprised and delighted. I have no intention of looking at a map of where they all are because I want to feel like I stumble on them in a happy accident.

Because I set out to find none of them, I have done exactly what Art on Wheels wants: I'm discovering these works of art on old doors while enjoying my city. With 35 left, I've got some discovering to do, but also plenty of summer to do it in.

I came upon the one today as I was returning from my walk over to Belle Isle, a glorious day to do so given the 77 degree temperatures, low humidity and light breeze.

It was while I was sitting on a sunny rock there, my legs and feet submerged in the burbling water near a rapid, the back of my shorts getting rapidly soaked, that I hear a voice behind me.

"Can we take your picture and ask you a few questions?" a girl standing next to a guy with an actual camera (not cell phone) inquires. "It's for a project for school."

Sure thing.

"What did you have for breakfast?" she asks as the guy begins snapping. Oatmeal with fresh blueberries I tell her. "Mmm, that sounds delicious!" she enthuses. Given that it's high blueberry season, I assure her it was.

"Where do you live?" I tell her Jackson Ward and ask where she lives, Gesturing with her arm in a sweeping gesture, she says she lives everywhere. Not sure how to respond, I tell her she's lucky then.

"You look very happy," she states, which is not a question at all. Splashing my feet in the water, I ask her who wouldn't be happy sitting by the river on a day so gorgeous.

Smiling, she makes my day. "You're going to be my favorite picture."

She's going to be my favorite interviewer.

Lick My Tongue

Ask me for a dark secret and I'll share with the entire room. FYI, I can also stare, get lost and cook.

Walking the pipeline so often, I've seen plenty of people fishing but yesterday was the first day I ever saw men throwing nets. It seemed so, I don't know, European or old-school. Charming and unexpected.

According to the one man staying dry on the sand (as opposed to the two with nets wading crotch-deep in the river in their shorts), the were casting for small perch, although in the 15 or so minutes I watched, they pulled in exactly zero.

Still, it's always cool to see new things happening on the river.

Despite my recent birthday, I am even still at this age navigationally-challenged. Today on my annual trek to Gallmeyer Farms in Henrico, I looked up a new route. Keep it fresh, right?

Instead, I somehow ended up on 895, almost immediately passing over the very road I'd been searching for. After getting off on 295 simply to escape the unknown, I eventually wound my way back to the strawberry farm.

Time eclipsed? Turned out to be a tragic 35 minutes for what should have been a 12-minute drive. It no longer even embarrasses me, it's just who I am.

Coming back from the farm with the box of ripe strawberries perfuming the car, I determined to go back the way I'd intended to come in hopes of seeing where I'd made my mistake. But the failure was technology's, not mine (vindicated!), because the directions had left out a key turn that would have put me on the correct road

Just so you know, this is a very satisfying moment for someone who gets lost as often as I do (such as Tuesday evening leaving Merroir for my parents' house and missing a turn...but I blame the darkness). I hadn't done a thing wrong for a change.

The reason I'd gone for strawberries was partly selfish (they're magical right now) and partly intentional. I was hosting a dinner party tonight and wanted them for dessert, along with the pound cake I'd put in the oven at 11:45 p.m. last night, by the way, the coolest time to bake when you don't use air conditioning.

With clear instructions from one of the guests ("Not gonna lie, I'm not easy to cook for. No meat, no dairy"), I'd chosen Alton Brown's guacamole and someone named Melissa Rubel Jacobson's chipotle shrimp tostada recipes, both of which went over smashingly well. In the process, I went through four avocados, three limes, two colors of tomatoes and onions and most of my cilantro plant.

Given today's heat and the amount of cooking going on in my bite-sized kitchen, I realized late in the game that I should have chilled the metal bowl and beaters before whipping heavy cream for the dessert but managed to achieve stiff peaks even so (culinary aside: the phrase "stiff peaks" ties with "hard ball stage" in candy-making for smuttiest sounding cooking terminology).

Is there anything more May-like than just-picked strawberries and cream? Don't get me wrong, I enjoy pound cake, but it plays second fiddle to berries and mounds of whipped cream this time of year.

On my walk to Belle Isle this morning, I'd noticed that Coalition Comedy was doing a "Dating Game" show tonight and immediately made a mental note. It's true, I remember that cheesy dating show, so I adored the idea of improv comedians riffing on it.

