At Least It Took

Don't lure me to a cemetery with wine and then try to get me to say god. Not happening.

This afternoon was the official unveiling and dedication of the new Daniel Norton grave monument at Shockoe Hill Cemetery. Those not up on their Virginia wine might not recognize the name of the man who discovered Virginia's native grape, but let me assure you, he's a pretty big deal.

As today's speaker acknowledged, other than Chief Justice John Marshall, Dr. Norton is the most important person buried in that cemetery and that's saying something.

None of that was news to me since years ago I'd read Todd Kliman's "The Wild Vine" and learned the story of the doctor-turned-viticulturist and his life-long devotion to the grape that has since carried his name: the Norton.

For that matter, for years now I've made a regular pilgrimage to Shockoe Hill Cemetery for the sole purpose of maintaining the five stones I placed on Norton's original grave marker.

I'd even trekked to Chrysalis Vineyard because it has more acres planted with Norton than any place in the world and an array of wines made with the Norton grape. I know a lot of people find the grape's taste too foxy, but I like what our speaker described as "an American kind of wildness taste" that Norton has.

That's just a long-winded way of saying that I was happy to walk over to the cemetery to witness any and all festivities dedicated to Dr. N.

Walking toward the gravestone, I noticed two things simultaneously: two rifles casually propped against a nearby tree and a swooping trail of large white mushrooms, no doubt the result of those rainy days last week.

Things got started when a four-piece color guard from the General Society of the War of 1812 marched out from behind a tree in lockstep, all carrying flags. That's when they wanted us all to say the pledge of allegiance and while I'm willing to do that, I have never accepted Dwight Eisenhower's decision to insert the words "under god" into the pledge.

Which made me the sole person at the cemetery today with her hand over her heart who also went seamlessly from "one nation" directly to "indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

Sorry, but I fail to see how a country founded on the principles of separation of church and state should require its citizens to acknowledge some crazy Christian's notion of a higher being. Nope.

Shockoe Hill had brought in the big gun to sing the praises of the Norton grape (and the 30-some varieties that grow in Virginia today): Jenni McCloud, owner of Chrysalis.

She talked about how all the Norton grapes in Virginia died out during Prohibition and how Horton Vineyards had been the first to plant it again. How Norton had been trained as a surgeon but followed his passion to become a farmer and viticulturist instead. She even humble bragged that her Norton Locksley Reserve had been rated #2 in the world by an important European wine magazine.

The marker, complete with a bas relief image of the good doctor, was unveiled to oohs and ahs. But the real treat was watching the color guard's rifle salute afterward, marred only when one of the two riflemen found his gun jamming and unable to fire.

To lighten the moment, the head of the color guard observed, "Can you imagine everyone coming at you in battle and you have trouble loading your gun?" Rhetorical question.

Naturally, "Taps" followed, taking me back to summer camp, except then it had been played on a bugle and not a cell phone. But don't get me started.

Tonight's fun was Laura Lee's one year anniversary party for friends and neighbors and held in their about-to-open back garden, which was in full blooming splendor tonight.

As far back as late May, I'd celebrated my birthday and that of a fellow Gemini in Laura Lee's garden, but none of the plantings were nearly as mature then, the strings of lights hadn't been added nor the comfortable furniture brought in. All the pieces were in place tonight to wow.

People had broken up into small groups, so simply moving between groups meant a change in conversations. A woman eating only a bite of spanikopita said that spanikopita was the only food she knew how to make. Another lamented her decision to wear high-heeled pumps. A man blanched at the mention of a $42 steak.

A favorite couple was there and they were just back from eating at Oriole in Chicago, although they'd run out of time to do the Frank Lloyd Wright house and studio. That led to a conversation about Richmond's restaurant scene back in the days when Millie's, Mama Zu and Helen's were as good as it got.

Those who didn't live here then found it tough to fathom that Helen's had ever been a big deal, but I know that it was the first place I was ever served gold leaf on top of a bisque, something that was most definitely not happening anywhere else in Richmond back then.

There was speculation about what's going into the former Kinfolk spot (and who signs a ten-year lease on a restaurant anyhow?), opinion swapping about the swank Brenner Pass, an in-depth analysis of the Roosevelt's burger versus Laura Lee's and a fair amount of trash talk about the Richmond Times Dispatch.

Wine and whiskey punch were laid out for guests to help themselves while appetizers of Mexican street corn, spanikopita, sausages and egg rolls were scooped up to keep pace with the booze.

Being surrounded by so many of Laura Lee's neighbors, I was bound to hear the restaurant's praises sung all night long. Everyone was so grateful that they now have this wonderful place to eat, drink and hang out right in their neighborhood.

