One of the Bohemians

I'd be lying if I said it was only about the opera.

Despite the cultural smorgasbord I call my nightlife, the truth is I've only been to the opera a handful of times. But I also figured that my firmly-established role as a documentary dork would be more than enough to carry me through my lack of deep opera knowledge.

Well, that and the movie started at the right time. That was the real clincher. My goal was to catch a film at Movieland, specifically a film that would end around the time that the fireworks were starting up at the Diamond, practically next door.

Kind of brilliant, right? Or, at least efficient, which is one of my trademarks.

So after perusing the movie offerings for Independence Day, I settled on "Pavarotti," director Ron Howard's ode to the man known as the "King of High Cs." And no, I didn't know that about him before seeing the flick.

Those drenching thunderstorms that arrived as I was getting up from my heat nap afternoon was giving way to evening had me wondering if fireworks were even going to happen, especially after the Flying Squirrels announced a delay of the game start time. The way I figured it, at least I'd get a documentary out of my Fourth of July evening.

It's not like I was going to stay home to celebrate independence. So I drove through massive puddles to Movieland and found a parking space facing the Diamond, just in case because I am nothing if not optimistic.

I could have guessed that the audience would all be in my age bracket and they were, mostly couples. The upside of that was how quietly respectful everyone was during the film, with none of the usual talking and looking at cell phones that seems to be the new movie-going norm.

Because my knowledge of the big man (and opera, in general) was scant, this was the ideal documentary for me because Howard seemed to be making it for non-opera types like me. Why else include a charming scene of Pavarotti soaping up, singing in the shower? Or provide a plot synopsis of the operas he was shown singing?

Opera newbie or not, I loved getting to see all the vintage photographs and performance clips, not to mention the fascinating interviews with his first wife and three daughters and, eventually, the other ridiculously younger woman who became his second wife.

All I can say is, no women age as well as Italian women (that skin! those bones! that style!) so maybe we need to take a lesson from them on lifestyle choices.

Although I vaguely recall the Three Tenors phenomena in the '90s, somehow I had no clue about Pavarotti and Friends, his extensive charity shows with the rock world that lasted over a decade and made Princess Di a close friend and major fan. Seeing him sing with the likes of Bono, Sting and Dolores O'Riordan (RIP) in his hometown of Modena, Italy was pretty cool, even if opera snobs did disdain them.

What shone through the entire film was how robustly the singer lived life, gathering friends wherever he went, schlepping suitcases full of Italian food when he toured and facing stage fright every single time he performed (his standard comment just before taking the stage was always, "I go to die."). And I gotta say, the young Pavarotti was quite good-looking, his smile oozing charisma even as he got old and obese.

Before the film ended, I began hearing the pop-pop-pop of fireworks sounding close enough that they could only be coming from the Diamond. Since I hadn't been sure if they would happen at all, it was a nice surprise, albeit one that I hadn't expected to hear until after the movie ended.

Unfortunately, the Flying Squirrels had decided to postpone the game, which allowed them to start the fireworks at a ridiculously early 8:30, thwarting my plans for a doubleheader.

Which means when I walked out with a new appreciation for Pavarotti's voice and legacy, all was quiet at the Diamond. The only saving grace was the more traditionally-timed fireworks display just starting at the Carillon, so I took the scenic route home hoping to catch what I could of their explosions in the sky.

For the record, I saw no evidence of the rockets red glare you-know-who was talking about, but that could have been because the army was busy celebrating when they took over the airports in, what, 1775 or 1814?

Oh, say, can you see to read a history book, Mr. President? A real patriot would.

Dance Card Filled

Beach vacation over, I have sacrificed two prized possessions to the gods of the ocean.

A towering wave claimed my prescription sunglasses with a smack to the back of my head while my favorite sunhat, that relic of 1998, finally succumbed to years of sun, salt and washings, arriving home a tattered shell of the SPF 100 head covering that has saved my face for two decades. That would be the same chapeau that causes strangers to regularly tell me that they like my hat as I traipse around the streets of Richmond.