Paying my admission, I heard a woman member of the troupe tell a male one, "Lick my tongue," a proposition which appalled him. "What? No!" he said, backing up. "This is workplace harassment!"

The show hadn't started and already I was laughing.

On the counter was  sign suggesting patrons write an anonymous "deep secret" on a piece of paper for use in the sketch. Example: "I call my Mom when I score." I considered some possibilities and then jotted down a secret.

The name of the dating game was "Secret Suitcase"- "The dating game where two contestants fall in  love by ignoring all the major red flags!" - and the premise was identical to the real "Dating Game" with one lucky contestant and three eligible men or women.

The recorded music resembled the "Jeopardy" theme.

In the first game, it was a cocky plastic surgeon who referred to himself as a "titty doctor" meeting eligible bachelor girls Crystal ("I have a snack meat addiction"), Denise Jr. ("I judge men who don't sleep naked") and Emily ("I used to date Fabio") and having to eliminate one.

In between rounds, our host did half-assed commercials for Samsonite luggage (all the secrets were written on cardboard "suitcases"), saying things like "Samsonite Luggage...leather and so many compartments" and "Samsonite, what else kind of luggage is there?"

Much of the humor came from the inane questions the emcee asked when he put contestants in the "hot spot." Like, if you had to eat someone who was still alive, how would you do it? (Well, I have a robust pinking shears collection so I'd just cut him up...").

After intermission, we had a woman, Kelsey, choosing from three bachelors to pick out the best of true love.  "Look at these three fine, strapping bachelors," the host said.

"I'd do any of them," the giggling Kelsey replied. When one of the bachelors revealed that his member was fake, she dealt with it. "As long as it's a really big fake..."

Another secret read, "I have no idea where my life is going and for the first time, I'm okay with that." One time, a bachelor mentioned the "Kama Sutra" and the host told Kelsey, "I think that's a sex book." Her pause was momentary.

"If it is, I'll start reading!" she gushed.

Once she'd decided on a bachelor and he came out to meet her, they danced together (just like on the TV show) and then the host tossed his index cards of questions up in the air, also like on the show. Somebody had done their cornball homework.

And, as it happens, my deep, dark secret was used in the show, not that anyone but me knew. The woman who'd appropriated it ended up being the bachelor's chosen date. Coincidence?

There must be something to my secrets after all. And, no, I do not call my Mom when I score.

This River is Closed

Magnificent and terrifying, either way you look at it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So. Noisy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hot Fun in the Summertime

Trekking down to the river for the umpteenth time this summer, I already knew I'd end up wet, listening to the rushing water, enjoying the breeze.

Once there and sitting on a rock, legs submerged up to my shorts, the light bulb went off. I'm pulling a Frederick.

I'm dreading summer ending. It's why I'm at the river - different parts, but close enough to hear and experience - almost every day.

One of my all-time favorite children's books was written by Italian artist Leo Lionni and told the story of an eccentric field mouse and his chatty field mice friends.

Other mice industriously spend their summer gathering grain and nuts for winter, but not Frederick.

Oh, no, Frederick has other ideas. He sits on a rock and the other mice chide him for his laziness.

"I do work. I gather sun rays for the cold, dark winter days," he tells them.

Another day, he gathers colors for when winter is gray. Still another he gathers words because winter days are long and gray and he knows they'll run out of things to say.

That's precisely what I'm doing.

My windows have been open since April when I first threw them up (not even closing them while I was at the beach for a week) and since I don't use air conditioning, my electric bills are negligible this time of year.

Fruit ripens practically overnight on my dining room table and conversations waft up from the sidewalk below morning, noon and night.

I hear rain before I see it.

And on these daily walks down to the river, I sit on a rock like Frederick did and absorb the sound of the rapids, of bird calls, of children screaming in delight in the water, of a summer breeze through the trees.

Because one again, summer is flying by and I'm trying with everything I have to store up the warmth of the sun, the bright colors that will soon fade to Fall and the interesting and kind words I get from friends and strangers.

Summertime..and for me, the living just doesn't get any easier or more wonderful than this.