I get it. People like to be able to walk to their neighborhood joint and stumble home when necessary.

And while it's not that for me - it's a tad too far to J-Ward - it has turned out to be a terrific place not only to meet up with friends but to meet new people. Repeatedly, in some cases.

You know what they say, as many times as it takes. The rest is easy.

Leaving My Mark

I decided the best way to escape the marathon madness was by visiting the dead.

A temperate and overcast Saturday seemed the ideal time to visit Shockoe Hill cemetery, an easy mile and a half walk from my house.

I've been to Shockoe a couple of times, always on St. Patrick's day for their annual salute to all the Irish buried there, but I had a specific grave site in mind today.

Walking up Hospital Street, I came upon the Hebrew cemetery's gate wide open and since I'd never been through it, decided to change that.

Situated on a hill, it was a garden-style cemetery like Hollywood with big trees and picaresque vistas.

One of the first grave markers I read said, "In memory of Henrietta, consort of Cesar Guggenheimer of Rockbridge, Virginia."

Hmm, consort? Not wife? Is that like friend with benefits?

As I was considering the nature of Cesar and Henrietta's relationship, I heard a nearby train whistle and saw puffs of smoke just beyond the hill.

Up a path to the fence I went to watch a train chug by below as they have probably since Henrietta's time.

I saw a massive tree whose trunk had grown so wide it had grown around half of Elias Markens' grave marker, as if it were about to swallow it.

In the Jewish tradition, many of the grave markers had pebbles and even bits of brick on them to show that someone had visited the grave.

Names rarely seen anymore were everywhere, names like Fanny, Yetta, Hortense and Gussie for women and Heinrich, Adolph and Maier for men.

No doubt part of that was because of their birthplaces - Germany, Bavaria, Prussia.

One thing I was not expecting was a Hebrew Confederate burial site with 30 men in it and many pebbles on the marker.

Each post of the metal fence that surrounded their graves was topped by a metal Confederate cap.

Then I found another non-wife, "In memory of Jessica, consort of John Abrahams, so she might rest in peace."

That last line with the "might" made me think that perhaps theirs wasn't a legal relationship, either. Hmm, perhaps that kind of thing wasn't as unusual back then as we might have thought.

When I went to leave, I looked down and found a brightly-painted pebble, of all the unlikely things. sitting just beyond the gate.

I considered where it would do the most good and ended up putting it on Henrietta's grave since her marker hadn't mentioned everlasting peace so she probably needed it more than Jessica.

My work done there, it was on to Shockoe for the main event, the reason I'd come in the first place.

But first I saw all kinds of heartbreaking markers.

Like the one for a five-year old and her Dad. "Nicholas Caire, born in France 1809. Lost his life in 1850 in the vain attempt to save his daughter from a watery grave. Lenora, born 1845. She sleeps here with him."

I saw a forlorn looking purple balloon lying on the ground next to the grave of Confederate soldier Charles Bell Gibson who died April 23, 1865, two weeks after Lee surrendered.

So he made it through the bloodbath of the war but not much more. Damn.

"William Lowery, eldest son of S.A. Lowery, died May 29, 1880 from injuries received on R & F RR bridge, Richmond." He was thirteen.

Enough of having my heart wrenched reading markers like those.

The next half hour was devoted to finding the grave of Daniel Norton, the local doctor responsible for cultivating Virginia's indigenous grape, the Norton, and namesake of the street a few blocks from my house.

It wasn't easy, but eventually I located the stone slab laid on the ground and covered in wet leaves.

Sacred to the memory of
Daniel Norborne Norton, M.D.
Son of John Hatley Norton of England
and his wife Catherine Bush
of Wincester, Virginia
born in November 1794
Intermarried with Elizabeth Jaquelin Call
and afterwards with Lucy Marshall Fisher
Departed this life the
23rd day of January 1842

At the bottom was inscribed "Bowen, Richmond, Virginia," the source of the chiseled stone, I assumed.

I'd read Todd Klimans' book "The Wild Vine" about this man's unhappy life, I'd visited Chrysalis Vineyards with the largest plantings of Norton in the world, I go by Norton Street on a daily basis and I'd tried Norton every place I'd come across it offered. For years I'd been meaning to come here for this.

And now finally, I was at Dr. Norton's final resting place. Just one more thing.

I cleared off the soggy leaves and went looking for remembrances. After digging through leaves in a corner of the cemetery by the brick wall, I found pebbles embedded in the dirt.

Choosing six of the smoothest I could find, I took them back to Dr. Norton's marker and lined them up above the top line of wording.

You are remembered, old man.

Walking home, I considered my morning with the dead an especially satisfying way to have spent a couple of gray hours.

And for future reference, I'm perfectly okay with consort on my gravestone.