A moment of silence, please, for a hat life well lived and traveled. That hat shaded me in places ranging from South Africa to the Loire Valley with a whole lot of seaside locales - Barbados, Bermuda, Pismo Beach - in between. With any luck, a replacement will be ordered post haste to carry me through the next 20 years.

My sunglasses, which had been chosen not because I thought I could pull off aviator frames (I had serious doubts but eventually decided that anyone who lived through the '70s could) but because they were on sale will also need replacing and now I've just got to decide whether the universe was trying to tell me to step away from the aviator frames or just to wear a leash to keep them attached to my big old head.

Those two incidents aside, my beach week finished out in a blur of sunshine, waves and the best possible company once the girlfriends had returned to RVA. In addition to the flowers that had preceded his arrival, my final guest arrived with yet another gift, this one a contribution to my beach reading: "Women Writers of the Beat Era."

I'd like to say I got around to reading it at the beach, but pretty much non-stop conversation and activity ensured that didn't happen. Fortunately, it'll read just as well now that I'm back to real life and fewer distractions.

Water temperatures hovered between 75 and 79 and most afternoons, the surf was so clear we could easily see our shadows on the ocean floor, right through the water, at least when we weren't being knocked down by waves.

Given my lifelong lack of hand/eye coordination, it should also be noted that when I was put to the "catch a football while in the ocean" test, I made a left-handed catch on the first throw. As the Bo Deans would say, ain't that what dreams are made of? At least to this thrower anyway.

Thursday night we devoted to the full moon, sipping Patron and settling in on the porch swing in time to catch the moonrise. In between dancing on the porch to a mash-up of '70s slow jams and pounding surf, we followed the moon's progress from low, small and red to huge, white and overhead, which is where we left it when we finally abandoned our watch.

At dinner Friday (a gorgeous and refreshing gazpacho with lump crab, a Mediterranean platter of bread and 3 kinds of baby carrots with olive tapendade, tzatziki and curry hummus, a crab-stuffed avocado and a Thai chopped salad with peanut dressing followed by German chocolate cake) on the screened porch of the Salt Box Cafe, we were seated across from N.C. restaurateur/chef/author Vivian Howard and four local women who were discussing work/life balance and other hot button estrogen topics before having Vivian sign copies of her first cookbook "Deep Run Roots."

And while I haven't been to her restaurant The Chef and the Farmer in Kinston, Mac has and we've talked about a pilgrimage back at some point. You just don't expect that kind of literary star power at a little soundside restaurant in Colington, N.C.

Saturday was devoted to last day beach pleasures (loss of glasses aside) and the night to a full fireworks display coming from the Avalon Pier area, a bonus considering it was still June, but a fitting sendoff after four practically perfect beach days with himself.

And that's with only having finished one book, an all-time beach low. Everything else about the trip, though? Glasses and hat be damned, easily an all-time beach high.

I'm also thinking of having that football bronzed as a souvenir. Who am I kidding? Like I'm ever going to forget any of this...

Party Like It's 1776

One tenet of a stay-cation is already clear: there will be naps, daily naps.

After Monday's rest period, I suggested a sunset viewing party from Rockett's Landing and made sure we got there in time to nab a table with an umbrella (later arrivals were not so fortunate), the better to perpetually adjust our nest of shade from the waning sun.

I don't mind glowing but full-on sweating detracts from a girl's Hawaiian print sundress.

It's such a picaresque setting that I hesitated when my date inquired about the source of bubbles in the water just across river (no one wants to blurt out "sewage treatment plant," just like no one wants to remind you that the pipeline carries sewage and storm water runoff), although even he had to admit that it interfered in no way with the sunset vibe.

From our perch on high at Conch Republic, we watched crew teams glide by (some with an accompanying coach in a power boat), power boats arrive laden with 20-somethings after a big day on the river and even some sort of law enforcement boat scouting for trouble.