Taking It in Stride

I'm hooked, finding it impossible to resist exploring new river trails now that I've started.

Today I intended to walk the entire Buttermilk Trail on the south side of the river for the first time.

Walking toward the pedestrian bridge to Belle Isle, I found myself behind a woman with a map, which is like catnip to me.

Asking if she was a visitor (Albany, NY), I asked where she was headed and that's when things got good.

"Do you know what Volkssport is?" she asked. Sure don't.

She went on to explain about this international group begun in Germany devoted to the walking lifestyle. What a great phrase!

I've been doing my daily walks since 1998 but I'd never thought of myself as having a walking lifestyle, but of course I do.

She explained that she was doing a 10K walk laid out by Volkssport that would take her by the state capital and end at Legend. Apparently there are capital walks in every state that Volkssporters can get credit for.

"I've done the walks in 45 states, including Alaska, but not Hawaii," she explained to my amazement. "But it's taken me 20 years to do it!"

I was still impressed.

Her advice before we parted was to find the local chapter and join since I clearly had a taste for walking.

Today's was off to a terrific start.

Crossing over the bridge to the southside, I saw people sunning down on the rocks below before I turned onto the shaded path and set out.

It was so different than the North bank trail, more open, mostly graveled and with only intermittent glimpses of the river.

What it did have was frequent points of entry to the water and I saw more than a few people scrambling down rocks and wooded paths toward the river, lunches and towels in hand.

Reedy Creek meadow was breathtaking and had the most charming signs, one of which was almost completely hidden in the plants.

These meadows were planted with wildflowers to feed butterflies, hummingbirds and the inner human heart.

Consider mine fed.

Not sure why, but I was surprised to spot a tucked away picnic pavilion up against some rocks. Further on, I saw one labeled "Boulevard picnic area" and coming back along the rocks, I found one where someone had pitched a tent under the shelter next to the picnic tables.

Probably my favorite thing about the Buttermilk trail was how often I came upon places where moving water was diverted alongside the path from some hidden source hidden in the woods.

Hearing the pleasure squeals of kids in the river and on the rocks made for a fine soundtrack to accompany the rushing water.

Of course I managed to get lost on my way back, winding up down on the rocks under the bridge to Belle Isle instead of up where I could actually cross the bridge back.

But I figured it out by retracing steps and soon started up the ramp to the pedestrian bridge only to find stupidity in action.

Four young guys had decided to climb up an old bridge trestle, walk out on the narrow girder with one foot in front of the other and climb down the angled bridge support.

Walking the pedestrian bridge back over provided a front row seat to how high they were, how narrow the girder and how shallow and rocky the river there would be should they fall.

All along the pedestrian bridge, people stopped to watch the potential train wreck of these four guys.

I saw only one of them make it down safely before taking my clenched stomach and heading away.

Young man idiocy aside, it had been a most satisfying 10K. I'd been clued in to Volkssporting, seen some new river views and had my inner heart fed.

In addiction terms, I'd gotten my fix.

I am Queen of the World

I'm on a river roll.

Thursday morning, I walked down to Brown's Island and along the pipeline walkway, where the river level was noticeably low and entire areas around the pipeline were bone dry.

But the most unusual thing about the pipeline Thursday was that I was the sole person on it. That's never happened before.

Yesterday's light mist seemed like an ideal reason to walk down to the river again, only this time I was headed for Belle Isle.

Instead of my usual route behind Ethyl headquarters, I decided to take the steep Second Street connector, which I now know is officially called Brown's Island Way.

What surprised me was all the construction equipment and personnel grading the hill down to the Belle Isle parking lot. Surely they weren't adding more parking on that slope?

Nope, I asked the man who appeared to be in charge and he said it was for Folk Fest, where the stage will be in the parking lot and the hill will be for the audience. So now I knew.

Crossing the pedestrian bridge, I was greeted by all kinds of new graffiti on the path, including such bon mots as "Carpe diem" and everybody's new favorite, "YOLO."

Believe me, no one is a bigger proponent of "you only live once" than me, although not similarly inclined to scrawl it on park property.

People were scarce on Belle Isle, a shame given how beautiful a day it was, a landscape of silver and green punctuated with scores of birds feeding and frolicking in the river.

