A friend got me thinking about gratitude.
I could tell as we drove to eat that he was down and that a lot of stressful stuff had been going on in his life since we'd last gone out. Bit by bit, he shared as he drove and I listened.
By the time we arrived at the restaurant, he was looking for a reaction from me. I told him that the good news was that all these seemingly negative things were nothing more than a clear indicator that his life was going in new directions.
Yes, I've been called Pollyanna on occasion.
He didn't respond immediately, but later, over our second course, he looked at me and said, "I just need to remember to have gratitude." I agreed.
Then he launched into a story about a woman he frequently sees standing on a corner near his house in Carver staring at the sky, her middle finger extended upward. Is she flipping off passers-by? Examining her digit? Crazy as a loon?
"If nothing else, I need to be grateful I'm not her," he said and that led to a discussion of all the things he has gratitude for, including my friendship.
A former boyfriend used to frequently comment on my equilibrium, once asking if I looked in the mirror every day and said affirming things to myself. Can't say that I do.
But I do have gratitude for whatever life I'm living at any given time. This week, I'm oozing gratitude for no longer being in the grip of food poisoning and its lingering (and challenging) aftereffects. Spring's arrival means I'm also grateful that I no longer need to pay for heat or wear a sweater all day.
By the time we left the restaurant, I could tell his mood had improved significantly and not just because we'd eaten ourselves into a stupor.
He was headed out to Blacksburg for work tonight while my destination was going to be the Valentine Museum for this month's Community Conversation.
After parking my car, I headed to the kiosk to buy some parking time when I heard a voice across the street calling out, "Miss! Miss in the green skirt!"
The Valentine parking attendant across the street was telling me not to bother paying for parking since restrictions ended in ten minutes. Unsure about risking a ticket, I paused. What if the traffic gestapo was just evil enough to show up in the waning minutes and leave me a citation?
"I'll throw myself across your car and stop them." Good enough.
Inside was a smaller crowd than usual for tonight's discussion of Carver, a neighborhood that interests me because it's adjacent to Jackson Ward. What I love about these events is not only seeing old photos from the Valentine's collection, but hearing from locals and experts about the 'hood.
For instance, Carver was called Sheep Hill for over a century. Only in 1948 when they built Carver School did they change the name. And, while the former name sounds sylvan, it's actually a nod to the sheep that were herded along Leigh Street to a nearby Brook Road slaughterhouse.
Not nearly as bucolic, eh?
Unlike my beloved J-Ward which was always a mix of business and residential, Carver always had industry in the mix with furniture factories and shopping cart makers.
Because I walk through Carver so often on my daily march or even to the grocery store, it's an area I know well, alleys, side streets and all, so seeing images of it 70 or 100 years ago was eye-opening.
Some of the most fascinating photos we saw were of the extension of Belvidere Street over I-95. That construction apparently took out a police station at Belvidere and Marshall as well as a local bakery. The Home Brewing building was where Richbrau beer was originally brewed. Who knew?
The odd little houses I'd seen on Catherine Street turned out to be prototype "Carver Houses," small-scale dwellings designed to get people out of dilapidated 19th century shacks and into something "modern."
As always happens with these events, part of the time is devoted to determining the demographic in the room so we use small devices to answer questions about age, sex and domicile. Tonight, one of the questions was about how we felt about Duke winning.
I was part of the 33% who responded with, "What did they win?"
When we broke into small groups to discuss our memories and vision for Carver, I was fortunate enough to wind up with a 27-year resident, an 8-month resident two years out of VCU and the woman who does the Carver walking tour for the Valentine.
It wound up being a discussion of Carver's evolution with so many VCU students now living there. I mentioned having seen drunk kids on many a weekend night there, a fact which appalled the Museum District resident in our group.
He couldn't understand how underage kids had access to alcohol but the recent graduate explained just how easy that was accomplished. "Well, it doesn't sound like Carver is anyplace I want to go if there are drunk kids walking the streets at night," he sputtered. Okay, so don't go.
A longtime Carver resident looked at him and asked rhetorically, "Didn't you get drunk when you were a student?" and Mr. Indignant said an emphatic "no!"
