A Firefly Never Forgets

I had a new recruit today, but not in the war between Freedonia and Sylvania.

Okay, not so much a recruit, per se, but a friend who'd been trying to schedule a walk with me for months, maybe even over a year by now. Problem was she broke her foot and that took a while to mend and then the fellowship that spawned a video filmed at the Bay of Fundy opened at the ICA and then another film project debuted at the Depot...you get the picture.

It was beginning to feel like it was never going to happen and then she reached out and we had compatible mornings free and we finally walked together. And on a gloriously cool June morning, too.

Naturally, I led her right down to the river, knowing full well that our chances of getting on the pipeline were nil. Two days ago, the only way I'd been able to get on it from the Brown's Island side had been by scrambling over a boulder and then propelling myself forward onto the pipeline and we'd had even more rain since then. It was much worse today with the entire western end under rushing water, but I wanted her to see it anyway.

We compensated by backtracking, taking the canal walk and picking up the pipeline walkway from the eastern end. I knew she "got" it when she marveled, "It's like walking on water."

Yes, indeed, that's exactly what it's like.

Since she'd already taken a yoga class before she met me, by the time we came off the pipeline, she admitted that her legs were feeling the walk. I've no doubt they felt it even more on the next part, which is a series of hills back up to Broad Street. Rest assured, since this was our first shared walk, I made sure to point out interesting things urban, historical, artistic and natural (she was thrilled that we saw two great blue herons) along the way as a distraction.

"You're part trainer, part field guide," she marveled. I'd call that one of my more unique compliments.

And if I was cheating on Mac walking with another woman, I made it up by meeting her at the Byrd to watch four Jews trying to get a laugh. And lest you think I said that, I can assure you that was Groucho Marx's response to those who questioned the political significance of "Duck Soup."

And while he denied it, Mussolini banned the film from showing in Italy because he thought it was an attack on him. I have to say, the anti-Fascist message came across as pretty timely in 2019 as well. Sadly.

Waiting outside for Mac to arrive, I saw guy after guy approach the box office to get a single ticket. One guy cracked wise, requesting, "One for the soup du jour, please." Clearly the Marx Brothers are big with the Y-chromosome set.

Mac and I had barely settled into our seats when a very tall man sat down in front of us, scrunched waaay down in his eat and turned to ask us if he was blocking our views. We politely said no, all the while wondering why he didn't sit somewhere he didn't have to scrunch. I mean, his legs were almost under his chin. When Mac returned with popcorn and Milk Duds, he began making crazy motions with his hand, then got up and left, never to be seen again.

You can always count on a little weirdness at the Byrd.

Manager Todd began the evening by asking if seeing "Duck Soup" tonight would be anyone's first Marx Brothers movie and, amazingly, about a dozen people raised their hands.  When he asked who was a Marx Brothers fan, easily half the large crowd roared back in affirmation.

One fun fact he shared was that "duck soup" used to be slang for something easy to do, news to me.

The movie began with a screen reading, "NRA Member. We do our part," followed by the Paramount logo. Kind of disturbing, but maybe not so much in 1933.

I've got no idea when I last saw "Duck Soup" but my best guess would be in college. Back then, my boyfriend and I were very into Woody Allen and it was common knowledge what a huge Marx Brothers fan he was. So I had no memory of what the film was about, although it came back to me as the film progressed.

Interestingly, one of the seminal scenes, which Todd had mentioned, was the mirror scene where Groucho and Harpo mime each other as if they're looking in a mirror. Long before I ever saw "Duck Soup," I'd seen the "I Love Lucy" episode where Lucy does the same thing with Harpo even though it took until college to understand the reference.

Okay, so Lucy and Harpo weren't the first to do it.

One of the most charming parts of watching the movie unfold was the reaction of the children in the audience, who laughed uproariously at so much of it. The scenes of Chico and Harpo taunting the lemonade stand guy - setting his hats on fire, putting their feet in his vat of lemonade - sent them into fits of giggles you could hear throughout the theater.

As a trainer and field guide, it was the puns and word nerd humor that set me off.

Mrs. T: Notables from every country are gathered here in your honor. This is a gala day for you.
Groucho: Well, a gal a day is enough for me. I don't think I could handle any more.

Let's face it, laughing at the Marx Brothers is duck soup.

Clipped Corners and Green Tambourines

Funny how life teases you.

Stopping at the light at Williamsburg Road and Main Street while coming back from the East End this morning, I spotted two middle-aged women at the base of the steps to Taylors Hill Park, aka Taylors Hell.

Not surprisingly, they were looking up at all those steep steps with trepidation, like they were willing their feet to start the ascent. Good luck, ladies.

Meanwhile, I get home to a message from Mac suggesting we begin our walk in Church Hill today for a change. So we take the 26th Street steps down and get on the Capital Trail, taking it along the Low Line, past Great Shiplock Park and over to the recently refurbished Sugar Pad.  It's there that Mac asks if I want to turn around soon because her plan is to return via Taylors Hell, I mean Hill, and those bloody steps.

Which, incidentally, in 33 years of living in Richmond, I have never climbed. But it's the unlikelihood of having looked at those women contemplating the steps just an hour earlier that makes me realize that nothing's ever truly random.

Mac warns me that once she starts up the steps, she doesn't stop because of how difficult it is to convince her legs to start up again. I don't doubt it. Even the people coming down the steps look pained, although it may be that they climbed up them first.

Fortunately, we're only going in one direction. Although I won't deny that it's a steep climb, midway up it occurred to me that it felt a lot like climbing a lighthouse - which I love for the views - minus the curved route. Just when your legs are saying they'd prefer not to go any higher, you reach another landing and another set of steps.

And it's not like we don't do hill work every time we walk the pipeline walkway, because being at river level means climbing 3/4 of a mile straight uphill - only having to deal with a short set of steps on Capital Hill - in order to return to Broad Street and head west. But inclines are one thing and steps quite another.

And for the record, we didn't so much as pause.

Once we'd conquered the hill, we walked back through Chimborazo Park, alongside Tricycle Gardens to admire the bounty of the produce and past a 19th century drug store built with a "clipped corner," a phrase we learned only because of the historical sign.

Mere diversions to distract us from our complaining leg muscles.

All I can say is, I'm pretty sure we didn't look anywhere near as worried as those two women I'd seen earlier. But then, Mac and I are walking fools pros.