Eventually I settled on a rock, umbrella overhead, and within a matter of minutes, three young boys came scampering in front of me, their mother trailing behind and apologizing for them interrupting my quiet time.

I assured her I came to the river for sound, not silence.

The oldest of the boys, maybe 7 or 8 at most, mounted a rock jutting out over rushing water and shouted, "I am the king of the world!" to the river.

Water is power.

The climb back up Brown's Island Way was a calf-buster, but a worthy cap to a beautiful, gray morning.

So today I got up and over breakfast contemplated where I might want to walk today, coming to the conclusion that I wanted to go right back down to Belle Isle.

When I got to the connector, though, the construction site was quiet, the machinery frozen in place like a petrified machinery forest.

I took this as a sign to cut through the enormous dirt hill even though it was cordoned off.

I knew it was steep so I purposely started off slow but I hadn't taken into account yesterday's day and evening-long rain and once lost my footing, almost ending up taking a mud bath on the hill before miraculously righting my uncoordinated self and gingerly finishing the trek down.

Nothing like a little adrenaline rush after breakfast.

Over on the island, I encountered plenty of weekend warriors walking dogs, taking pictures and studying trail charts.

Spotting a guy with a camera way out on a rock with glorious proximity to the rushing water, I climbed out to join him.

Turns out he was positioned to take photos of the kayaks coming down the river so I also got a fabulous view of their arrival in jellybean-bright boats.

They seemed to be a seasoned bunch, making u-turns in the rapids and flipping their kayaks underwater and back up with ease.

Taking their time moving downriver, I followed them, enjoying the fragrant breeze in my face and tempted to shout my own water-inspired proclamation,

Staying on the rocks until I no longer could, I stepped over pools of water in the rocks and eventually climbed back up on the path.

Once I got to the pedestrian bridge, I looked over toward the Civil War P.O.W. sheds only to see a photo shoot going on with a pretty brunette in a red dress posing with her leg in the air.

Just another morning on Belle Isle.

Since I'd just endured the nearly vertical walk up Brown's Island Way yesterday, today I opted to come back through Oregon Hill, passing tourists at the overlook point, a cook taking a cigarette break behind Mama Zu and a yard sale next to Fine Foods (where there is anything but fine food).

Walking up Belvidere, I came upon three young guys panhandling on a corner.

One of the was sitting in the trash can, a goofy straw hat on his head, waving to cars while his buddies held up signs soliciting money.

Spotting me, he grinned and said, "Hi! I'm a real redneck. Can you spare some change?"

Holding up my keys, I said they were all I had with me. Grinning, he held up his hand. "Pretty girl like you? That's worth a high five."

What the hell? I gave him one.

"How about a hug?" he said, throwing his arm around my shoulder to pull me in and knocking his straw hat off in the process.

See what happens when you get pushy? I asked. "It was worth it!" he said, scooping up the hat and putting it back on his head without ever moving out of the trash can.

Just another morning in downtown VCU.

Sliding down mud hills and hugging men in trash cans. You only live once.

Over the Bridge

Carpe diem!

When I wake up to a 73-degree July day and it's overcast, that's reason enough to walk a bridge.

Sure, I've driven over the Lee bridge plenty, even biked it once a few years back, but this morning I wanted to walk it and the cloud cover made the four-mile walk possible.

Of course the bird's eye view of Belle Isle was the reason it held so much appeal, but what I hadn't anticipated was the glimpses into all the wooded areas from above.

Walking south, I took the east side of the bridge, looking down on the rooves of the sheds that housed prisoners of war and, further on, circuitous paths inside a circle of trees, sure I'd never be able to find them once on the ground.

I had known about the train tracks but not the extensive train crossings there on the southside. Walking back on the west side of the bridge, I spotted a woman and her hound on the little bridge that leads from Belle Isle to the southside.

It was much breezier coming back and I paused midway to look down over morning runners on the trails that begin just after the dismount to the pedestrian bridge. I saw a guy setting up two large grills.

Unlike when you're walking the footbridge to Belle Isle and hear the rumble of vehicles on the Lee bridge overhead, I had no sense of the suspended bridge under me as I walked.

A cop was ticketing a guy on the bridge as I walked back and I was appalled to see him on his phone as she explained the ticket to him. I guess some people are just raised by wolves.

