Tell It To Me Slowly

Give me Constable-like skies and I will rise to the occasion.

I will walk bare-legged to the river to hear it roar.

I will spend the afternoon planting flowers in my garden because, with 20 hours of rain in the last day and a half, the soil is easy to dig and the bare spots are calling for color. It's not misting, but there's definitely moisture all around, and it's somewhere in between warm and cool.  The air feels like no temperature at all.

I will take two hours to add dozens of annuals and perennials to my pocket garden, mostly in spots south of the heirloom pink rose bushes and west of the miniature rose that came with the garden.

I will get overly warm, damp from mist and finish up fully filthy under a moody sky.

I will feel like I'm driving into a storm as we head east to Church Hill for dinner under dramatically-lit sunset clouds.

I will taste Spring with Dutch & Co.'s chilled pea soup with practically a salad on top in the way of chili shrimp, peanuts and pea shoots. I will sample braised beef cheek, while eating salmon rillette and fried chili cauliflower. I will share a stroopwaffle with caramel, all accompanied by La Galope Rose.

I will listen to records with Holmes and Beloved for the first time since before Thanksgiving and I will want to hear the Zombies. From the opening notes of  "Time of the Season," I'm reminded not only of how effortlessly cool sounding it was, but how well it's held up. It's 50 years old, for cryin' out loud.

I will stand in the street when I leave Homes' house to study the still painterly clouds trying to unsuccessfully block the moon in the night sky.

I will remember how Beloved asked me if it was all worth it and I said an unequivocal yes without hesitation.

I will appreciate again of what a beautiful Constable day it was.

Your Song Still Needs a Chorus

As 12-hour double dates go, it would be tough to beat one as epic as today's.

The four of us convened at my house for the trek to the Northern Neck with Pru and Beau regaling us with tales from their recent trip to Bermuda. I don't know which sounded more wonderful, the meals or the beaches, but I'd be willing to go back to make that determination.

Our first stop of the day was Dog and Oyster Vineyard where I had zero interest in sitting outside and every intention of parking ourselves on the expansive screened porch. We were shortly joined at our table by an older couple who were driving back from Hampton and stopped for a sip.

Consensus: the 2015 Oyster White required, well, an oyster (Beau scored a half dozen from the Byrd Seafood stand but not until after the wine was history), the 2015 Pearl was an easy porch sipper, the robust 2016 Rosie spoke to all of us (that 5% Chambourcin tank bleed), the 2014 Shelter Dog Red was a lovely, soft Chambourcin and the 2014 "Mellow" Merlot finished us off.

Half the time, the conversation at our table was so lively (a polite word for loud) that the woman pouring for us could barely make herself heard as she attempted to describe the wines.

In the center of the tasting table was a pile of oyster shells, plenty of which had been decorated using the array of colorful Sharpies grouped in a glass. There were mentions of a great girls' weekend away, several "I love yous" to specific people, artistic renderings of butterflies, sun and skies, and abstract squiggles.

My date studied the interior of a shell looking for something, much the way we find images in clouds, and cleverly used the shell's markings to fashion a face.

Beau wasted no time using a dark green Sharpie to design his own, which alluded to his willingness to relinquish the wearing of his pants to Pru. I added an orange sun so it wouldn't be so monochromatic and it was added to the pile for posterity.

We met the vineyard dogs - a couple of old beagles and a hound - in the closest vineyard while admiring the size of nearby grape clusters. Across the road, we spotted a couple bicycling across the field en route to the tasting room.

The scene was nothing short of a picture postcard extolling reasons to visit the Northern Neck.

From there, we wound our way back across the Whitestone Bridge - still being painted the most glorious shade of silvery sky blue - in search of riverside dining. We timed it perfectly: a large table near the river was being cleaned off as we approached the nearly full patio.

The next few hours were given over to sipping and supping (although I was the only one who'd expected this meal to be dinner, since the others had all skipped lunch and were ravenous) under cumulus cloud-strewn bright blue skies. An American flag on a nearby dock showed us the wind direction, although since I was facing it, I already knew from whence it blew.