The universe was still playing with me when I showed up at Holmes' digs before going to dinner at Acacia. I knocked, no answer. A neighbor sitting on her porch a few doors down told me they'd just gone out and maybe I should text them. Explaining that I have no cell phone, she offered to call Holmes for me and leave a message.

Fifteen minutes later, still no word, so she insisted on calling him again. Turns out they'd been worried about Crabcake Week crowds at Acacia, so they'd headed over to snag a table. I dutifully got in my car and drove to meet them before they downed the first bottle of Langlois Cremant de Loire Brut Rose.

I barely made it and when I did, the bartender immediately asked if he should ice down a second bottle. With these two? Good idea.

Again eating for the cause - the Alliance for the Chesapeake Bay - tonight's crabcake was a sandwich, notable for the sliced housemade bread and butter pickles that gave the jumbo lump crabcake a sweet crunch that I loved. Given that it came after fried deviled eggs with pimento cheese and a stellar salad loaded with slices of Edwards country ham over Romaine, shaved Parmesan and herbed croutons with a Parmesan peppercorn dressing, it was a miracle I could enjoy it as much as I did.

The inevitable listening party followed at Holmes' man cave, tonight with a focus on 45s dredged up from some deep basement shelf Beloved and I had never been privy to before. What amazed me was what pristine condition they were all in, as if they'd been in a vault since the MTV days.

When Beloved came across the Lemonpipers' bubblegum-sounding "Green Tambourine," a debate about the one hit wonder ensued. I stayed out because frankly, I was a kid in 1967 and knew nothing about the song. But upon hearing it, I felt sure it had to have been a really early use of reverb.

Play [play, play, play, play]...my green tambourine.

Other 45 gems included Todd Rundgren's "Hello, It's Me," Neil Diamond's "Solitary Man" and the Jagger/Bowie collaboration "Dancing in the Streets,"which Beloved swore she'd never heard before. She got most excited when she came across Dan Hartman's "I Can Dream About You," which came from the "Streets of Fire" movie, which I never saw but sure got a lot of airplay.

To Holmes, it resembled nothing so much as a Paul Carrick song, but then he's a big Paul Carrick fan. To me, it just sounded like pure '80s: big hair, shoulder pads and dancing in clubs every weekend.

Given that so much of what we were listening to was straight out of the Carter and Reagan years and Beloved and I always want to know what year each single or album was from, Holmes came up with a dating system on the spot. When I inquired about a 45 of REM's "Fall On Me," he answered with, "Orwell plus two," a system that only works for the book-literate and math-capable.

Which we mostly were at that point. "Why can't it be Friday night?" Beloved wailed at one point as we agonized over how many more records we could play before they ought to go to bed.

Hello, it's me on a Tuesday night. Maybe not a night for dancing in the streets, but not a night to be a solitary man (or woman), either.

I say when a girl climbs Taylors Hell for the first time, she's entitled to stay up as late as she wants. Sore legs be damned.

A Lady's Imagination is Very Rapid

Let's start with the walk.

It was noon and sunny, completely dead in places and abuzz in others. The primary groups I saw were cars headed to brunch and cars headed to the river, a fact I know from several conversations I overheard thanks to rolled down car windows.

Walking down 5th Street on the weekends is always a bit worrisome because of the things I hear parents telling their children. Last week, it was a mom telling her kids  that the building on the hill was the governor's mansion. When I discretely explained that it was, in fact, Ethyl Corporation, she shrugged and said they'd never know the difference.

But why lie?

Today it was a mother and son discussion after she insisted on holding something of his while he rode his bike down the fairly steep hill, especially for a 7 or 8 year old boy. The entire time he was inching down the hill behind me, he was reminding his mother not to hold "it" too tightly. She'd reassure him that she wasn't but he'd repeat the warning again. After the 4th or 5th exchange, she put on her Mother voice and said, "Don't make me sorry I brought you!"

Calling Dr. Freud. Who says that to a child?

After the deluge Thursday, the river is back to full roar, but walking the canal walk meant having a cyclist do a series of S-curves around me, while saying, "Great hat!" I like to think that's because I washed it last night so it looked particularly fetching in the sunlight.

Walking up Broad Street, I spotted a young woman in the kind of embroidered wide leg jeans (in that worn blue color) I haven't seen since the early '70s. The silhouette was similar to  a pair of sailor pants except shorter  and not belled, then with quarter moon pockets and all the embroidered flowers falling out from there down the legs.

When I told her how evocative (and adorable) they were, she lamented that she'd gotten them in Japan and never been able to find a similar pair. Just looking at them, I could tell how comfortable they were and she confirmed it.

In the parking lot of the Richmond Dairy building (where my Richmond grandfather worked, it should be noted), a guy had managed to wedge a good two feet of a parking lot median between his front and rear tires, so he sat there straddling it, trying to back up over the thing.

The whole time, the car is reacting by making horrible sounds and all I could think was, this had to be harshing this guy's sunny Sunday mellow big time. Not my problem, so I moved on.

All of which followed on the heels of last night's outing to Secco, then VMFA to see Quill Theater's "Pride and Prejudice."

Secco's patio was nearly full when we got there, not that we were eating outside. Mr. Wright and I had the same fabulous grains and petit greens salad we'd swooned over two weeks ago, plus roasted vegetables with goat cheese and an entree of rockfish over spaghetti squash pancakes with Romesco sauce, the latter a collection of things I enjoy eating, but would never make for myself.

Pru and Beau made a meal of an earthy mushroom soup, duck rillettes, vegetables and a cheese/charcuterie board that belonged in a still life. Beau and I both finished with a wedge of chocolate chestnut tort over orange marmalade, although I paired mine with Burmester Tawny Port while he got his buzz on with coffee.

On the table was a discussion of Pru's upcoming birthday, not just where and when, but how best to celebrate. How many people can an introvert stand in one evening? Or would it be better just to send out "Save the Date" cards for her next big birthday which is almost a decade away?

Those of us extroverted birthday celebrants never have to go through such machinations to celebrate ourselves.

Over dinner we discovered that not one of us seasoned theatergoers had seen a theatrical production of "Pride and Prejudice," which naturally led to talk about the film versions and then other Austen films.

Colin Firth, Alan Rickman, Richard Grant, how quickly we went down the British actor rabbit hole.