At one point, I paused to look back at the island's rocks, the ones so popular for sunning and picnicking, seeing only four people on them despite the beautiful weather.

Surely a few clouds don't outweigh these temperatures, this lack of humidity, people! Or do they for some?

And because I am navigationally challenged, until I saw the ramp under me, I'd had no idea that you could access the Lee Bridge from Oregon Hill without ever getting on Belvidere to do it.

Karen's first Lee bridge walk becomes a teachable moment.

Pipes and Pipelines

Why did it take me so long to break out of my same-old, same-old walking route?

Since it was 55 degrees when I got up today, it only seemed appropriate to head down to the river.

But instead of the route I'd taken Monday to do the same, this time I went down Belvidere to Byrd where I spotted a path alongside the Ethyl headquarters on the hill.

Sure, there was a gate blocking the path, but I also saw a young woman and her dog strolling down there, so at least I'd have company if we got hauled in for trespassing.

As I passed her, she greeted me and gave me a warning. "Be careful further on because my dog went off on the grass and the ground was hollow under him, so he started falling in. Stay on the path."

Will do, I assured her.

I followed it down to the back of Tredegar, unsure where I'd be able to cut back to the sidewalk, and just as I spotted an open gate, I heard bagpipes.

Now that was something I wasn't expecting but what could be lovelier than hearing that distinctive sound carried up on a river breeze?

I followed the music down Fifth Street, crossing the new pedestrian bridge to Brown's Island, which, I learned from reading a sign, now has free wi-fi.

After all, the river and scenery couldn't possibly be interesting enough to occupy visitors to the island, she said, tongue firmly in cheek.

After watching the guy play bagpipes for a while, I turned to cross the island, having just decided I would walk the pipeline trail.

Midway across, I saw a familiar face and then a couple more, all of them out of context.

My music world and my walking world were colliding right there at the riverfront.

It was the prettiest part of the Speckled Bird, Antonia, along with her music-loving parental units and her own progeny, baby Casimir, looking handsome and happy to be out on a beautiful morning.

We discussed the unlikeliness of hearing a bagpiper on our respective walks, but as she, an accordion player, noted, you can't practice bagpipes just anywhere.

I said what had surprised me was that he'd brought them down here on a bike, a risky endeavor I would think given how expensive they are and the possibility, however remote, of a spill.

But when the muse calls...

They were headed off the island as was I, but in opposite directions so I continued on to pick up the path through the woods, finding one section had been toilet-papered for some inconceivable reason, to get to the trail.

There are so many pleasures to walking the pipeline, from the balancing act of walking the uneven cement-covered section to seeing the huge flock of geese sunning on the rocks to the powerful sound of rushing water over falls and rocks.

Sadly, a glance up at the building fronting the river there (Vistas on the James maybe?) revealed not a single window open to that beautiful sound.

If I lived within hearing range of water in motion, you'd better believe I'd have my window open on a 55-degree day.

Of course, there's also a chance that the windows don't open and if that's the case, that's just tragic. Why live on the river if you can't hear or smell it through an open window?

Making a U-turn at the end of the pipeline, I went back the way I'd come and found the bagpiper packing up and mounting his bike.

I'd have liked to have heard more, but since I hadn't expected music at all, I felt fortunate to have heard any.

So many rewards for getting off my own beaten path.

It's About Time

I feel like November Mondays like this are rare.

When I woke up to find it was almost 70 degrees, all my intentions were forgotten.

Errands? Bah! Editorial? Not today. Anything inside? Not happening.

Given how late I got up and how early dusk arrives these days, I figured I had just under five hours to savor the bright blue sky and warm air.

I started out walking toward the river, soon passing a man who looked at my pink shorts and t-shirt and smiled, saying, "You're not going to be able to dress like that much longer."

Sir, I haven't been able to dress like this for weeks.

I followed Second Street to the new connector road and down toward Belle Isle, with crossing the pedestrian bridge the only chilly part of the walk because of the wind sweeping off the river.

A couple of loops around the island and a stroll through downtown and by the time I got back home I'd used up half the daylight left.

I squandered the rest planting pink, purple and white tulip bulbs in my garden and raking and sweeping my handkerchief-sized front yard only to watch more leaves fall as I did so.