On a trip to the bathroom, I ran into the chef I've known since the place opened, who was busy shucking oysters because of how busy they were.

We reminisced about how a simple tasting room concept had morphed into a place that's busy just about every day ("This place was never meant to serve 800 covers a day!" he lamented), causing me to apologize for adding to the weekend madness.

Pru warned our server that we were never going to leave and she seemed to take it in stride, allowing us to order leisurely until dusk. We started with bottles of Cave de Pomerols Picpoul de Pinet and La Galope Rose Comte to accompany the Old Saltes my date (the one who didn't eat raw oysters before taking up with me) and I inhaled and the pound of seriously spiced shrimp Pru and Beau needed.

As tables around us came and went, we continued the feast and endless commentary. Angels on horseback, a shrimp and crab roll, tuna tacos, a special of drum fish and a summer salad did a fine job of plugging the holes in our appetites.

Which is not to say we didn't save room for dessert. My date and I shared a stellar key lime pie while Beau tried an interesting take on pecan pie (airier and less Karo syrup-based than any I'd ever had) and Pru had her own key lime pie. When the two of them asked our server for coffee, she said they didn't have any.

When Pru inquired when they would, our server said, "Next month." Pru didn't miss a beat. "We'll wait."

Instead, we finished off the wine as the sun slid lower in the sky and plotted our next move on the drive back. A stop at Saison Market addressed their caffeine needs, after which the party re-commenced at my place.

And by party, I mean a swingin' scene that required playing not one but two Brass Ring records to get everyone in the proper frame of mind. We imagined my apartment crowded with guests and just how we'd samba through the hordes in search of a drink or new acquaintance.

For that matter, the Gary Farrell Pinot Noir didn't hurt the cause, either.

The two pants-optional science/audio nerds dipped down a rabbit hole that involved wow and flutter, pop and hiss and lost Pru and I entirely along the way.

Meanwhile, I kept the records playing with Roberta Flack (always a classic for a DC girl), Gladys Knight and the Pips (a live album that spurred a discussion of music recorded live), Linda Ronstatd (and correcting mistaken assumptions she had expired), Rickie Lee Jones (Pru: "All I need is a cheroot") and when we moved to the balcony for Pru's smoke break, Marshall Crenshaw's iconic first album under a midnight blue sky.

At one point sometime after midnight, Pru inquired about the time and Beau stood up, taking it as a signal they were leaving shortly. Instead, she explained that one announces one is leaving but the actual process of doing so involves another 30-60 minutes of conversation.

It's like a warning shot: we will depart the premises in an hour or so.

Frankly, I was fine with the notice. As one of our quartet pointed out late in the evening, her face hurt from laughing so hard all day. All of us nodded in agreement.

By that time, we were into our tenth or eleventh hour of non-stop chatter and humor, broken up only by putting food or drink in our mouths.

This groove may be out of fashion and these beats may be 30 years old, but any time you can maintain a solid 12 hours of enjoying every minute, you're doing something right. Must be the company.

A sore face is a small price to pay.

Lookin' for Adventure

It was a day for relaxin' with the womenfolk and then showing a gent around.

Pru, her boho-clad Mom and I had made a date last week to lunch at Merroir for a reprise of our "ladies-who-lunch" extravaganza, meaning all of us had been eagerly looking forward to it.

When the weather forecast showed that it would be a cloudy, breezy and cool afternoon, Pru got nervous. Me? I interpreted those conditions as prime beach weather and looked forward to not having to slather on sunscreen for our al fresco meal.

"You and your silver linings," she always chides me. Yea, aren't they great?

The trip there, as always, delights with that bucolic, small town Northern Neck charm that announces you are heading toward a body of water. It's not just the flat landscape - her Mom, a Rodanthe native, likened it to Currituck and I could see the comparison - but the softness of the air as you get closer to the river.

With an hour's drive, we had plenty of time for chatter about non-assertive men, being gas-lit and how people change because of what life hands them. Pru tried to label us by saying, "We are some hard, jaded, bitter women," but I disagreed.