Some of the most enlightening information came via the researcher who explained that Carver's population had more than doubled between 2000 and 2010 from 1000 residents to 2100.
Most interesting about that was that although the perception is that it's whites who've replaced blacks, in truth both the black and white population have grown as well as the Asian and Hispanic. So it's just more diverse in general.
Tonight's speaker was a 24-year Carver resident and city planner who took us through the evolution of the neighborhood as he'd experienced it.
In the '90s, he said it was "sort of okay" during the day and "dodgy" at night. Lots of drug dealing and prostitution.
He recalled hearing the new bells at Cathedral of the Sacred Heart and going outside for a better listen. There he spotted some bills on the ground and came up with $440. He checked and it didn't belong to his neighbors, so while he wasn't comfortable spending someone else's money, he put it in the bank and spent his other money. True story.
I'd always wondered why there were two power stations in Carver, one right on Clay next to houses and another by the school. He said nobody objected to putting them in black neighborhoods back then.
"On the other hand, we never lose power in Carver," he quipped.
We heard about how at one time VCU was considering putting the school of social work at Belvidere and Broad but then-president Trani thought it was too remote to make students go that far. Hell, now it's student housing.
Another juicy tidbit was that a VCU/Carver partnership had been formed and the school had promised not to expand north of Marshall without the invitation of Carver's group. Of course that didn't stop private development geared at students north of Marshall.
I couldn't have been more surprised that Carver had approved that basketball training facility they're now constructing on Marshall.
But for every sad tale, he had a good one. "The Lowe's replaced the saddest A & P in America," he recalled. I never saw the A & P, but everyone in the city uses that Lowe's.
He concluded by saying that there was nowhere else in the city he'd want to live, a sentiment I can relate to since I can't imagine living anywhere but Jackson Ward. That's part of that gratitude thing, finding where you belong and being okay with it.
Because no matter where that might be, sometimes you just need to realize that in the grand scheme of things, at least you're not that person on the corner giving the finger to the world.
Or if you are, be grateful it makes you happy.
Showing posts with label carver. Show all posts
Showing posts with label carver. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
The King's Ears
It is indeed a proud moment for beaglekind (anybody got a tissue?).
This morning, I awoke to an e-mail from a fellow dog-lover alerting me to the fact that a beagle, Miss P, had won the Westmintser Dog Show. A beagle!
Although my beloved beagle Sparky has been gone nearly five years, the fifteen years I had him were enough to convince me that I could never love another breed like I do a beagle. There's a reason Charles Schulz made Snoopy a beagle.
It's not just their ceaseless quest for food (a trait I can relate to) or their reliably sunny personalities (I aspire to the same), it's that face, those ears, that upright tail. In one of the photos of Miss P, her ears are flared back in that adorable way that says, "I'm a beagle and I'm on the move!"
And yet, the article had said that the crowd at Westminster had let out a collective audible gasp when Miss P won. No one expects a lowly beagle to take top prize apparently. Except beagle lovers.
In related news, as I was coming back from my walk today through Carver, I spotted a guy atop a snowy hill lowering himself down on to an orange saucer. Cradled in his arm was his little one while a woman stood at the base of the hill, camera at the ready.
As they started to sled down the hill, I heard a squeal of delight from the little one. When they got to the bottom, he unfolded his arms and a little beagle puppy scampered out.
I was across the slushy, snow-covered street in seconds to meet the 3-month old cutie pie who'd just had his first sled ride. I'd gotten Sparky when he was 9 months old, so I'd never known him this petite.
Figuring they'd be of the same opinion as me about Westminster, I commented about it, saying how pleasantly surprised I was that a beagle won.
"Come on, that was a good looking dog!" he said in a tone that said he was clearly stating the obvious, although nothing I didn't already know.
Even Shakespeare knew. She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me.
Interestingly enough, the only person in my entire Facebook feed who posted anything about the dog show is a favorite server and all around handsome man who, yes, has a charming beagle I've met several times. He gets it.
Beagle lovers are probably the only ones not surprised at Miss P's victory. Personally, I feel certain Sparky would have approved.