Oh, well, this was not about results, just an excuse to be outside where everyone who passed by was smiling and commenting on the weather.

I sat on my balcony and started reading "Diary of a Mad Housewife" in the late afternoon sun.

But once it set, I knew the temperature was heading down into the '30s, a rude and unwelcome change from my day spent in shorts.

Now I was willing to go inside and a movie seemed like just the thing.

I ended up at "About Time," partly because I like British films (that dry humor) and partly because I like Bill Nighy (he can say more with a glance than most actors can say with full-on emoting) and partly because I'd seen the preview and I knew it was one of those films where you feel, rather than think.

And today was a feeling kind of a day.

I got there as the previews began but the projector was stuttering and before long a woman notified the projectionist of the problem.

They said it would take ten minutes to restart the projector, allowing me and the women in my row to talk about all the screwy problems we've experienced at the Bowtie.

One had a horror story of a woman who came in to a movie an hour into it, sat in the back row and proceeded to talk full-voice on her phone, at least until a guy walked up there and told her to knock it off.

I had a similar thing where a guy came in to a movie in progress, sat down in my row with a drink, candy and a large popcorn, consumer it all noisily in about 15 minutes and walked out, leaving his debris scattered around his seat.

My question is, and I put it to the women I was talking to, were these people raised by wolves?

Finally "About Time" began, telling the idyllic story of Tim's childhood being raised in Cornwall, where the family had tea on the beach everyday and family movie night on Fridays outside on the patio year-round.

But now Tim was 21 and moving to the big city to practice law.

The movie was a lot of things - a romance, a family story and even science fiction because it had time travel in it- but I especially enjoyed the parts of the movie set in London.

In one scene, Tim and a friend go to a trendy bar downstairs that is intentionally completely dark.

As in, customers are asked to put their hand on the host's shoulder and he leads them into the dark room where strangers have conversations with each other for hours, just like at a regular bar, except you can't see the person you are flirting with (or kissing) until you leave and go outside.

Then there's the language difference. Dresses are frocks and bangs are fringe.

And less reliance on tradition. The bride wears a red dress and she walks down the aisle to "Il Mondo" by Jimmy Fontana, described by one of the characters as "an Italian singer with what looks like a badger on his head."

Of course there was romance, too, and not just young Tim's, but also his parents, whose devotion and enjoyment of each other was impressive.

When they learn the husband has cancer, the wife says, "I am so uninterested in a life without your father."

Now there's a powerful statement.

The film had a lot to do with do-overs, opportunities to go back and make right what you screwed up in a relationship the first time, only in this case, Tim could time travel to do it.

Oh, if it were only that easy.

But it also concerned time and how we decide to use the time we have and appreciate the moments we're experiencing as they happen.

According to Tim's father, the secret formula for happiness was simple.

Live day by day. Live day by day but notice the good parts of each day. It's the simplicity of the little things that actually matter.

Like walking down to the river. Reading a book and talking about it to someone. Baking cookies at 10:00 at night. Wearing a frock and sporting fringe at the cinema. Feeling happy with what I have.

Shoot, I nailed this formula years ago.

Morning Show

In the interest of keeping myself honest, this post is about nothing more than upholding my resolution to vary my walk route at least weekly.

Today I went back to Belle Isle for a semi-sunny trek around the island, the river sounding even louder than usual, perhaps due to all the recent rain.

The sun brought out the usual joggers but only a few people lounging on the rocks. I hate to think lounging season is over.

Today I also walked out to the head gate to get to the rocks that face southside and found not another soul.

Today's highlights?

A woman with a butterfly net and a determined countenance looking for specimens.

A woman on a unicycle navigating the bumpy and irregular trail by the water.

Best of all, a guy playing guitar on the furthest out rock possible, water rushing all around him. Strumming passionately to the falls.

And to me, although he didn't know it. What a wonderful way to end my walk.

Geese Before Pearls

Resolve and execute, I expected. Sacrifice, not so much.

Once the calendar turned from Summer to Fall, I decided to make a point to vary my daily walk route at least once a week.