We are some experienced, cautious, complex women if you ask me.

We were also far from the only people who'd wanted a riverside lunch despite the forecast, although we did choose to eat on the porch rather than out in the open air. Fortunately, the "windows" of the plastic porch enclosure were rolled up on the marina side and the front door facing the river was open, so we had all the smells and occasional errant breezes but without getting chilly.

The food, as always, was second only to the view.

When our server asked if we wanted un-spiced or spicy steamed shrimp, she looked to Pru for an answer. I immediately did my best impression of spicy, which unexpectedly involved jazz hands and a vibrating body that the server found hilarious.

In fact, I may have over-vibrated since there was so much spice on the shrimp and accompanying vegetables (onions, celery, red pepper) that our mouths were soon on fire. Meanwhile I polished off a dozen Old Saltes and probably the best bowl of crab and vegetable soup I've ever slurped.

There were also angels on horseback, a stuffin' muffin and grilled shrimp to round out the meal on the porch. The sky was just as cloudy and the air just as beachy when we reluctantly hit the road for Richmond, making a stop at Norman's produce just long enough to score vegetables and hanging baskets of petunias for Pru's Church Hill manse.

"Are you sure you don't need some vegetables?" she asked. "Don't you ever cook at home?" Have we met?

And, yes, I make oatmeal every morning.

Back at home, I had enough time to answer a few emails before heading out for a walk that would take me to my evening's plans and provide the walk I hadn't had time for because of my lunch plans.

Unexpectedly, I had company.

Barely two blocks from home, a girl walking a bike joined me at a corner and we began talking. In Richmond a year after growing up in Roanoke, she's an anthropology major who knows she wants to work outside. Except she might want to do something else, she admitted guiltily.

As we crossed Broad Street and headed down Grace Street toward her boyfriend's apartment and my plans at Secco, we talked about a woman's range. She said she felt like her interests were so wide and she had no idea how to begin to narrow them down to figure out who she is and what she wants.

I may have made her day when I shared my age and that I'm still narrowing my range and figuring out who I am and what I want. When she admitted that she's often quiet in group conversations, she said it was because she was eager to hear other, more knowledgeable people's thoughts to help her form her own opinion.

I couldn't help but assure her that the older she gets, the more comfortable she'll be with what she thinks and likely lose that hesitation about speaking out. Opinions form themselves as you navigate the pleasures and perils of life.

When we parted, I told her I couldn't have asked for a better companion for my walk and she thanked me for the wisdom.

I was meeting a friend who'd been to Sicily a few years back and swore he hadn't been able to find Sicilian wine in Richmond since returning. Always happy to take on a challenge, I'd suggest meeting at Secco to see what it offered up.

One Sicilian red, but since we were looking for something a bit lighter, we wound up drinking a Basque Rose, mainly because he'd never heard of Basque wine, much less had any. Wait, there's more: he hadn't had a Rose before.

Intervention was essential.

The slightly spritzy Ameztoi Txakolina Rubentis not only brought him into the Rose fold, but did so with zippy notes of mineral and red fruit. It was a gorgeous pairing with smoked arctic char bruschetta and roasted asparagus with a crusted egg, its yolk oozing richness over every bit of green.

We finished the bottle with just enough time to stroll over to the Byrd to see a film that had already aroused the envy of everyone on Secco's staff who had to work tonight: 1969's "Easy Rider."

My friend had not only never seen it start to finish (my one and only viewing had been at Capital Ale House a lifetime ago back in 2010) but it had been one of the first two albums he'd bought with his own money.

In other words, it was inexcusable that he'd never sat through it.

From the footage of Mardi Gras parade in New Orleans (which might as well have been newsreel footage for how fascinating a glimpse into what the parade used to be it was) to the masterful use of existing music rather than a true soundtrack (can you ever have too much Roger McGuinn?), we were both completely sucked in to the late '60s with Captain America and Billy as they encountered hippie communes, free love and a whole lot of bad attitudes about nothing more than long hair.