The woman at the table next to us explained away the boat cop's mission, saying,"Anybody knows you store your beer in the woods and just go get it as you need it, not bring it on the boat!" Given my sub-par navigation skills, I think it's safe to say I'd never find that beer again, but that's just me.

We toasted the majesty of the sunset with Vino Verde, sesame-crusted ahi tuna and a salad of blueberries, strawberries, craisins and grape tomatoes over mesclun while people came and went from the balcony around us.

I don't know which of us was more surprised when we realized the sun was serious about setting, but it left us no choice but to acknowledge that more than three hours had gone by in the course of a conversation and the James was now a gunmetal green shade headed to even darker night time hues.

Tuesday kicked off with a trip to Lewis Ginter Botanical Gardens because Carmax was paying for everyone's admission today and why not celebrate independence with lush plantings and benches strategically placed in shaded tree stands?

What I hadn't anticipated was the thousands of other people taking advantage of Carmax's generosity (cops were directing traffic, it was so jammed), but we solved that little problem by always taking the path less crowded and avoiding the child-centric areas where toddler screams reminded passers-by how natural it is for little ones to yell when water is involved (see: ocean).

Since it had been a few years since I was last at the Gardens, I enjoyed every bit of it. The conifer garden, the tree trail, the new floating bridges (what a kick to feel the bridge give as we strode across it), smelling the heirloom varieties in the rose garden, the contemplative Japanese garden.

The line for the butterfly garden extended too far to even consider, but we didn't miss much else. Meanwhile, holiday-appropriate t-shirts abounded.

Red, white and Dude
United States of Awesome
Do you even 'Murica, Bro?

And that doesn't even count the countless flag t-shirts (flags shaped like hearts, stars and stripes on Minnie Mouse's head bow) or red, white and blue ensembles we saw. At least, unlike at the beach, we didn't have to bear witness to flag-motif bikinis and bathing trunks.

Some things you can't ever un-see.

So, you see, we do have something to be grateful for on this, the anniversary of our independence from a country not nearly as fat or stupid as our own.

There may have been a nap again on Tuesday afternoon, but who's counting?

Since it's been two decades since I've been in Richmond for Independence Day, it seemed only right to spend it at Dogwood Dell for explosions in the sky and whatever came with that.

By our hand, that whatever included chicken schwermas from Donor Kebob, fruit and King Family Vineyards Blanc de Blanc snagged on our road trip Sunday. Because bubbly and freedom go hand in hand.

By Dogwood Dell's hand, that whatever was so much more. And I'm not just talking about the aerial show the bats put on at dusk, though I do like to watch.

Selections from red-hot "Hamilton." Byrd manager Todd Schall-Vass movingly read key parts of the Declaration of Independence (and then touched on the document's other "highlights," a thinly-disguised way of pointing out our current leader's shortcomings and failures). The Richmond Concert Band doing all the patriotic songs we used to have to sing in elementary school ("You're a Grand Old Flag," "America the Beautiful," "Battle Hymn of the Republic"). Veterans and military personnel being asked to stand for protracted ovations.

The comic highlight was the woman standing on the pathway in front of us who turned and immediately ran into a toddler, causing her to trip, flip and roll over on the stone path, Meanwhile, the 3-year old who'd caused the spill laughed uproariously, not understanding that the woman had not meant to fall.

But by far, the program was most seductive while the band played "The 1812 Overture" to the night sky, complete with cannons firing and seamlessly seguing into the fireworks display. We watched from our perch near a crepe myrtle tree, enjoying the pyrotechnics between branches while the rolling smoke cloud grew denser and higher.

We were among the leisurely packing up, in no hurry to join the legions of people exiting Byrd Park. Somehow, it then took us 50 minutes to traverse the 2 1/2 miles to my apartment once the outdoor fun concluded.