Walking into the VMFA theater, we found a good sized crowd and looked for seats. Explaining to my posse (and not for the first time), I said that I like to see the actors spit. Coming in from the left side, we settled in fourth row center seats, not bad for later arrivals.

To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love.

It's no wonder a 196-year old work is still being produced now given how strong and well-written the Lizzie Bennet character is. Even without the context of early 19th century Regent period mores, Lizzie's determination to wed for love not money is role model worthy.

There are few people whom I really love and still fewer of whom I think well.

And of course, a play about parents eager to marry off their five daughters, one that's full of quick wordplay and laugh-out-loud-worthy dialog, is going to appeal to a word nerd who's one of six daughters.

Joe Pabst impressed us all playing Mr. Bennet, his willingness to buck his wife's requests as well as his support for his daughter holding out for true love making him seem like a thoroughly modern man. Irene Kuykenall shone as Lizzie, as content to read a good book as socialize at a party and what reader can't relate to that?

Me, I always enjoy a good love story, especially between two strong personalities with confidence to spare. Where I overlap with Lizzie is that I must learn to be content with being happier than I deserve.

Because like Lizzie, I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.

Meaningful, Symbolic Gestures

I could see it beginning last night.

A simple supper at Garnett's with Mr. Wright on a Wednesday evening turned out to be a standing room only valentine's eve kind of a vibe. Our server - wearing a heart-red cullotte dress - confirmed my guess that we were likely surrounded by early celebrants.

The multi-day extravaganza that is Valentine's Day was upon us and we'd just come for food.

Or at least I had, since it's a holiday not high on my hit parade, though Mr. Wright later unveiled a non-Valentine's Day envelope of his own.

Walking with Mac this morning after two days of road trips for me, we crossed one of our usual corners on the way to the river, only to intersect with an ex of mine. Howdy, stranger is about all I said as we kept moving, but on the way back, two different strangers wished us a happy Valentine's Day.

Grocery shopping meant dodging wild-eyed men seeking flowers, cards and balloons and by the time I finished, I'd talked myself into going directly to Nate's Bagels. Semms they'd baked pink everything, sesame and poppy seed bagels in anticipation of hungry lovebirds (or just the expectations of the masses), but they'd already sold out of the pink everythings.

Since I was there to indulge myself, I didn't really care what color the bagel was. Priorities, people.

Once home from Nate's, I found my annual valentine in the mailbox from Holmes and Beloved. For as long as I've known this man, he sends me a kiddie valentine in a small red envelope inside a large white envelope addressed to me. He always signs both their names to demonstrate his aim is true.

And although I'm not at all into a big celebration on this day, I did need to get out after an intense day at my desk. That's how I ended up walking over to Coalition Theater - past couple after couple framed in the windows at Max's - to see "U Up?" aka a Valentine's Day sketch comedy show.

Turns out lots of people wanted to see comedy about love, courting and romancing tonight and most of them had been wise enough to order tickets online. Not me, so I put my name on a waiting list behind one other couple and sat down to wait.

There were sketches of all kinds from a Millennial Dating Game show where the woman had to pick from three guys she's already hooked up with to Trish and Dave's Extreme Date Night, which was a Bird Box date night ending with a lot of blood and bumping into each other.

Life without you is like a broken pencil. Pointless.

Multiple were the sex talks we witnessed, from one with Star Wars characters (spoiler alert: it involves a bikini and biting the head off a giant slug) to Harry Potter getting the talk from assorted teachers including Voldemort the virgin. Even the Terminator stopped caressing his Nerf gun long enough for his Mom to explain how babies were made. Naturally it involved a picture of a woman he'd never met.

I like that you're obsessed with me.

"Dine Another Day" involved James Bond and Doctor Killmore losing their dates when they can't stop battling for rhetorical dynamic dominance with each other and behave properly date-like. That meant lines like, "Mr. Bond, looks like you have a license to kill...conversation!" as his date stalks out of the restaurant.

You are the nuclear accelerant to my heart.

One of the smartest sketches involved a couple pulling out their argument card decks, using whatever card would help them best their mate in verbal sparring. He pulls out the "turn the table" card or the "spread the blame" card and next thing you know, she resorts to pulling out the "trap" card. You can imagine how that ended.

Tell me about your fiancee, the tuxedo salesman asks. "She likes music, naps and lunch, just like me."

For the "Divorce Doctor" set, couples were looking for reasons to consciously uncouple so they could celebrate the myriad pleasures of being divorced. When one woman took issue with her mate for buying Miracle Whip instead of Duke's mayonnaise, it was in pursuit of a divorce. Heated words were exchanged, with the woman yelling that Miracle Whip doesn't have enough oil in it to be called mayonnaise so she's outta there.

"Speak it!" a guy two seats down from me called out passionately to the couple. He doesn't care about them breaking up, just about mayo superiority.

Richmond, taking their Duke's seriously since 1607. Valentine's Day, not so much.

Love is a Bohemian Child

I have two just questions, at least for right now.

Who changes their clock in the middle of the night? And will this slow death by snow ever end? Three days in and it feels interminable.

When I woke up in the middle of the night, I was inexplicably certain my bedside clock had stopped, so I checked another clock and reset it in the dark. Only once I got up and began making breakfast did I realize that I'd mistakenly set my clock half an hour ahead.

And, believe me, a snow day doesn't need to start any earlier than it already does, if you know what I'm saying.

While the snow didn't prevent me from walking, it definitely slowed down the process to the point that a four mile walk - usually an hour-long endeavor - took an hour and 20 minutes. A lot of that had to do with my inability to walk at my usual speed because of un-shoveled sidewalks, unexpected swaths of black ice when walking in the street to avoid icy puddles and detours due to enormous mounds of plowed snow deposited on sidewalks.

Pedestrians become secondary when it comes to snow removal.

Still, I was out of the house and seeing signs of life, so that at least was progress and there are worse ways to spend the afternoon than writing to the accompaniment of the sounds of snow shifting and melting outside. But after spending the last two nights at home, I also made a deal with myself that if got enough work finished, I was going to cut out in late afternoon to go indulge my inner documentary dork.

Besides mixing things up a bit, it was a chance to prove I could stay home three nights in a row and I know I have friends who doubted I could.