We took our post-film discussion to the Gypsy Room so as to have the accompanying musical stylings of the Mikiyas Negussie Trio - jazz guitar, upright bass, drums - with more Rose education for him in the form of glasses of La Galope Rose.

We'd barely settled on the couch when my friend commented on the beautiful tone of Negussie's guitar, but soon corrected himself to acknowledge that it was as much about the young trio's talent as the instruments.

And although he'd played the room before as a musician, this was his first time hearing a show there and was inordinately pleased at the room's sound. The low-lit vibe and three sets of music, the final with a sax player sitting in, didn't hurt either.

Cultural lapses corrected? Check. Rose education begun? Check. Great company morning 'till night? Check.

Captain America may have put it best: "I'm hip about time." I like to think I am, too, especially when using it like I did today to store up especially satisfying interludes for those times when things are not so pleasurable.

Just another deposit of good times in the bank of life. Ya dig?

I'll Make Time

As every former Girl Scout knows, make new friends, but keep the old, blah, blah, silver and gold.

The old, a former co-worker and music buddy, had emailed with his standard, "Drinks or lunch soon?" so we'd planned lunch at Peking (I know, I know, who goes to Peking anymore, especially when a so-called Chinese restaurant doesn't provide chopsticks without asking) because it was near his office at the James Center.

Over my Sezchuan chicken and his General Tso's fried chicken, we discussed our shared allegiance in the mayoral race before moving on to the  state of the scene, a favorite topic of ours for a decade now.

Not for the first time, he thanked me for insisting he attend the Silent Music Revival back in 2008 when he hadn't a clue (always happy to be of service) and suggested a game where we chronicle our favorite cultural experiences back in that era when all the underground scenes were just beginning to burble up to a more mainstream audience.

Mermaid Skeletons in the Poe Garden, the first Listening Room at the Micheaux House, the Silent Music Revival with Blue Letter making our ears bleed, the first time we marched together in the Halloween parade.

We got a million of 'em, he and I.

Only problem is, we can play that game all day long and both of us had work to accomplish this afternoon, so I accompanied him as far as the James Center and continued my walk uphill to Jackson Ward.

As for the new (friend, that is), he was technically still wet behind the ears since we'd met exactly a week ago and this was our first outing. The man's only been back in Richmond for two months, so I'd offered to help a brother out by showcasing what I like about Richmond life.

Upon his return from a weekend in Asheville, the Barrister had notified me of his availability, I'd shared what my plans for that evening were and left him to decide if any or all of it was appealing enough to join in.

Whether bravely or foolishly, he'd checked all three boxes.

We met at Chop Suey Books for "One Hour, Four Places," with four writers reading from their work about linen closets, cheating spouses dying, overnights in a museum and bedside manner, although we were also those horrible people in the back row who only stayed for three of the readings.

Once out on the sidewalk, we agreed that Gayla Mills' ode to repeatedly patching the worn out jeans of the 21-year old she fell in love and began making music with rang truest.

As old friends of mine know well, memoir often trumps fiction for my interest.

From there, we did a convoy over to Vagabond for dinner, only to walk in and be informed that it was Restaurant Week and they were full up. On the one hand, I should probably have known what week it was given my occupation but on the other, I tend to block it out intentionally.

Fortunately, the bar was empty and dinner service extended to those stools, so we settled in to do battle with the unexpected constraints of the week, but the good news kept coming when I learned that ordering off the Restaurant Week menu was not required given the - ta da! - "Vagabond Staples" portion of the menu.

That and a glass of La Galope Rose ensured that even if Barr turned out to be dead boring as company, at least the meal wouldn't be (and he didn't). Additional points were earned because he's also firmly in the camp that food is meant to be shared so there can be no duplicate ordering.

Not a problem since I went with the staples and Barr went traditional with the Restaurant Week menu.

My first course was fried cauliflower with a swipe of earthy roasted pumpkin seed Romesco, while his was a smoked brisket taco combining pine nut salsa, pickled jalapeno and queso fresco that refused to stay contained in the tortilla despite our best efforts.