One weekday last week, I'd gone down to Belle Isle on one of those surprisingly summer-like October days and enjoyed a couple of loops around the island, passing a surprising number of joggers, mountain bikers and weekday tourists on the rocks.

I'd run into a park employee and asked for the story on the missing quarry pond deck.

According to him it had begun to decay and separate, so they'd taken it down. Happily, he assured me a new one was in the island's future.

Crossing back over the pedestrian bridge, I'd passed a woman in pearls returning from the island.

It struck me as so odd that I told her she was the first pearl-wearer I'd ever seen returning from the rocks and she laughed at the accolade.

All in all, it had been a delightful change from my usual urban walk.

When I woke up today, it was to a much grayer day, but no less appealing for heading to Belle Isle.

As a friend put it, there was a bit of oppressiveness in the air, no doubt the impending effects of Karen.

Once I arrived at the island's parking lot, I was especially glad I'd come today since Folk Fest preparations included a sign saying that starting tomorrow, those who parked in the lot would be towed.

Last chance access.

Not surprisingly, the island had far fewer visitors today, although a higher percentage of Moms with strollers than last week.

On my first loop by the water, I saw a flock of geese standing in the shallows, some on rocks and others with their feet submerged.

There was an occasional honk, but not much more out of them.

After a couple of turns around the island, I walked out on the rocks by the first rapids to enjoy the gusty breezes and cool down.

Before long, I decided to go for it, taking off my shoes and socks, only to catch sight of something white flying by me.

Sure enough, one sock had taken flight and landed in the river well out of reach.

The wind and water were moving so quickly that all I could do was watch it float outward and eventually downward.

Oh, well. I went ahead and put my legs in the water as I'd intended to and admired the geese facing into the wind just as I was.

The way I figure it, the sock was just a sacrifice to the weather goddess.

Walking back across the bridge, it didn't start raining until I stepped off the bridge.

I'm not sure if I had impeccable timing or if goddess Karen was just looking out for her own.

Either way, I'm liking this new walking ritual. Even when it requires a sacrifice.

Spirit Like Water

I found the way to right my equilibrium.

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

An hour. And I hate talking on the phone.

Still not sure how that happened, but grinning nonetheless.

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

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

Good vibrations abounded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sunset on Belle Isle

A regular reader recently told a mutual friend that she's disappointed when she reads one of my posts and finds me "happy and giddy."

Apparently she finds no poignancy in my ramblings when my life is firing on all cylinders.

This brings up a good point.

My blog is a daily writing exercise for me and the fact that anyone at all chooses to read it is a bonus.

That people follow my blog, much less 108 of them, was completely unexpected.

Now I'm wondering if, like her, they were only reading to hear me long for what I wanted.

From where I sat, I'd always thought my blog demonstrated my enthusiasm for whatever life I was leading at any given moment.

When I began this blog back in early 2009, I admit my life was at a low point, with recent losses in job, health and love.

But over the past four and a half years, my life has moved on in many interesting ways and that's what I try to share.

I'm a firm believer in the journey, not the destination, being the purpose and finding satisfaction in whatever life presents me.

I hope there are still readers who find me chronicling my pleasure in the parts of my journey I choose to share worth reading.

And if not, I know there must be plenty of less happy and giddy blogs out there.

I hate to disappoint, but I am who I am.

Poignantly, this post replaces what would have been a happy, giddy post for last night.

Smells Like Birthday Spirit

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

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

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

Honeysuckle and rushing water.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rule of Thumb

A 67 degree day is just what every red-blooded American needs after the gluttony and sloth of yesterday's holiday.

Sure, I know lots of people are busy getting their shop on.

I know because on the way home from my turkey dinner in Maryland last night, we passed a Best Buy and a Walmart and the lines were around the stores at 10:00.

Not me.

Instead, I took advantage of such an unexpectedly beautiful day by grabbing the closest sloth and insisting that we head down to Belle Isle.

Crossing the pedestrian bridge to the island, the river looked a brilliant dark blue.

Scores of birds sat on rocks in the middle of the river, sunning themselves.

In the middle of the bridge, I was brought up short by a tribute of flowers and a picture of the 19-year old who'd fallen to his death there Saturday night.

It was a sobering thing to see on an otherwise perfect afternoon.

Walking around the island, we saw people in jackets and hats while we wore shorts and t-shirts.