It was hardly surprising how uncrowded the Movieland parking lot was, not to mention finding only three other people in the tiny Criterion Cinema where I was seeing "Maria by Callas: In Her Own Words."

Two of them were older and obviously on a date, but they'd both lost the ability to whisper, so their frequent exchanges were loud enough for me and the other loner to hear every word. And he was one of those men who felt the need to explain every preview to her as if she hadn't just seen it with her own eyes.

Red flag, honey, cut bait while you can.

As for the documentary's subject matter, Maria Callas has interested me since the whole Jackie business. Back in those days, my family had subscriptions to three daily newspapers and I recall quite clearly that the Washington Daily News, an afternoon tabloid-format paper, always had the best juice in it.

So when they ran a piece about Onassis' plans to marry JFK's widow, they didn't stint on the fact that it broke Callas' heart because of their long-time relationship. It may have been the first time I'd ever read in a newspaper about a woman having an affair, so it piqued my curiosity and stuck.

Years later, I picked up "Maria Callas: The Woman Behind the Legend" by Arianna Stossinopolous at one of the library's used book sales and learned a lot more about the diva. So it only took seeing the previews to tonight's movie once to know I needed to come back and hear the story of her life in her own words.

Because that was really the cool part of this non-traditional documentary. Director Tom Volf chose to only use interviews of Callas, along with home movies, filmed performances and press footage with an occasional overdub of American opera singer Joyce di Donato reading Callas' letters aloud.

Letters to people like Grace Kelley. Letters to Onassis. Letters that explained exactly where her head and heart were at any given time.

So without a talking head in sight, the story truly felt like it was being told by Maria herself, in all her perfect make-up and fashionable splendor.

An added bonus of the film was the extensive and dated footage of Europe, meaning I go to see Athens and the Acropolis in 1937 and Paris in 1963, neither much resembling the crowded metropolises I saw in the 21st century.

Pushed into a career in opera by a demanding stage mother, Callas talked repeatedly about a woman's value being in having a family and children, but that wasn't the hand she'd been dealt. "Destiny is destiny," she tells the interviewer. "There's no way out."

To add to the vintage vibe, some of the old footage had been colorized, giving it that over-saturated '50s look where yellow, orange and red reign supreme and blue is tough to find.

It was obvious how much of a Callas fan the director was because of the multiple live performances he included, and not just a snippet, but the entire aria. Seeing her perform onstage made it easy to see why her acting skills had been touted, along with her voice and technical skill.

But like with that long-ago Daily News, I reveled in the details of her love affair with Aristotle Onassis, whom she referred to as "Aristo," but whom she always described as a friend, not a lover. Tellingly, she said that Aristo made her feel "liberated and feminine" and that he was more than happy for her to take a break from a demanding career that had begun at 13 and never let up.

As a side note, I'd only seen photographs of Onassis in his late '50s and early '60s, but seeing him in his '40s revealed that he'd once been a very handsome, if very Greek-looking, man.

Everyone may know now who worships at the altar of divas, but back when Callas returned to New York City, her hometown, to sing after having been gone for seven years, it wasn't all that much different. A CBS correspondent roams the long line of people waiting to get into the Met, asking them why she's worth waiting all day to see.

All three men asked responded with praise and deference to the magnificent woman they idolized and, without profiling anyone, I'd guess that every single one of them was a gay boy. Slender, attractive and absolutely enthralled at seeing their heroine, they positively fawned as long as the CBS microphone was held in their face. One said he expected the ovation to be "standing and last 30 minutes."

 That's a true fan. Adorable.

But also of note was what that before there were rock stars, Maria Callas was an opera star of the rock star magnitude, the kind greeted at every airport and train station where she arrived with a gaggle of paparazzi hanging on her every word, at least when she deigned to talk to them. Performances sold out overnight when her name was announced as part of the cast.

And yet, the sad part was she didn't get the family and children she craved nor did she get the one man she truly loved, even if he did go back to meeting her in secret after marrying the world's most famous window.

It's like she told David Frost, "There are two people in me. I am Maria, but there is Callas that I have to live up to." Helluva trade-off to be considered the finest operatic female voice of the 20th century.

There are two people in me, too, but since I'm not the finest anything, I get to do whatever I want, even when it's not what others expect.

Destiny, shmestiny. Like Emerson said, the only person you're destined to become is the person you decide to be.

I'm shooting for liberated, feminine and almost always hungry. I like to think it's enough to keep me out of the diva category.

Thursday in the Park with Michael

A day after I left the country, Monroe Park finally reopened.

This morning was my first opportunity to see what the city and VCU had wrought after nearly two years of endless renovation inconveniencing me. Yes, me.

While everyone was (deservedly) harping on all the big, old trees that were cut down and bemoaning the displacement of the homeless in the park (also justified), absolutely no one was talking about how having the park closed affected my walking life.

When I want to go to Dinamo or 821 Cafe, I cut through the park. Or, more accurately, I used to. When I'm coming back from Texas Beach, hot, tired and sweaty, the park offered a short cut for the last half mile stretch. When I wanted to stop at my favorite thrift store to score a $3 dress, cutting through the park shaved off some time. I've seen art exhibits, been to festivals and taken in InLight installations in that park.

But then you add in the overlapping ICA construction (finally finished) on the nearby corner and that whole area has been off-limits to locals like me for what felt like forever.

So when I set out for the Boulevard this morning, I intended to see what the new and improved Monroe Park was all about because driving by is no substitute for determining the quality of a renovated park.

Immediate conclusion? I miss the tree cover of those old growth trees that were uprooted, but I can accept that the sight lines are cleaner and more open now. The extensive flower plantings along Belvidere are well-intentioned, but could they have picked more ubiquitous or uninspiring flowers? No, they couldn't have. And where the hell are the array of park benches that would provide momentary respite to a weary walker?

But then, under a canopy on the Laurel Street side, I saw the brightly-painted piano and heard the sound of ivories being tickled as I got closer. A student, his black backpack tossed atop the piano, was dazzling my ears with something classical I didn't recognize as I walked toward Floyd Avenue.

It was the most beautifully unexpected addition to my walk and I'm not too proud to say I noticeably slowed my pace so I could hear it for a while longer.

And although I don't usually take the same route coming and going on my daily constitutional, you can be sure I returned along Floyd in hopes someone would serenade me again. Sure enough, I spotted a man in a cap, his bike lying on the ground next to the piano, plucking away. Again, I slowed my roll to get maximum ear time.