We covered the entire histories of all the people at the table where we'd met, as well as our conflicting plans for Saturday night. Despite his entreaties, Paula Poundstone yields to Julius Caesar for me in this instance.

Next up I tucked into scallops perfectly seared over smoked corn puree (something I'd love to see more of), butternut squash, pico de gallo and, yes, that's right, tortilla chips.

Snack food fine dining, yes, please.

His roasted rockfish brought up the whole roasted rockfish we'd shared with the table last Wednesday, a frequency he commented on, but, pshaw, I'd already had a second rockfish since then, making this my third in a week. Tonight's repeat fish benefited from toothsome collards, sea island red peas, potlikker and butter (although, let's face it, a fillet never measures up to whole fish).

Because that's what friends do - even brand new friends - I was happy to explain potlikker to the grown man next to me who was unfamiliar with the term despite an obvious affinity for the product.

More explaining was in order when he inquired about the photo on my blog  - Jonathan Borofsky's "Walking to the Sky" - which I took in 2008 laying in the grass at the Nasher Sculpture Center in Dallas (and good for me since it has since been dismantled and not reinstalled) on a glorious winter day.

And since I can't mention Dallas without sharing how distasteful I repeatedly found the city despite the friend I adore who lived there, he gave me his take on Dallas, which was far more positive than mine.

But even newly-minted friends are bound to have differences of opinion, so I didn't hold it against him.

His third course was a chocolate torte with a Fall-tasting sweet Asian pear compote and goat cheese whipped cream, which he graciously shared with yours truly before we took our drinks and headed downstairs to the Gypsy Tea Room for the main event: music.

Two large groups of noisy talkers were just vacating their tables when we arrived, ordered more wine and claimed prime spaces on the banquette facing the Scott Clark Other Other 4-tet in the moody darkness, which also happens to be one reason I like this space so much.

So. Much. Atmosphere.

Given that it was a first outing for this friendship, we both had plenty of getting-to-know-you questions, such as him inquiring what radio station I listened to. When I said public radio WNRN, he said that told him everything he needed to know since he was also a huge fan of the station.

People continued to trickle in for the next half an hour as the quartet began playing and improvising, meaning I saw a favorite candidate for City Council, one of the musicians who used to live underneath me ("How are the new tenants?" he wondered about his replacements) and the drummer whose park show I'd missed last night.

Across the room, I spotted the jazz critic and several up and coming musicians, little surprise given the quality of musicianship on display tonight: the low key and multi-talented Scott on drums, Cameron Ralston slapping, plucking, bowing and generally owning the bass, Jason Scott killing it on sax and clarinet and Trey Pollard on guitar while making outstanding guitar faces.

I could see that the Barrister was enjoying himself completely. Leaning over between songs, he asked rhetorically, "Shows like this are happening all over town every night, aren't they?"

Sure are and some nights, they're in the same place where potlikker is being ladled up.

If this friendship continues to go well, in ten years I'd like to think he'll be another long-time friend thanking me for suggesting all kinds of places.

My gold and silver motto? Making new friends, keeping the old and laying in the grass when it's called for.

Lickin' the Barn Floor

Because I live in a city where a trio of mounted policemen and women trot along beside me on Franklin Street.

And then there's how I teach a stranger who thought he didn't like liver to rave about duck liver mousse on thick Sub Rosa bread when I share mine. Not once, but twice: after he eats it and again as he's leaving.

For the first time in my life, a man actually says to me, "Are you double ducking tonight?" To be clear, I was not and told him so.

Playing that classic parlor game "Two Degrees of Separation in RVA" with a bearded stranger from Charlottesville (who's silly enough to describe a friend in Richmond as having a mustache as if that's a distinguishing factor), we discover that I not only know his best friend's ex who works there (and the reason he came), but I've been to the restaurant where he tends bar as well the one where I know the chef he used to work with. I've even picked up the C-Ville Weekly for which he writes.