All I can say is, I'm going to need a nap.

Explosions in the Sky

Some people know how to use their down time better than others.

My partner in crime was off today and I'd cleared the decks so we could do whatever we wanted right up until bedtime. So I sent off my morning ping - Hey, I'm up and about  - and 35 minutes later we're heading off on an epic walk.

Before we even got to the Empire Theater, we'd run into both the tall, handsome one with the aged beagle and strangers at a table in front of Lift with a young beagle with enormous feet sprawled on the pavement.

An auspicious start to any day, if ever there was one.

We hoofed it down to 13th Street to pick up the empty pipeline walkway, where we were greeted by an unusually brown and muddy river but also a view of short kayakers (meaning those with mad kayak skills) attempting to navigate rapids that repeatedly sent them in alternate directions.

From Brown's Island, we headed to Belle Isle to reward ourselves for traipsing through such heat and humidity right after breakfast, roosting on a rock next to an oblivious couple busy looking at their phones while I submerged my bottom half in the river.

There are far worse things (and few better ways to stay cool on the way home) than walking a couple miles home in wet shorts.

Back at home, we changed clothes and went to lunch at the kind of place where ladies lunch (they were, in fact, at the table next to us) and I froze to death due to the excessively chilly temperatures suburbanites seem to require.

Translation: not particularly my kind of place.

Going our separate ways temporarily after lunch, I used the next few hours to scratch things off my to-do list: editing, grocery-shopping, laundry and something so uncharacteristic I dare not speak its name.

Productive, yes. Thrilling? Hardly.

So imagine my surprise when we reconvene later at Amour for tonight's Languedoc-Roussillon wine tasting with small plates, an evening intended to be both informative and delicious. My favorite outdoor shower owner/wine rep greeted me, I kissed the birthday boy on both cheeks and turned to my friend.

I should've been suspicious when I arrived to find her already there - wait, I'm the punctual one - but it wasn't until I saw the grin, no, the smug look on her face, that I found out why.

Afternoon delight, pure and simple.

I can't say a word since I'm the one who talked her into dipping a toe back into the online dating pool, which has already yielded a wildly complimentary admirer who has commented favorably on her backside, the constellation-like grouping of freckles on her back and her in general.

But envious? Yea, I can be that without reservation. And was.

Fortunately, I had the wine tasting to get my mind out of the gutter and back into France. Owner Paul was his usual playful self, pouring two wines to sample for each course without sharing what they were. It was our job to figure that out based on the spiels offered by both him and he who showers under the stars.

We began with two Roses, one from Languedoc and the other from Provence - La Galope and Le Petit Rouviere - and a rumination about the difficulty years ago in convincing American drinkers that true Rose bore no resemblance to the white Zinfandel of the '80s.

No news there for true pink fans.

Paired with the two Roses was a bowl of summer flavors, namely ratatouille that tasted like it had still been in the garden this morning.

"The color of Rose is a fashion thing," Paul shared about the process that determines color, spurring one guest to suggest using red food color instead.

"Not in France!" Paul responded with disdain.

The next course was a surprise one, so not listed in our wine workbooks, contrasting two Chardonnays that paired oh-so nicely with local mushrooms and garlic and spurred a discussion of Chardonnay's rise and fall with the American public.

Recalling a 25-year old bumper sticker, the wine rep shared its message: "Let's take the oak out of the wine and put the fruit back in," it read. No doubt directed at California, not France.

When quizzed about which Chard was from Languedoc and which from Burgundy, all the attendees called it correctly, netting praise from the owner. I couldn't help pointing out that the more we drank, the smarter we were becoming.

"Can I get that on a t-shirt?" the guy at the end of the bar wondered. Rumor has it he also tried to shoot a deer out his sliding glass door in Bon Air, but I can't verify that one way or another.

Seated near us at the bar was a woman who'd come alone but who'd quickly joined our conversation, explaining her job at an IT firm as "herding cats." A former Museum District resident, she now lived in the West End, yet still sought more land around her.