This morning, I awoke to an e-mail from a fellow dog-lover alerting me to the fact that a beagle, Miss P, had won the Westmintser Dog Show. A beagle!
Although my beloved beagle Sparky has been gone nearly five years, the fifteen years I had him were enough to convince me that I could never love another breed like I do a beagle. There's a reason Charles Schulz made Snoopy a beagle.
It's not just their ceaseless quest for food (a trait I can relate to) or their reliably sunny personalities (I aspire to the same), it's that face, those ears, that upright tail. In one of the photos of Miss P, her ears are flared back in that adorable way that says, "I'm a beagle and I'm on the move!"
And yet, the article had said that the crowd at Westminster had let out a collective audible gasp when Miss P won. No one expects a lowly beagle to take top prize apparently. Except beagle lovers.
In related news, as I was coming back from my walk today through Carver, I spotted a guy atop a snowy hill lowering himself down on to an orange saucer. Cradled in his arm was his little one while a woman stood at the base of the hill, camera at the ready.
As they started to sled down the hill, I heard a squeal of delight from the little one. When they got to the bottom, he unfolded his arms and a little beagle puppy scampered out.
I was across the slushy, snow-covered street in seconds to meet the 3-month old cutie pie who'd just had his first sled ride. I'd gotten Sparky when he was 9 months old, so I'd never known him this petite.
Figuring they'd be of the same opinion as me about Westminster, I commented about it, saying how pleasantly surprised I was that a beagle won.
"Come on, that was a good looking dog!" he said in a tone that said he was clearly stating the obvious, although nothing I didn't already know.
Even Shakespeare knew. She's a beagle, true-bred, and one that adores me.
Interestingly enough, the only person in my entire Facebook feed who posted anything about the dog show is a favorite server and all around handsome man who, yes, has a charming beagle I've met several times. He gets it.
Beagle lovers are probably the only ones not surprised at Miss P's victory. Personally, I feel certain Sparky would have approved.
Monday, July 28, 2014
Glowing in the Southern Summer
A third anniversary may not sound like much, but it is.
I mean, if you make it to the third anniversary of a relationship, you've really accomplished something.
Hell, if you make it to three years, you're ready to move in with that person. Or is that just me?
So how could I not attend Magpie's third anniversary celebration, dubbed "La Urraca," tonight?
I'd been there practically from the beginning - my first visit had been July 30, 2011, here- and no one had wanted a restaurant within walking distance of my house to succeed more than I do.
Correctly expecting a crowd, I arrived early enough to claim my bar stool and settle in for the long haul. Immediately, I ran into a former food writer and local celebrity and we caught up over stories of life as a tall girl and meeting Julia Child. Her, not me, that is.
Then it was time for my evening to begin. I can always count on co-owner Tiffany for groovy wine choices and tonight was no different, with the bio-dynamic Le Chaz Rose winning out as my starter.
I've been to plenty of pop-ups, but you have to give credit to Chef Owen for doing one in his own restaurant. With his usual sense of humor, he'd dubbed it "La Urraca," meaning magpie. Clever.
Before long, familiar faces were everywhere: the birthday boy who's usually behind the bar, the recent transplant I'd met at Amuse's bar, one of the chefs doing the industry takeover tonight, the record store owner just back from tour, the chef and his family, the mixologist and his main squeeze, the long-haired chef I rarely see anymore, the owner in her cute black platform shoes, the pastry chef at one of my favorite restaurants.
Well satisfied with the Latin music (what else?) playing, I eased back on mingling and began diving into the menu.
I'll start with a rhapsody about the braised goat pozole, a symphony of tender meat, tomato broth, hominy, avocado, jalapeno, lime and aioli and a dish with such depth of flavor and beautifully contrasting textures that it deserves to be on the regular menu.
And I'm not just writing that; I went up to the chef and told him myself.
One of the most popular items on the menu was street corn on the cob with butter, cilantro and barbecue spices. One of the bartenders told me he'd suggested calling it "Carver corn" but the chef had nixed that idea pretty quickly.