Attempting to best my "Richmond is so small a town that..." stories, he shares how he and his wife once went to a bar in Charlottesville only to find that both of their exes were tending bar. Both also refused to serve them. He scores and wins.

That, friends, is a small town.

Because I eat this and it rocks my world, although no words will be able to convey how sublime the combination was. Imagine using earthy Meadow Creek Grayson cheese to make a silky espuma and then using it to coat buttery mixed lettuces, autumnal fruit, apple cider vinegar and for textural contrast, ginger snaps.

(Eyes roll back in her head) All I can say is, that's a hell of a cheese course.

Then there's how the beauty of going to an all-ages show is for the reminder of what today's children look like. They are adorable, each with a crude "X" on both hands and, for the most part, appear tragically awkward and aware of it. I think this makes them post-modern.

As a guy in a t-shirt reading "Drink Wisconsinbly" points out, "At least this is something for them to do."

Agreed. If there are kids who want to listen to music created by a female poet and filtered through the likes of Pavement, more power to them. It certainly suits me. Besides, I was owed.

A couple of years ago, I'd been picking up an Apology - that was ham, turkey, bacon and mayo between two grilled cheese sandwiches - at Strange Matter and while waiting for my obscene order, started talking to the musicians at the bar eating dinner.

They turned out to be Massachusetts band Speedy Ortiz, but I already had plans for the evening (hence the front-loading of the Apology) and missed their show. An album later, I catch them.

Because girl power executed intelligently and compellingly - with the front door propped wide open to the warm night air - is always a welcome start to the week.

Even when I'm not double ducking.

Take Five

Some nights are all about the simple pleasures.

I set out to check out L'Oppossum, eager to see how the former Pescado's China Street had been transformed.

When I expressed my preference for the bar over a table, the two gentlemen at the host stand assured me that the bartender would be friendly.

That was an understatement. He not only recognized me from eons ago, but even inquired about a mutual friend of ours.

There's really no escaping your past in this town.

Settling into the end stool, the first thing I noticed was all the interesting art on the wall interspersed with "Star Wars" plates. Behind the bar, I spotted a stuffed possum and a painting of Nick Cave.

It was a pleasure to see a restaurant that bore no resemblance to the current restaurant decor trend.

The second was the music, everything from Helen Reddy to the Delfonics "Didn't I (Blow Your Mind This Time) with nary a cliched indie tune to be heard. Absolutely delightful.

The trio nearest me at the bar were soon replaced with the casually dressed director of the VMFA and his wife about the time my pale pink glass of fresh and fruity La Galope Rose Comte arrived.

I was told they'd sold out of nine bottles the first night they were open. Could it be that we are finally becoming a Rose town? Be still, my heart.

Apparently the director and his wife had been there before because I heard her tell the bartender that they were positively smitten with the place, rating it their new favorite.

Since it was my first visit, the menu was a blank slate to me so I began with the obvious: the el dorado low rider, a lobster taco with tomatillo sauce and decadent guacamole.

While there was the option to add the chef's surprise, I opted out of adding tonight's surprise of foie gras, not really needing my arteries to close down before Labor day.

Once I opened the conversational door by inquiring about the about music, the bartender boldly walked through, providing endless opinions and observations about music past and present.

I admire a man who appreciates a good pop song, no matter the genre.

We covered his first show (the Kinks), his thoughts on Television's first album, his recommendation of Comasat Angels and memories of early Cure.

At one point, a man came to the bar, credit card in hand, to order a beer. Seems he'd ordered a beer from his server at the table, but hadn't the patience to wait for it to arrive.

"I need a beer now," he clarified. "I'll still drink the one the server brings me." Off he went, beer in hand.

Man, that's some serious jonesing for a beer, friend.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, I was being asked what I wanted next. His suggestion was to get something I wouldn't want to share in case my next visit involved a companion.

Good thinking. I ordered escargots a la ham biscuit, which was exactly what it sounds like: a plate of escargot (and greens) with a ham biscuit adorned with, that's right, an escargot.