Back in college, my best friend and I had a rule of thumb: if it was above 65 degrees, it was warm enough to put on our bathing suits and lay out.

And while I'm not that foolhardy (or eager to tan) anymore, it was plenty warm enough for shorts today.

After our first loop of the island, we took the trail to the bridge that crosses to southside, in search of a new pleasure.

We got it when we decided to return to the island without using the bridge.

Walking rock to rock and frequently changing course when an insurmountable boulder presented itself, we climbed, leaped and dropped until we'd made it back across the river.

Just for the record, it was my first crossing of the James River.

I put a hand in the water to check the temperature (cold but not painfully so) so while I wasn't surprised to see dogs fetching sticks in it, I was surprised to see a woman standing in the river up to her waist.

Down at the quarry, we watched as a young girl, tethered and maybe ten years old, climbed the rock wall fearlessly.

We spotted an artist out on the rocks painting en plein air and climbed down to see what he'd wrought.

A landscape of the shore with yellow-leaved trees, rocks and water sat on his portable easel as he continued to dab at it.

I watched a small rock appear from the end of his paintbrush.

Nearby a group was doing a family portrait with what appeared to be a professional.

The photographer had a light on a tripod set up in the water next to a rock.

In front of that was the Asian family being photographed, including the most adorable triplets, maybe three years old and wearing matching argyle vests as they posed on the rock.

One spotted me, turned away from the group and smiled widely, no doubt happy to ignore the commands of the photographer and just smile at whomever he chose.

Or maybe he was just wishing he'd been allowed to wear shorts, too.

It's all in the rules you make for yourself, Son.

Besides, if not now, when?

Putting my Boots Back On

This indian summer is intoxicating.

It made me forsake my beloved Grace Street for a walk around Belle Isle.

It was a thoroughly unoriginal idea, judging by all the people already there.

My first laugh came courtesy of the couple in front of me as we came off the pedestrian bridge.

"We didn't die. The bridge didn't collapse," the smiling man said reassuringly to his clearly anxious partner.

"We don't know that!" she shrieked. "We still have to get back across it. We'll be safe when we're in the car again!"

Poor thing.

As I headed around the island, I stopped to walk down to the rocks to feel the water temperature.

Cold with a capital "C."

Once I got away from the water, I rounded a bend to find a guy with a camera and a girl pulling up her flounced skirt to put her boots back on.

"There's your movie star turn for the day," he told her as she finished putting herself back together.

When I finished my my first two-mile lap around the island, I took a minute to go check out the new (to me anyway) bike skills area, nicely planted with blooming rosebushes at the entrance.

Lots of people were over there testing the laws of gravity and their bodies' abilities to withstand punishment.

It was on my second trek around the island that a guy on a mountain bike passed me wearing the shirt of the day.

"The liver is evil and must be punished."

No matter what he's guilty of, at least he was out riding by early afternoon, so I prefer not to judge.

After such a fine walk to start the afternoon, I had no intention of spending the rest of it inside.

Instead, I swung by Cameron's for a dozen crabs.

I'd have gotten them from my boys down on Leigh Street except they didn't have the stand set up today.

With the sports and business sections of the Sunday Washington Post, a mallet and beverages, I set out in search of a scenic place worthy of a mid-day crab feast in November.

Osborn Landing Park in the east end won out.

Under a big tree near the water's edge, I set up my crab feast on a picnic table behind the dock.

A couple walked toward the dock, hand in hand, fishing poles in their other hands.

Laughter announced a canopied pontoon boat as it lazed slowly by.

With power boats passing by endlessly, some polite enough to slow down so as not to create a wake and others going so fast the front of the boat was pointing skyward, I worked my way through my bag o' crustaceans.

They weren't big, but most were meaty and as an excellent picker (did I mention my hands were once used in a crab-picking video?) who got the whole dozen for herself, they sure tasted good to me.

I will say it was the first time I found myself spitting shell fragments into a carpet of fallen leaves.

Don't get me wrong. I know there's something weird about that.

But, man, eating crabs waterside on a 75-degree November day is a singular pleasure.

Aren't things like that the random pleasures of the living in the south?

Alrighty then. There's my cheerleader turn for the day.