In what seemed like the blink of an eye, the room was full and it was feeling a little warm in there, even in a nothing of a summer dress and for someone like me who prefers warm to cold.
It's the Magpie glow. I know it well.
I'm not complaining; a Latin pop-up should be warm. I'd worn a hot pink, new-to-me ($3) dress and someone told me on the way to the loo that it was the perfect dress for the occasion.
Of the half dozen tacos available, I decided on three: Chorizo with crisp Yukon Gold potatoes, salsa verde, aioli and pickles; beef tongue with roasted chipotle salsa, charred corn, heirloom cherry tomatoes and radish; and pig's head with shishito pepper, pickled vegetables and mustard aioli.
The birthday boy insisted I try his "southern summer," a margarita with Espolon, Solerno, jalapeno shrub and lime with a pickled watermelon garnish.
The nose was entirely jalapeno but then the tequila kicked in and reminded me that I should be drinking Espolon, so I did.
People kept arriving for their reservations and more than a few people without reservations were turned away due to lack of space, so I appreciated how no one at the bar was made to feel rushed despite the waiting hordes.
It was obvious that the wait staff and kitchen staff were having a ball and, in many ways, it felt more like a party than business as usual, especially for a Monday night.
The foursome next to me inquired as to my later plans, and I turned the tables on them, asking theirs. Seems they were on their way to see Supersuckers at Bandito's while I had RVA Big Band at Balliceaux in my sights.
I couldn't help but enjoy myself when the dimpled woman I'd met at Amuse came around to sit next to me, asking what I was drinking.
When I told her Espolon, she responded, "You are a rock star!"
And while we know that's not true, I very much enjoyed our conversation about such fascinating topics as dark bras under light shirts, loose women and younger men and what we'd change about our behavior if someone else paid all the bills.
Meanwhile, the chef who's moving to Grace Street told me how excited he is to get new equipment and not have to deal with back-breaking steps.
By the time I got ready to leave, no one was waiting for my stool and I made sure to congratulate Chef Own on my way out on his accomplishment.
You never know when you begin something how long it'll last. Some relationships last six dates, others six years. Then there's my parents who've done almost six decades.
I've got my fingers crossed that Magpie will still be serving Carver corn and whatever else for years to come.
Happy anniversary, neighbor. Double or nothing?
I mean, if you make it to the third anniversary of a relationship, you've really accomplished something.
Hell, if you make it to three years, you're ready to move in with that person. Or is that just me?
So how could I not attend Magpie's third anniversary celebration, dubbed "La Urraca," tonight?
I'd been there practically from the beginning - my first visit had been July 30, 2011, here- and no one had wanted a restaurant within walking distance of my house to succeed more than I do.
Correctly expecting a crowd, I arrived early enough to claim my bar stool and settle in for the long haul. Immediately, I ran into a former food writer and local celebrity and we caught up over stories of life as a tall girl and meeting Julia Child. Her, not me, that is.
Then it was time for my evening to begin. I can always count on co-owner Tiffany for groovy wine choices and tonight was no different, with the bio-dynamic Le Chaz Rose winning out as my starter.
I've been to plenty of pop-ups, but you have to give credit to Chef Owen for doing one in his own restaurant. With his usual sense of humor, he'd dubbed it "La Urraca," meaning magpie. Clever.
Before long, familiar faces were everywhere: the birthday boy who's usually behind the bar, the recent transplant I'd met at Amuse's bar, one of the chefs doing the industry takeover tonight, the record store owner just back from tour, the chef and his family, the mixologist and his main squeeze, the long-haired chef I rarely see anymore, the owner in her cute black platform shoes, the pastry chef at one of my favorite restaurants.
Well satisfied with the Latin music (what else?) playing, I eased back on mingling and began diving into the menu.
I'll start with a rhapsody about the braised goat pozole, a symphony of tender meat, tomato broth, hominy, avocado, jalapeno, lime and aioli and a dish with such depth of flavor and beautifully contrasting textures that it deserves to be on the regular menu.
And I'm not just writing that; I went up to the chef and told him myself.
One of the most popular items on the menu was street corn on the cob with butter, cilantro and barbecue spices. One of the bartenders told me he'd suggested calling it "Carver corn" but the chef had nixed that idea pretty quickly.