Proving I am my Richmond grandmother's granddaughter, I pulled off a piece of biscuit, slathered it with butter and devoured it to assess the biscuit worthiness.

Before long, it was just me at the bar, leaving the bartender to make drinks for tables and in between, chat with me.

About how Wilco started out aping Gram Parsons. How 20-somethings don't even know who Gram Parsons or the Flying Burrito Brothers are. About what pop gems the Strokes wrote.

I considered death by chocolate, but instead had another glass of Rose to accompany the music talk.

After anticipating a quick, solo meal, I'd been having such a terrific time talking with my fellow music lover, I'd completely lost track of time. Hours had passed and I now had somewhere to be.

Of all the unlikely places, it was with the Baptists. Just don't tell them I'd been imbibing.

I arrived at the courtyard at First Baptist on Monument, already knowing the drill for how this works.

Although tonight was the first of this year's courtyard classics I'd attended (and none last year because they were all cartoon movies), I've seen plenty of movies in the shadow of this church during other hot August nights.

Out host made sure everyone who wanted popcorn had gotten some because, he said, movies are more palatable when you're eating popcorn.

After a prayer of thanks for the nice breeze (I abstained), we were on to a 1954 MGM cartoon called "Dixieland Droopy" about a dog (a beagle, perhaps?) named John Irving Pettybone who loves Dixieland music.

Only problem is no one else does so he keeps getting kicked out of places like the "Good Rumor Ice Cream" truck for playing his Dixieland record.

After the record is broken, he lucks out by having a flea band take up residence in his tail and play non-stop Dixieland.

It was hysterical when the dog tells the flea band to "take five" and they hop off his back and approach some smoldering butts on the street, puffing away during their break and then going back to play.

Thus warmed up, we moved on to the main feature, a Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz classic called "The Long, Long Trailer."

Taking place in the pre-interstate era (1954), the story follows the newlyweds as they buy a trailer and car in which to honeymoon and then live happily ever after.

In a nod to the crowd, it had subtitles so you didn't have to listen too hard to understand the dialog.

Since I spent a good part of my childhood watching reruns of "I Love Lucy," I expected this to be similar so I was pleasantly surprised when it wasn't.

That said, their character names were Tacy and Nicky, but we'll let that slide.

But here Nicky was an engineer (not a bandleader) and Tacy wasn't quite as zany, unless you count hoarding rocks for the future garden she planned to plant once they arrived in Colorado, their goal.

It was very '50s, of course, with Tacy (frequently in hat and gloves) lobbying hard for the trailer purchase (by the way $5,345) so that, "No matter where were are, I could make  home for you."

Aww, how sweetly Eisenhower years is that?

And speaking of that, all the roads were two lanes, policemen directed traffic at intersections and parking lots cost fifty cents.

While it wasn't "I Love Lucy," there was still plenty of physical humor such as Nicky hilariously fighting with the trailer shower head and Tacy trying to make a fancy dinner while the trailer is being pulled.

When she tells Nicky she's making beef ragout and a Cesar salad, he says he'll get out the Roquefort.

"Only boors use Roquefort," she corrects him. "Everyone knows it's Parmesan." Did everyone know that in 1954?

There's even a too cutesy scene of the two of them motoring along, Tacy stretched out on the giant bench seat of their Lincoln convertible, singing a song called "Breezin' Along."

That's how you know they're in love.

Well, that and Nicky says, "You could make me happy living in a cave." Doubtful, but we got his point.

The climax comes when they have to go over an 8,000 foot mountain and Nicky tells Tacy to jettison all the stuff she's been collecting, which of course she doesn't do.

During scenes of the trailer being pulled along high, narrow roads on the edge of a cliff, the crowd around me got vocal.

"Oh, my word!"

"Uh oh!"

"No, no, she's in trouble now!"

When the clouds are the ceiling in your outdoor movie theater, I guess it's just fine to talk to the characters in a fifty year old movie.

I didn't, but I'd also unexpectedly spent a whole lot of conversation at dinner, maybe all I had for the evening.

Doubtful, but you get my point.