Leaning over, my friend whispered, "It's a shame, she seems like a nice girl and yet she moved out of the city." We just can't figure out come people.

Our handsome wine rep got many laughs explaining the next set of wines - "Paul is such a  great guy, but he's French" - notable because another guest observed, "Now we're in "real" wines," meaning, of course, red wine.

Both Languedoc's Laurent Miquel and Bergerac's Chateau Michel de Montaigne got high points from the group, especially when paired with duck rillettes and duck cracklins.

What was strange was that the woman next to us wasn't eating her food (nor drinking all her wine, not that there's anything wrong with that), making me think she was there more to de-stress than anything else. She had, after all, told us several times how stressful her job was.

She could have benefited from a little afternoon delight herself, although she seemed a bit tightly wound to realize that.

How can someone whose first concert was Jethro Tull and AC/DC at age 10 in Texas be so uptight?

Like us, though, she was thoroughly impressed with both the final Syrahs - Chateau Camplazens and the "nose wine," La Chapelle Saint Arnoux - paired with steak and shallot relish (also not eaten by our seatmate).

By the end of the evening, some of us were smarter about Languedoc's offerings, we'd sung Happy Birthday to Paul and watched him blow out a candle and discussed why dresses are superior to pants on women.

All in all, not a bad night's work.

But not content to finish the night out there, we stopped at the Hofheimer Building  because who can resist an invitation reading, "Come be beautiful and feel the breeze while watching fireworks"?

Not me, apparently, but then I missed the usual Independence Day display because of being in France (I know, boo-hoo) but I also welcome opportunities to attempt beautiful, wherever they arise.

On the loft level, we took advantage of Tidewater Oysters' table, spending five bones a piece to scarf four York oysters each and marveling at how briny they were, surprisingly not far off the salinity of Old Saltes.

Ergo, absolutely delicious.

Crowds were entrenched on the roof, but we had no problem moving around the socializing and flirtation so my constant companion could get her first Hof rooftop views, which,  incidentally, do not surpass Quirk's tree-covered bird's -eye view of Jackson Ward.

Listening to MJ's "Rock with You" and ogling the lights of RVA, we agreed that the breezes were fantastic up there.

As if on cue, the fireworks display at the Diamond began and we found places near the edge with fabulous views.

I'll admit, I was a bit surprised how many people ignored the fireworks entirely (or were oblivious to them), but part of the blame goes to the sheer noise level of conversation and music, which rendered moot the satisfying booms and pops of the fireworks.

In that regard, it was a bit unsatisfying.

Sort of like hearing how your friend used her down time while you were off being boring.

Guts on the Menu

So that was me sipping wine in the cellar of the most important man who was never President.

The John Marshall house was hosting their summer salon and while it hardly felt like summer today, I walk by that house at least once a week so I was intrigued with the idea of being inside.

The enormous magnolia tree in the front yard was in bloom as I checked in on the front porch and walked through the doorway of the longest-serving Chief Justice.

Guides in the rooms shared their wealth of knowledge with us, like the fact that the portrait hanging over the mantle in the front room showed Marshall at 78. Frankly, he didn't look a day over 60 in the painting.

Off the back passage was Marshall's butler Robin's base of operations and our guide told us Robin was responsible for sanding the rough, country boy edges off Marshall.

Seems on one of his trips to Raleigh to hear court, he arrived only to realize he'd forgotten to pack pants. The ones he'd worn on the ride down were too dirty and smelly to wear, he wrote to his beloved wife Polly in a letter, so he'd gone to court with just his judicial robe over his loins.

That's right, John Marshall went commando in court. They should teach fun facts like that in school and kids would be way more into history.

Many of the house's flourishes were done for the benefit of Polly, an upper crust girl Marshall fell hard for early. Meaning he was doodling his name and hers in the margins of his law books when he was at William & Mary.