Just as I came abreast of the piano, the pianist looked up and smiled. "Hi, Karen," he called. Sure enough, it was someone I knew, an author and DJ, a teacher and musicologist with a social justice bent and a killer smile.

Hi, Michael. I only hope my face conveyed my pleasure at his music-making.

A few minutes ago, I saw he'd posted video of a snippet of his playing, saying that he was back in Monroe Park, "Blazing that chronic like it's 2001," and I couldn't resist commenting on how much I'd enjoyed hearing him play earlier.

"Ha! You caught me in the act! Good to see you..." he wrote back.

Okay, maybe I am okay with this whole Monroe Park renovation thing. All it took was a colorful public piano in a city full of musicians and artists to make me realize how wonderful it is to have the park open and available to all again.

Here's to catching anyone I can - friend or stranger - in the act.

Elementary, my Dear Freud

Leave it to Richmond to overreact before Flo even touches down.

Don't get me wrong, I'm as concerned about the potential damage of a Category 3 storm as much as anybody along this part of the east coast. Who wouldn't be terrified reading that they've measured 83' waves under the northeast quadrant of Hurricane Florence?

But did we really need to start canceling events tonight, before Florence even makes landfall? Mac and I had plans to stroll over to the ICA for "The Future is Afro-Femme: New Negress Film Society" to take in a variety of short indie films presented by the New York-based film collective, but VCU squelched that by closing down tight, effective tonight through Sunday.

Seriously, VCU?

The weather has been brooding all day. When I left for my walk, the top third of the Art Deco Central National Bank building was shrouded in fog, as was the crane looming over the Dominion HQ being built downtown (because, of course Virginia's shadow government needs to have the tallest building in the city). The canal was unusually high, with not a duck in it. Brown's Island felt like a pressure cooker it was so oppressive and the James was lapping over the pipeline.

Not one to be daunted by impending weather, Mac and I simply made other plans. No one's going to take away our evening if we can help it.

When she came to pick me up, she was frazzled, having had to run the gauntlet of crazed drivers headed to and from the grocery store in addition to the usual September problems brought on by students who can't walk, much less drive, impeding traffic at every turn and making her late. Put another way, Mac is an easygoing woman who showed up at my house frustrated by the short drive from Byrd park to J-Ward.

By the time we made it to 821 Café by the most circuitous route imaginable, she was saying she'd be needing a drink with dinner. For Mac, that's a major indicator.

My problem was that after a busy afternoon with no breaks to snack, I was all but monosyllabic. When I realized that, I apologized, saying that a wise man once told me that if I'm quiet, it means one of two things: I'm hungry or I'm tired.

I got nearly nine hours last night, so clearly my issue was food, a problem easily corrected with a half order of black bean nachos while Mac tried to forget about the legions of bad drivers with a BLT and a cocktail. By the end of the meal, we were both in happier moods.

And little did I know, but there was laughter in our future, too.

Walking down the aisle to find seats at the Byrd, we passed an older man sitting in one of the raggedy old seats. Since the theater was uncrowded, it seemed like an odd choice. Why have a spring poking at your butt when you can sit in a wide, comfy new seat? Apparently the man realized this and moved to a seat in front of us, despite the hundreds of free seats not near others. Once the lights went down, he slid down in his seat and promptly went to sleep, only occasionally rousing himself for a moment before dozing off again.

I can't explain 'em, I just observe 'em.

As for our reason for being there, I'd suggested seeing "The Seven-Per-Cent Solution," not because I'm a Sherlock Holmes fan but because it was a 1976 movie - a period of filmmaking I adore - and the cast was fabulous.

From Broadway star Nicol Williamson - whom I'd seen at the Kennedy Center in the '70s in "Rex" - to Vanessa Redgrave ("her head of flaming red hair was celebrated on four continents"), not to mention a dapper Alan Arkin in a handsome beard (as Sigmund Freud), a young Robert Duval as Watson, Joel Gray as a bad guy and even Sir Laurence Olivier as the real villain, it was a primo group of acting talent.

So while I'd chosen it for the era and the actors, the movie ended up being downright hilarious, which I hadn't expected at all. Because I don't know the Sherlock Holmes canon, I have no clue whether or not Holmes is always played as an understated and droll wit with encyclopedic knowledge and a magnifying glass.

Even the credits made us laugh. "The story is true...only the facts have been made up."

As I anticipated, the movie melded the Victorian period squarely with the '70s, as evidenced by the décor, costumes and especially the women's hairstyles. Watson's drawing room looked like a cross between an antique store and a fern-filled college dorm circa 1972. Dated lines like, "The ladies do seem to cause trouble, don't they?" reeked of SOP male chauvinism.

Even the story about Holmes being addicted to cocaine seemed straight out of the Studio 54 era, as did his reason for taking it up: "to relieve the ennui." The struggle is real.

But the visuals were wonderful, from a sword fight atop a steam engine train to a library with a two-story bookshelf to a scene of Lipizzaner stallions attempting to trample our heroes inside a large building. Can't say I recall the last time I saw horses used as killing machines.

Best of all, the film ended with Holmes cured of his cocaine addiction and persecution complex by Freud. He then takes off alone on a cruise, where he just happens to find himself on a deck chair next to Vanessa Redgrave's character, Lola Devereaux.

Lola: Journeys alone are always so tedious, don't you find? Specially when they are long.
Holmes: Will this be a long journey?
Lola: That all depends. But I do think it will seem shorter if there are two of us, don't you?
Holmes: I hope it will not seem too short.

I have it on the best authority that the best journeys are neither short nor solo. As for relieving ennui, everyone knows only boring people get bored.

Walk Away, James

I was so ready for a good walk on a beautiful day.

To start, I began by giving myself permission to skip Broad Appetit this year.

Which means when I finally set out to walk around 11:00, the festival was just getting going, necessitating me navigating past all things Broad Appetit. It didn't, however, stop me from giving props to a volunteer at Jefferson Street who'd come prepared with chair, boom box tuned to vintage soul, large thermos and lunch box. Clearly not his first Broad Appetit rodeo.