In what seemed like the blink of an eye, the room was full and it was feeling a little warm in there, even in a nothing of a summer dress and for someone like me who prefers warm to cold.
It's the Magpie glow. I know it well.
I'm not complaining; a Latin pop-up should be warm. I'd worn a hot pink, new-to-me ($3) dress and someone told me on the way to the loo that it was the perfect dress for the occasion.
Of the half dozen tacos available, I decided on three: Chorizo with crisp Yukon Gold potatoes, salsa verde, aioli and pickles; beef tongue with roasted chipotle salsa, charred corn, heirloom cherry tomatoes and radish; and pig's head with shishito pepper, pickled vegetables and mustard aioli.
The birthday boy insisted I try his "southern summer," a margarita with Espolon, Solerno, jalapeno shrub and lime with a pickled watermelon garnish.
The nose was entirely jalapeno but then the tequila kicked in and reminded me that I should be drinking Espolon, so I did.
People kept arriving for their reservations and more than a few people without reservations were turned away due to lack of space, so I appreciated how no one at the bar was made to feel rushed despite the waiting hordes.
It was obvious that the wait staff and kitchen staff were having a ball and, in many ways, it felt more like a party than business as usual, especially for a Monday night.
The foursome next to me inquired as to my later plans, and I turned the tables on them, asking theirs. Seems they were on their way to see Supersuckers at Bandito's while I had RVA Big Band at Balliceaux in my sights.
I couldn't help but enjoy myself when the dimpled woman I'd met at Amuse came around to sit next to me, asking what I was drinking.
When I told her Espolon, she responded, "You are a rock star!"
And while we know that's not true, I very much enjoyed our conversation about such fascinating topics as dark bras under light shirts, loose women and younger men and what we'd change about our behavior if someone else paid all the bills.
Meanwhile, the chef who's moving to Grace Street told me how excited he is to get new equipment and not have to deal with back-breaking steps.
By the time I got ready to leave, no one was waiting for my stool and I made sure to congratulate Chef Own on my way out on his accomplishment.
You never know when you begin something how long it'll last. Some relationships last six dates, others six years. Then there's my parents who've done almost six decades.
I've got my fingers crossed that Magpie will still be serving Carver corn and whatever else for years to come.
Happy anniversary, neighbor. Double or nothing?
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Primary Donut
Good neighbor, good citizen.
My daily walk has taken me right by Sugar Shack Donuts since it was nothing but a scroungy used car corner lot.
I watched daily as it was cleaned up, refitted and then nothing seemed to happen forever.
When I read that today was finally the day, I stuffed money in my bra and headed out to walk, knowing there'd be a treat to pick up along the way.
As I approached, I saw only two vehicles in the parking lot - a Dominion truck and a VCU truck, neither of which looked promising.
But inside, the place was buzzing with people, so apparently like me, they'd walked over.
Score one for my neighborhood donut shop.
The case held a mix of cake and yeast donuts as well as "outcasts," as they call them, like bear claws and other non-donut types.
Sadly, they were already sold out of my favorite, chocolate cake donuts.
Instead I chose a fresh orange zest-iced cake donut to go and asked the girl at the counter what today had been like.
They'd opened at 6 a.m. and long since run out of vegan and gluten-free donuts, not to mention other people's favorites.
Of course, now I have a reason to stop by again soon and see if they've got it.
Further down Leigh Street, I ran into the chef from Magpie, who also had plans to get neighborhood donuts before turning into Carver School to do my duty as a citizen.
Unlike a full election where they're expecting a big turnout, school was still in session with lots of excited children lined up to go to the cafeteria for lunch.
Me, I sailed right into the auditorium with my donut still bagged, stated my name, showed my ID and found out I was only the 47th voter of the morning.
Forty seven!
Considering the polls had opened an hour after Sugar Shack had, I had a feeling that far more people had been there than here.
Sadly.
All I'm saying is, I deserve the orange zest crumbs now on my mouth because I'm also wearing an "I Voted" sticker.