I'm quite sure my name has never been doodled anywhere.

Downstairs in the cellar/gift shop, I looked at a notebook of old photographs of the house, including those from the period when John Marshall high school was built completely around Marshall's house, something I hadn't known.

The school was built within inches of the home on three sides, almost engulfing it, meaning they knocked down outbuildings like the kitchen and smokehouse, a real shame.

Down there were wine and appetizers and people mingling, but I was more interested in the dugout area that houses barrels (wine? ale?) as it must have in his day.

The garden out back was charming, a cottage mixture of flowers and herbs, and looking particularly lush on a misty evening. It wasn't hard to imagine Polly and John sitting out there at night enjoying the air together.

I was asked on the way out if I worked in the neighborhood and made sure they knew that I was a proud J-Ward resident, mere blocks away from all that history. I might have even mentioned living in an 1876 house, not that it compares to Mr. Marshall's 1790 gem.

My inner history nerd happy, my hired mouth and I hurriedly went to dinner so I could make a late movie date with Pru.

First we spent time at her place where she gave me a mini technology lesson and then we set out for Movieland in the mist.

Showing tonight was "Chef" and what food-loving restaurant regular wouldn't be curious about a film focusing on a larger than life chef who refuses to cede creative control to an owner who expects him to serve molten chocolate lava cake?

As any foodie can tell you, that's emasculation of the highest order.

What I liked about the movie was that it was part travelogue with postcard-worthy scenes set in Miami, New Orleans and Austin. Scenes of prep and cooking, shot from every angle, were food porn of the highest order.

Music was practically a character in the film, including a scene of Gary Clark, Jr. playing live and a sensational cover of (and singalong to) "Sexual Healing" by the Hot 8 Brass Band.

Being the Luddite that I am, I also got a major kick out of a chef who did not use Twitter until his kid taught him how.

There was even the realism of cleaning a kitchen, hardly sexy but oh-so realistic.

And perhaps most importantly of all, the chef, played by director Jon Favreau, looked like a chef, not like a chiseled, buff actor. Because let's face it, who trusts a skinny chef?

Granted there were some moments of pure movie ridiculousness. Am I really supposed to believe that an owner could be so obtuse as to insist on serving the exact same meal to a critic who had panned the same food the night before?

Or that a blogger turned food critic could sell his website and make enough money to finance a restaurant in Miami?

But those are quibbles and for the most part, the film was about regaining your passion for what you do.

And the moral was as obvious as the nose on my face, something I have been told by more than one chef over the years.

There is nothing quite like a good sandwich. Ask anyone who has his own knives.

Random Access Memories

You never know how you'll be remembered.

I've long said that when all the people who've known and loved me get together at my wake, it's going to be a rude awakening for many of them.

People who think they know all about me are almost certainly going to be shocked/mortified/ surprised/confused/unclear when everyone starts talking to each other

If only someone could film the stories they'll tell about me.

This occurs to me now because tonight I went to see a documentary called "Stories We Tell" at Movieland about a woman who interviewed her family, friends and others who knew her mother, Diane, before she died.

Over the course of the film, we hear from her children of multiple relationships.

In one of my favorite aspects of the documentary, we see old home movies showing the mom as a whirling dervish fixed at the center of everything, always smiling, laughing and moving.

Because she did some local acting, we also hear from people she knew in the theater world.

There's even reenactment footage of significant events in the mother's life.

What gradually comes together is a story of a woman who paid an incredibly high (and public) price when her first marriage ended.

A woman who then met a fellow actor, fell in love with the character he was playing, married him and then had to make do when he turned out to be a quiet, introspective man very unlike the character he'd played.

A woman who later had an affair and carried that secret to her grave.

But the truth is elusive and every single person had a different set of memories, a different version of the history of this woman, Diane.

The film was poignantly narrated by the director's father, her mother's second husband, with a script he wrote.