Downtown was deserted, making for an easy walk cutting diagonally through empty parking lots as I came down the hill to the still muddy brown river. The downside of walking the canal walk was hearing a pipsqueak of a tour guide explain to his group that the Street Art Festival murals they were standing in front came about as a way to deal with what he called "blighted properties." I almost interrupted his patter to suggest "neglected properties" was a far more apt term.

Tell me about the blight, son, because I recall zero blight. Know what you're talking about before you go spouting off. But who am I to stop some twit from foisting his misconceptions on visitors?

I'm just a walker who hasn't been on the pipeline walkway in weeks and was determined to correct that today. That the weather was perfect for being outside - overcast, 72 degrees and breezy, especially at the river - only validated what I'd known when I set out: that this was going to be a good walk. Even finding a "trail closed" sign at the end of the pipeline walkway didn't dismay me (though I did re-attach one side of the sign to ensure the closed message was clear) because looking at the pipeline surrounded by raging river ahead, I knew people didn't belong on it.

But walking into the wind, against the direction of the water flowing, is not my usual direction, so I especially enjoyed the fierceness of the river's energy walking west. Strangely, returning in my usual direction was anti-climatic after that.

Capital Square was shady and quiet, but things got livelier once I hit the bustle of Broad Street. Fellow walker and Valentine director Bill Martin paused long enough on his way back up Church Hill to entreat me to go to Broad Appetit, though he wouldn't tell me what he'd eaten.

"Do you have a husband?" a smiling man joked to me further on. "Because I'd like to discuss that with you." Crossing First Street, a guy smiled politely and leaned toward me. "If you keep walking like that down there (gestures with head toward Broad Appetit), you're going to cause a traffic jam." I don't care if he was making it up as he went along, I thanked him with a smile.

And thought to myself, ah, yes, the Broad Appetit crowd has arrived. My presence here is no longer required.

Pardon me while I get ready for the rest of my Sunday and the reason for my comment-worthy happy mood. Lucky me, I finally have my own compliment source.

Sprung from Cages Out on Highway 9

Tramps like us, baby, we were born to walk.

Mac and I were determined to walk the beach today, come hell or high wind and, quite honestly, it was a little bit of both. No surprise, it was deserted, because no sane person would choose to walk when it's this cold and the breeze is gusting to 25 mph. Our goal was Morey's Pier, an amusement park 2.3 miles down the beach, for no other reason than I'd never seen an oceanside rollercoaster.

Along the way there, we came across dozens of conch shells and while they were no big deal to Mac, I'd never in my life seen so many fully intact conchs, making it impossible to leave them laying there, if for satisfaction's sake if nothing else. Final tally: 9.

I stuck a few in the front pocket of my pullover and carried a few more, all the while on the lookout for a plastic bag to aid the cause. She was skeptical I'd find one, yet somewhere past the tidal pools and before the dump trucks busy moving sand into bulwarks in anticipation of the Nor'easter due to arrive this Monday, there it was, imbedded in the sand and calling my name.

And while the bag definitely made it easier to wrangle them (I could remove the conch nestled in my armpit), that fierce wind whistled through the holes in the bag like a keening bird, not to mention that bag was some kind of heavy as we made our way across a beach of constantly blowing sand to the concrete boardwalk along motel row.

It was practically a ghost town, with street signs swinging and squeaking in the wind.

We took our wind-burnt faces to the Blue Pig Tavern as much for its roaring fireplace as for its appealing lunch menu. Part of Congress Hall, a classic Victorian hotel, the Blue Pig claims it's been providing hospitality since 1816, yet the couple seated at the table next to us by the fireplace vacated theirs in a matter of minutes while we reveled in its warmth every moment until we left.

The way I see it, you weather the Wildwood winds, you earn a table by the fireside for as long as you care to stay. I hated leaving just as a server was stoking the fire with three fat logs, causing an uprising of sparks and renewed energy in the flame.

But we couldn't linger because we'd bought tickets for a trolley tour of Cape May's Victorian architecture and didn't want it to pull away without us. As it was, we got lost a couple of times walking to the meeting place, eventually arriving last while all the other tour participants patiently awaited our arrival.

That's right, we were those tourists.

Our trolley tour guide was not only knowledgeable and enthusiastic, but scored points by beginning the tour with black history, explaining that during an especially awful storm that united bay and ocean, hundreds of houses were destroyed or badly damaged. It was doubly tragic because it occurred during the days of urban removal and since the area was predominantly black, most building remnants were demolished, sending 2/3 of the black population out of the area and 1/3 to West Cape May.

Fortunately, a few African American buildings were saved, a tiny Baptist church, the Franklin School and the summer home of a wealthy black Philadelphian. It was news to me that many of the 19th century houses here were built by well off people from Philly who'd come and spend "the season" - July and August - in Cape May.

Two months? What kind of a summer season is that? Now I understand why I was born south of the Mason Dixon line.

Our guide explained that these people called their enormous Victorian houses "cottages" and considered themselves "cottagers," both phrases borrowed from French royalty and their desire to have smaller rustic houses they could "escape" to.

Cottages these were not.

Another piece of unexpected intel was that back in the 1950s, almost all the cottages had been painted white (with green or black shutters). Cape May got national historic landmark designation in 1976, but the town put no restrictions on paint colors for houses, which goes a long way to explaining the kaleidoscope of colors and patterns on any one house. Even balusters changed from one level to the next.

Easily the oddest architectural detail was the knockout bathroom, essentially a loo on stilts attached to the side of a house. We saw a half dozen or so, each looking like a box with bird legs and no architectural roots to the house. We were learning so much.

Then there was the humor. "In the '70s, Cape May fell into disrepair and everyone started going to Wildwood," our guide explained with utter disdain. "Wildwood!" Since we're staying in Wildwood, Mac and I are well aware of the architectural differences between it and Cape May, but only a native could make it sound so low rent.

Gorgeous gingerbread-covered Victorian cottages aside, the highlight of learning about life in old Cape May was hearing about the Iron Pier, which had been designed with an opera house at the pier's end so that patrons could listen to the intoxicating sound of opera set to waves.

If that's not a romantic notion, I don't know what is.

But it wasn't all turrets and pink shutters, either, we learned. Turns out Cape May was second only to Daytona for auto racing on the beach, with 20,000 people lining the boardwalk to watch a race that included Henry Ford back in 1905.