Come on, people, didn't your mother tell you, no donuts unless you vote?
My daily walk has taken me right by Sugar Shack Donuts since it was nothing but a scroungy used car corner lot.
I watched daily as it was cleaned up, refitted and then nothing seemed to happen forever.
When I read that today was finally the day, I stuffed money in my bra and headed out to walk, knowing there'd be a treat to pick up along the way.
As I approached, I saw only two vehicles in the parking lot - a Dominion truck and a VCU truck, neither of which looked promising.
But inside, the place was buzzing with people, so apparently like me, they'd walked over.
Score one for my neighborhood donut shop.
The case held a mix of cake and yeast donuts as well as "outcasts," as they call them, like bear claws and other non-donut types.
Sadly, they were already sold out of my favorite, chocolate cake donuts.
Instead I chose a fresh orange zest-iced cake donut to go and asked the girl at the counter what today had been like.
They'd opened at 6 a.m. and long since run out of vegan and gluten-free donuts, not to mention other people's favorites.
Of course, now I have a reason to stop by again soon and see if they've got it.
Further down Leigh Street, I ran into the chef from Magpie, who also had plans to get neighborhood donuts before turning into Carver School to do my duty as a citizen.
Unlike a full election where they're expecting a big turnout, school was still in session with lots of excited children lined up to go to the cafeteria for lunch.
Me, I sailed right into the auditorium with my donut still bagged, stated my name, showed my ID and found out I was only the 47th voter of the morning.
Forty seven!
Considering the polls had opened an hour after Sugar Shack had, I had a feeling that far more people had been there than here.
Sadly.
All I'm saying is, I deserve the orange zest crumbs now on my mouth because I'm also wearing an "I Voted" sticker.
Come on, people, didn't your mother tell you, no donuts unless you vote?
Saturday, February 16, 2013
The Intimacy of Snow
Snow is the great equalizer.
So when I go outside for my daily walk and find that between the time I looked out the window upstairs and walked down the steps it has begun to snow, I am surprised.
Back up I go to get an umbrella and walk through the swirling flakes.
When I stop at the ATM by the VCU Welcome Center, there is a man already using it.
Suddenly he turns around, grins and says, "You have a friendly face."
Not sure why this matters, I ask.
"I turned around once and saw a 357 Magnum pointed at me," he explained. "I told the guy I was broke, but he patted me and my friend down anyway."
I almost never have cash with me, so I'd always thought my plan would be to claim poverty, which I told him.
"But you're easy on the eyes," he said. "So then you got to worry about what else he might want."
Gulp.
"Be safe!" he said, lumbering off. "Stay warm in the snow!"
Turning back down Broad, I immediately heard what I thought was bucket drummers.
From behind a column came a long-haired guy with snowflakes in his hair grinning and holding a box.
"Got any spare change for a song?" he asked, gesturing at his instrument.
I explained that I was just getting some exercise and hadn't a dime with me.
Since I love an unexpected song, all I could do was apologize.
"You got a great smile," he said, "So you deserve a song anyway."
Next thing I knew he was beatboxing and singing to me as we stood under the shelter of the Welcome Center.
Passing by the bus stop on the next block, a guy smiled and said, "Good morning, pretty lady. How are you doing?"
Quite well, I said.
"You need to get home and out of this snow," he advised.
And miss all this random interaction? Pshaw.
Coming back up Clay Street, I saw an elderly woman who looked like she weighed 90 pounds lugging two enormous bags of groceries.
I approached her and asked if I could carry one if them for her.
She agreed timidly, so I tried chatting her up to make her more comfortable with me.
By the time we got to her house in Carver, I knew she'd raised the children of the Dementi family, living with them and having Thursdays and every other weekend off.
When they grew up, she'd taken a job with another family, but lived in her own home.
"That was much better," she said, smiling. "Now I work in a medical office."
She asked what I thought of the meteor over Russia, a subject which clearly has her concerned.
We discussed the importance of snow in killing off germs that are making so many people sick lately.
When we got to her house, I placed the bag I'd carried on her porch and wished her a good day.
"I so enjoyed talking to you," she said, smiling widely. "Thank you for helping me with my bag."