It was moving to hear him read his memories of all those long-ago years and life events, only to have his director daughter stop him and make him redo a line.

I'm not sure my father would have the patience hers did.

Walking out still thinking about the family saga that had just unfolded inside, I knew instinctively that the story's honesty will haunt me for some time to come.

Then, boom, I was brought back to the here and now abruptly as soon as I stepped outside where a fireworks display was exploding over the Diamond, practically next door.

Standing there watching until it ended, I thought of all the pyrotechnic displays I'd watched over the years - at the beach, on the national mall, over a lake and all the people I'd watched them with.

None of whom probably remember those exploding evenings exactly as I do.

Because everyone has a story to tell.

Mexicali Ghosts

The summer officially began for me tonight with the kickoff of Anderson Gallery's Happy Hour series.

I had a ball at it last year, here, so I was more than ready to start it all up again and see what fresh fun they'd concocted.

Answer: dessert and music. It was an ice cream social with two bands playing and two new exhibits to see.

They might as well have called it the Happy Karen Hour series.

When we arrived Sweet Fern was playing, which meant Allison Self's big, beautiful voice and Josh Bearman's guitar and harmonies.

A diverse crowd (a neighbor, the man about town, WRIR folks, the beekeeper) was already in place, all tuned into what was being played.

I always enjoy watching people experience Allison singing for the first time because she just doesn't sound like anyone else in these parts.

Sometimes the songs were innuendo-filled (although I noticed that with young 'uns in the room, she didn't do her most ribald material) and sometimes straight up.

"I'm Just Here to Get my Baby Out of Jail," pretty much lays it out.

Josh used his quick wit to announce the finale, "I'm Leaving You This Lonesome Song."

Then they did just that.

I scored some Bev's Mexicali chocolate ice cream (the ice cream portion of the social) and took advantage of chocolate sauce and peanuts to top it.

When I returned inside to eat it, I had to explain to several confused guys what the "Mexicali" portion of the ice cream's name meant.

To a man, they were shocked when they tasted the heat behind the chocolate ("What is in this ice cream?" one confused looking guy wailed to me).

I also used the break to check out the tiny show "Summer Mixer," a collection of 1920s to 1970s household appliances and ephemera from the Eclectic Electric collection, which I'd seen in a larger form, here.

Call me mid-century modern, but I love those old Cool Spot fans and Havana shakers, all but emblems of happy housewives and glamorous partygoers of another era.

After satisfying my inner domestic goddess (for I don't have much of an outer one), I jumped ship upstairs to see Rosemarie Fiore's "Fireworks."

The large scale works made by setting off fireworks with dyes were unique, but it was her smoke domes that captured my attention.

Smoke bombs are set off inside molten glass for jellyfish looking creations defined by swirls and embellishments.

They really have to be seen to be understood, much less appreciated. But see them.

Back on the ground floor, River City Band was playing and I've seen them enough to know what good pickers they are.

Meanwhile, audience members looked for seats, many holding both a glass of wine and a dish of ice cream.

That's my kind of cocktail hour.

Guitarist Grant began by addressing Josh and Allison about their mutual admiration, saying. "We should have a Carter Family Festival this summer and sing all Carter Family songs. Maybe August?"

Reason number 85296 I love this town. There are people who think that way.

Seamlessly winding their way through the likes of Bill Munroe and the late, great Earl Scruggs, they dazzled with fast pickin' and strong harmonies.

When they finished, we took off for Aziza's and some chow.

The place was lively when we arrived but we were the only ones at the bar.

Catching the end of happy hour, obviously our second of the night, we chose a bottle of Santa Julia Viognier, which hit the spot with our small plate choices.

Sea bean salad was a must since who's ever heard of sea beans (we asked and were assured they grew in the sea)?

Served with marinated shrimp and tarragon vinaigrette, the dish had a briny crunch from the very slender bean stalks that complemented the zesty shrimp.