After the trolley tour, we set out to see the Cape May lighthouse, but made a hard right when we saw a sign for Higbee Beach. Our tour guide had spoken about the beach because the three recent Nor'easters had caused railroad tracks to be uncovered right on the beach and at low tide, they were visible. It's been enough to inspire the locals to trek down there to see them for however long they last.

A guy in the parking lot (his car sporting one of the N.J. "Shore to please" license plates) told us it was a 20 minute walk and to follow the left path to see the tracks. Mac and I trudged along sandy trails through a maritime forest, unable to locate the tracks after 20+ minutes.

I was ready to give up and go back, but she insisted we take the beach trail ("We're not gonna walk this far and not find those tracks!") and, sure enough, there were the rusted railroad tracks coming out of the beach, as groups of intrepid visitors snapped photos. Once they began to clear out, I asked Mac if she'd take a snap of me. Almost immediately, she guessed where I wanted my picture taken.

"Too bad we don't have any rope," she laughed as I laid down across the tracks on a wooden trestle and she snapped away. Too bad is right.

Rather than return the way we'd come, we decided to brave the beach along the bay, watching the ferry head out in choppy waters. We know from experience the queasy ferry feeling those aboard were probably settling into right about then. Put your heads down and close your eyes, kids, it'll be over soon enough.

We finally made it to the lighthouse, only slightly worse for the wear after our second beach walk into the wind of the day. What's clocking ten miles battling the wind for walking veterans like us? What was notable was the more than a quarter cup of sand we found in each of our shoes once we got home.

Despite our tour guide's distaste for Cape May's redheaded stepchild, we stayed in the 'hood for dinner tonight, settling in at the Dogtooth Grill where, it seemed, half of Wildwood had landed:  families with soccer-playing children, a firefighter, a couple who never uttered a word to each other as they ate through steak, ribs and fried chicken.

Neither of us could resist the allure of Cape May Salts, the local oysters our blond server said were raised on the point (see: where we'd spent most of our afternoon). Enormous, although not quite as briny as Chincoteague's Old Saltes, they gave us a sample taste of a Jersey shore wave since it had been far too cold to experience the real thing.

But it was the combination of slurping my first local bivalve just at the moment when Springsteen's "Born to Run" came on the sound system - "The amusement park rises bold and stark" - that put the exclamation point at the end of our "shore to please" day.

Fireplaces, conch shells and roller coasters, oh, my. My sole regret? Not having any rope.

Although, come to think of it, that does make it easier to save myself.

The Winter of My Discontent

Sirens wail, are you listening
In the Ward, snow is glistening
A beautiful view, 'though me without you
Walking in a winter wonderland

Gone away is the heron
Here to stay solo Karen
No cause for a song as I go along
Walking in a winter wonderland

On Brown's Island, I can see a snowman
And perhaps built to be Parson Brown
He'll ask if I'm married, I'll say no, man
Though Mom says she can't die until I am

Later on, I'll feel dire
Wanting for talk, not desire
To face once again the want of that friend
Walking in a winter wonderland

Sirens wail, are you listening
In the Ward, streets are glistening
A monochrome view, still moi without vous
Walking in a winter wonderland

All alone on the pipeline
Still it feels like a lifeline
Thinking of this song as I go along
Walking in a winter wonderland

In Jackson Ward, I could build a snowman
And pretend that he's the one I seek
I'll have lots to say to Mr. Snowman
Until my neighbors take me for a freak

When it snows, ain't it thrilling
Though my legs got a chilling
We'll talk and we'll play, the fun, brainy way
Walking in a winter wonderland
Walking in a winter wonderland

As Imperfect as They Come

The problem with being Susie Sunshine is that people are unsettled when you're not.

Just as Hurricane Irma was bearing down on Florida, I heard from a friend who assured me he was safe, but threw in a BTW: that some of my blog posts were making him want to come up and slap some sense into me. "I've told you before, perfection can be a burden, so buck up."

Setting aside his unfounded opinion of me as the perfect woman, I still didn't get why I needed a slap, so I asked.

His response was swift. "My comment about needing to smack some sense into you comes from the tone of some of your blogs. You went all introspective on us. Not that it's a bad thing. But I look to you for a good, fun read about how you're enjoying yourself in particular and life in general. It is oddly painful to sense that you're down and it is further irritating to think that not everyone knows how fortunate they are to have you in their lives."

So while my inclination today would be to get all introspective about my life given recent events and conversations, I'm not going to go there.

As I was coming up from the pipeline walkway, I see two guys walking toward me, one with a pretty serious video camera in hand. "You're the perfect person to run into!" says the other, a member of the mayor's administration, a former neighbor and a long-time friend.

Introducing me to the cameraman, he explains to him that I always know the best things happening in Richmond on any given night, so they need my input for the tourism videos they're shooting over the next few days.

"I've got your email, but I don't have your phone number," he says, whipping out his phone. I look at him like he's gone crazy, reminding him that I have no cell phone.

"Still?" he asks incredulously while the cameraman gapes, looking at me like I've just announced I'm a cannibal or a leper or something else equally abhorrent. Still, my friend.

"I admire that," he says, which is a variation on what most people say when they discover that someone has opted out of 24/7 connectivity in 2017. "Wow."

When I got home, yesterday's social media feed was colorfully thick with reminiscing about Donnie "Dirtwoman" Corker, Richmond's best known transvestite for decades now, after his death was announced.

Although I used to see Dirtwoman semi-regularly when my walking route included Grace Street, it was my first meeting with him in 1987 that still stands out.

I'd been in Richmond for a year or so and had gone to the Village for the first time with some friends. Taking a seat at the bar next to an empty stool, I naturally turned when someone sat down on that stool. There sat an obese man in a blond wig wearing a dress and grinning at me.

"Don't worry, honey," he said. "I'm nothing but an old queen!"

How could I not like someone so comfortable with himself? And now, how could I not feel like an era has ended now that such a legendary Richmond figure has moved on?

My response was to drive to the country, pick black twig apples and eat more red meat than I've had in a year. Believe me, no one there thought I was anything close to perfect.

Jeez Louise, I can feel the metaphorical slaps coming at me nine ways to Sunday.

The One That Got Away

Another  morning with James, or what I did for friendship.

My planned walking companion pulled the weather wimp card when the sky began spitting, so I replaced him in the blink of an eye with fleet-footed Mac. She'd spilled coffee on her white shirt just before coming over and elected not to bother changing because she knew I wouldn't care.