Waving good-bye just as the snow tapered off, I headed home.
If you're out while it's snowing, you become part of an exclusive club.
My fellow members made it an especially enjoyable club meeting today.
So when I go outside for my daily walk and find that between the time I looked out the window upstairs and walked down the steps it has begun to snow, I am surprised.
Back up I go to get an umbrella and walk through the swirling flakes.
When I stop at the ATM by the VCU Welcome Center, there is a man already using it.
Suddenly he turns around, grins and says, "You have a friendly face."
Not sure why this matters, I ask.
"I turned around once and saw a 357 Magnum pointed at me," he explained. "I told the guy I was broke, but he patted me and my friend down anyway."
I almost never have cash with me, so I'd always thought my plan would be to claim poverty, which I told him.
"But you're easy on the eyes," he said. "So then you got to worry about what else he might want."
Gulp.
"Be safe!" he said, lumbering off. "Stay warm in the snow!"
Turning back down Broad, I immediately heard what I thought was bucket drummers.
From behind a column came a long-haired guy with snowflakes in his hair grinning and holding a box.
"Got any spare change for a song?" he asked, gesturing at his instrument.
I explained that I was just getting some exercise and hadn't a dime with me.
Since I love an unexpected song, all I could do was apologize.
"You got a great smile," he said, "So you deserve a song anyway."
Next thing I knew he was beatboxing and singing to me as we stood under the shelter of the Welcome Center.
Passing by the bus stop on the next block, a guy smiled and said, "Good morning, pretty lady. How are you doing?"
Quite well, I said.
"You need to get home and out of this snow," he advised.
And miss all this random interaction? Pshaw.
Coming back up Clay Street, I saw an elderly woman who looked like she weighed 90 pounds lugging two enormous bags of groceries.
I approached her and asked if I could carry one if them for her.
She agreed timidly, so I tried chatting her up to make her more comfortable with me.
By the time we got to her house in Carver, I knew she'd raised the children of the Dementi family, living with them and having Thursdays and every other weekend off.
When they grew up, she'd taken a job with another family, but lived in her own home.
"That was much better," she said, smiling. "Now I work in a medical office."
She asked what I thought of the meteor over Russia, a subject which clearly has her concerned.
We discussed the importance of snow in killing off germs that are making so many people sick lately.
When we got to her house, I placed the bag I'd carried on her porch and wished her a good day.
"I so enjoyed talking to you," she said, smiling widely. "Thank you for helping me with my bag."
Waving good-bye just as the snow tapered off, I headed home.
If you're out while it's snowing, you become part of an exclusive club.
My fellow members made it an especially enjoyable club meeting today.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
The Clay Street Burden
Our tour guide gave out on Clay Street.
Anyway you look at it, it was an awfully hot day for a walking tour. Our guide said she'd shorten the two-hour walk by half an hour in deference to the heat.
When I was the only person there waiting for the tour to begin, she had even suggested canceling it, but soon more people arrived and she seemed to feel obligated to carry on.
We were touring Carver, the neighborhood adjacent to my beloved Jackson Ward, a neighborhood alternately known as Elba, Sheep Hill and Buchanan Springs.
Settled by Irish (my people), Germans, Jews, Italians and freed blacks, the neighborhood was also home to some enslaved blacks who were loaned out to work the factories and brickyards in Carver.
We admired a couple of Queen Anne houses with their impressive bays and turrets. We saw the old Moore School in front of which Carver Elementary was built; I'd never even noticed it before.
I finally found out where all those mid-century ranchers on Leigh and north of there came from. That's the Hartshorn development, a 1960s HUD project.
Hoe unfortunate that back then it was deemed progress to take down late 19th century homes and replace them with siding-clad one-level boxes.
As well as I know the area, I hadn't known that Leigh and Catherine Streets were primarily for black residents, while Marshall and Clay catered to whites.
There you have it. Without even realizing it, I'm just part of a long Caucasian tradition on Clay Street.
Turns out that it was only in the early twentieth century that Carver and Jackson Ward became predominantly African-American.
No doubt a city ordinance requiring blacks to live north of Broad had a great deal to do with that.