Roasted mushrooms with asparagus, pea shoots and a sunny side up egg had an underpinning of lemon and overtones of a rich yolk. Yum.

When our server came to check on us, I mentioned how hard it was to hear the music.

"Want me to turn it up?" she genially offered. "What music? 40s, 50s, 60s?"

I chose sixties and while it wouldn't have been my first choice (no reverb! no horns!), now I could at least hear it.

And while I didn't particularly need to hear "Last Train to Clarksville" again, I definitely got a kick out of hearing "Only the String Survive."

I remember my first love affair
Somehow or another the whole darn thing went wrong
My mama had some great advice
So I thought I'd put it into words of this song


The only way to top that was with Three Dog Night's "Old Fashioned Love Song."

Hey, I couldn't blame anyone but myself. I'd said yes to the sixties.

When she returned later to see if we wanted dessert, all of a sudden the music returned to 40s and then 50s music as we all looked dumbfounded.

After checking to make sure the other server hadn't changed the station, she shrugged it off as, "We have ghosts here."

In buildings that old that have seen that much? I'm not surprised in the least.

Putting aside paranormal activity, we declined a cream puff since we'd begun with Bev's at the Anderson  hours ago.

And speaking of early ice cream, I think they should serve Bev's at that Carter Family Festival later this summer.

It'll be the perfect bookend to tonight's start of the season.

And reason 85297.

Let Freedom Ring

Current read: "Bad Girls" by Jan Stradling/2008
Best song randomly heard: "Bad Reputation" by Freedy Johnston/1994

Nothing says July Fourth like alcohol and explosives, to quote one of my guests today.

That said, AAA was correct; clearly fewer people traveled for the fourth this year because usually the beach is crawling with day trippers on Independence Day and today it was business as usual, at least on our stretch of beach.

The first full day of vacation always involves overindulging in food and napping and today was no different.

After a breakfast with an obscene amount of local sausage (Griffin's of Williamston, NC), I headed up the beach for my daily walk, knowing full well I'd see a stars and stripes bikini on a body on which it did not belong.

I did. Commentary withheld because this is the land of the free.

I was surprised at how much narrower the beach has gotten north of the pier, but there were just as many dedicated joggers up there as always.

No doubt they see me as a lollygagger with my meandering walking; half the time I'm walking at the water's edge to get wet plus I have a tendency to stop and chat with anyone who tries to talk me up.

 Joggers don't pause.

I clocked in with not one, but two (half-hour) naps today, but was bested by a guest who napped for two and a half hours before grabbing a beer and joining us on the beach.

Discussion revolved around relationships and, although none of us are in one at the moment, all of us have aspirations as well as advice to offer the others on where they need to be.

Summer sun and happy hour make people bold about what they say on vacation.

A different kind of satisfaction arrived when I finished yesterday's book about the making of "Apocalypse Now" written by Coppola's then-wife.

Her descriptions of the problems caused by the stifling heat of the Philippines, the challenges of using military helicopters to make a movie (sometimes they had to leave to attend to the civil war in the south) and her disintegrating marriage were told in matter-of-fact snippets as she attempted to make a documentary about the making of the movie.

Book number one, done.

By the time we finished eating dinner on the breezy porch, it was time to take up our positions on the beach for watching the fireworks, glad that the rain had held off.

Besides the two major displays at the piers on either side of us, dozens of budding arsonists were setting off smaller shows up and down the beach.

The problem is always which way to watch; it's a little like a tennis game, first right and then left and try not to miss anything.

The good news is that we heard neither screams nor sirens.

Afterwards, we sat on the porch sipping Keswick Vineyards Monticello, a late season viognier dessert wine, with chunks of Lindt extra dark chocolate (85% cocoa) and watching the smoke from the fireworks hang in the densely humid air.

Explosives over and alcohol imbibed, we'd done what we needed to in order to properly celebrate this important day.

The naps and relationship talk were pure gravy.