It was when we walked up to Clay Street that our tour guide became over whelmed by the heat and, I guess, the walking.
As she stood there bright red and unable to speak, the group realized that something was wrong, which she finally acknowledged.
A couple of women offered to go get their cars for her. Finally one took the lead decisively, only to turn back to her husband and yell, "Where did we park again? And where are we now?"
As the minutes stretched out waiting for her to come back and rescue our guide, it became clear that she had to be lost somewhere in the adjacent six blocks.
Someone asked her husband if she had a good sense of direction.
"Nope," he said laconically. Oh, good, the rescuer might need her own rescue.
As I stood there thinking how close to home I was (although my car was back at Maggie Walker, where we'd met), another attendee started talking to me about the neighborhood.
He saw it as very sketchy and asked my opinion. I saw him as very West End and unused to city living. Naturally I raved about the area.
Finally the woman returned, screeching up to the sidewalk to pick up the guide and, presumably, her monosyllabic husband.
The last thing our guide told us was that if we ever wanted to do the Carver walking tour again, it was on her.
As the group disbursed, my new friend walked alongside me, peppering me with questions and listening when I pointed out places of note.
And although I'm really good at walking no matter the weather, I'm no tour guide.
But I feel like I have to do my best to convert 'em one person at a time.
Sketchy is in the eye of the beholder.
Anyway you look at it, it was an awfully hot day for a walking tour. Our guide said she'd shorten the two-hour walk by half an hour in deference to the heat.
When I was the only person there waiting for the tour to begin, she had even suggested canceling it, but soon more people arrived and she seemed to feel obligated to carry on.
We were touring Carver, the neighborhood adjacent to my beloved Jackson Ward, a neighborhood alternately known as Elba, Sheep Hill and Buchanan Springs.
Settled by Irish (my people), Germans, Jews, Italians and freed blacks, the neighborhood was also home to some enslaved blacks who were loaned out to work the factories and brickyards in Carver.
We admired a couple of Queen Anne houses with their impressive bays and turrets. We saw the old Moore School in front of which Carver Elementary was built; I'd never even noticed it before.
I finally found out where all those mid-century ranchers on Leigh and north of there came from. That's the Hartshorn development, a 1960s HUD project.
Hoe unfortunate that back then it was deemed progress to take down late 19th century homes and replace them with siding-clad one-level boxes.
As well as I know the area, I hadn't known that Leigh and Catherine Streets were primarily for black residents, while Marshall and Clay catered to whites.
There you have it. Without even realizing it, I'm just part of a long Caucasian tradition on Clay Street.
Turns out that it was only in the early twentieth century that Carver and Jackson Ward became predominantly African-American.
No doubt a city ordinance requiring blacks to live north of Broad had a great deal to do with that.
It was when we walked up to Clay Street that our tour guide became over whelmed by the heat and, I guess, the walking.
As she stood there bright red and unable to speak, the group realized that something was wrong, which she finally acknowledged.
A couple of women offered to go get their cars for her. Finally one took the lead decisively, only to turn back to her husband and yell, "Where did we park again? And where are we now?"
As the minutes stretched out waiting for her to come back and rescue our guide, it became clear that she had to be lost somewhere in the adjacent six blocks.
Someone asked her husband if she had a good sense of direction.
"Nope," he said laconically. Oh, good, the rescuer might need her own rescue.
As I stood there thinking how close to home I was (although my car was back at Maggie Walker, where we'd met), another attendee started talking to me about the neighborhood.
He saw it as very sketchy and asked my opinion. I saw him as very West End and unused to city living. Naturally I raved about the area.
Finally the woman returned, screeching up to the sidewalk to pick up the guide and, presumably, her monosyllabic husband.
The last thing our guide told us was that if we ever wanted to do the Carver walking tour again, it was on her.
As the group disbursed, my new friend walked alongside me, peppering me with questions and listening when I pointed out places of note.
And although I'm really good at walking no matter the weather, I'm no tour guide.
But I feel like I have to do my best to convert 'em one person at a time.
Sketchy is in the eye of the beholder.
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