Pshaw, as long as my companion's feet and conversational skills can keep up with me, I care not what state their attire is in.

As always happens when we first get on the pipeline, she expressed her joy in being there, saying she never wanted to lose an appreciation for such a treasure. Is it any reason I love her?

Just as we got to the first major fall, we spotted a loon taking the rapidly moving water like a champ and then craning its neck to look back at what it had just conquered before moving on to the next rapid. I've seen kayakers do the same thing.

We passed a man bathing in the river, rinsing out his clothes and hanging them on nearby branches to dry. Any day is apparently laundry day when you live at the river.

A little further on, we spotted a blue heron through the trees perched on one leg atop a branch, its head tucked so far down  it appeared neck-less. "I'm going to try to get a picture," Mac said, unzipping her pants pocket to retrieve her cell phone.

Cue dramatic music in the background.

Also in that pocket was her car key, her only car key, which inadvertently followed the phone out before dropping into the shallow river bed below. Surprisingly, given the proliferation of marsh grasses and rocks, we could see exactly where the key had landed.

Now getting to it, that was an entirely different matter.

The area just under us was shallow, but there were much deeper waters between us and the key, while the closest ladder to dismount the pipeline was one of those small series of curved rungs with virtually no toe room attached to the pipeline itself.

I headed toward it, with Mac saying how glad she was this had happened with an easygoing friend like me and not someone who wouldn't have seen it for the adventure it was.

The most challenging part of making our way across the water to the other side - which we had to do to avoid the deep areas - was finding footing in an ever-changing river bottom. The silt-y sand wasn't so bad but plenty of rocks (and rusted out beer cans) made themselves known as we attempted to mount them or find a path between them.

It was slow going but also beautiful in that we were getting a view of the river and pipeline few do as we waded through schools of tiny fish and underwater jungles of fallen branches.

The visuals alone were worth the adventure. Heading westward, the river took a bend, providing a view of the water between overhanging branches that appeared to lead to some sort of fairyland or enchanted cove where small scallops of whitewater broke up the surface.

Moments after the key was retrieved, a man walking on the pipeline above spotted us, waved and called down, "I used to do that kind of thing when I was young!"

Rather than let him think we were Dora the Explorer, we stood there thigh deep in the river explaining what had happened and how we'd addressed it. Mac kept patting her zippered pocket to make sure the key was safely there.

"You're my heroes!" he called before continuing his walk while we tried to navigate slippery rocks and slog our way back to put on our shoes and maneuver the curved ladder that was far more difficult to climb up than down.

Righting ourselves once we reached the pipeline, we felt energized and not a little like conquering heroes.

When it comes to friendship and the river James, whiners and the unadventurous need not apply.

Ogle 'Em If You See 'Em

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just not quite as titillating as half-clad guys.

I Wanna Hold Your Hand

In the end, all I want is to swear by you.
~ graffiti on pipeline walkway

[heartfelt sigh]

Today's walk along the pipeline walkway involved a guy in a hammock seductively hung from two trees by the river 's edge...tragically occupied on the phone rather than with his proximity to nature.

Crossing over to Brown's Island, I encountered a guy busy mopping his sweaty head every other step, yet with no hat on. After admitting that his dermatologist uses dry ice every six months to freeze off the pre-cancerous growths on his head, he allowed that he'd erred in grabbing his towel and ear buds and leaving his hat sitting on his desk.

Ya think?

Today's heat meant that my walk on the pipeline inevitably led to scrambling out over the rocks, the better to lower my feet into the cool, moving water. It was impossible not to notice the radically different water levels from barely two weeks ago, the recent abundance having already given way to trickles.

A letter from Sister #2 today brought this sentiment: Our lives are so different from what I expected and what Mom and Dad had.

Where do I even begin to respond to the comparison of what they found at 22 and 23 and what I still seek? She's married but seems to be admitting she's not as happy as she perceives our parents to be, but also that they retired in their early 50s.

Part of my afternoon winds up being devoted to explaining in letter form why we can't expect to find such luck in either arena at this late stage of the game to someone merely 13 months younger but far less accepting of our reality.

Fortunately, the disappointment of low river levels and relationship failures was forgotten when I met up with a favorite conversationalist for purely friendly dinner and drinks.

Our outing stayed in the neighborhood, specifically Quirk Hotel's "Dinner for Two" at Maple and Pine. In fact, our server informed us that we were the first to come in for dinner for two, resulting in him scrambling to come up with the appropriate menu and a liter of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc.

The music was spot on: Washed Out, Real Estate and other dreamy-sounding bands, while we munched through grilled eggplant with olive tapenade, feta, pine nuts and lentils as well as a green salad of radishes and green goddess dressing for starters.

We watched countless millennials come through the lobby only to have their IDs checked so they could take the elevator to the rooftop bar. A surprising number wore off-the-shoulder blouses, a fact which we took as a major fashion trend, albeit one that's come and gone countless times.

Discussion revolved around tomorrow's election, a beach getaway and overlapping music shows in the '80s (his with a smoker, not with each other) while we enjoyed fettuccine with pea shoot pesto, country ham, egg and Parmesan and roasted crispy-skinned chicken breast with potatoes and fennel.

Because the conversation was good -  it inevitably is, though we spend too little time engaged in it - we were halfway though carrot cake glazed with cinnamon creme anglaise before even dancing near the interesting topics, namely vacation possibilities, inept help and a ticket to Franz Ferdinand sold away for want of a man to use it.

Keeping to a neighborhood theme, we stopped into Yaki, the newest bar in Jackson Ward and one convenient to us both. The music was leaning toward late era R & B and several of the faces at the bar are usually found at their own bars.

It's while we're drinking Sicilian Rose, specifically Squadra Terre Siciliane Rosato (described on the menu as "bachelorette party in a glass but more reserved) that we politely skirt my preferred topics and instead settle on innocuous conversation to keep things on a purely platonic level. It's enjoyable if a tad safe.

In the meantime, I am fortunate to have a friend who makes me laugh (and occasionally snort) and better accept that my life is completely different than what I'd expected. Unfortunately.

The fault is mine, I would imagine. Here's to correcting that before I die and, like my parents, getting the chance to swear by someone who matters in the end .

Except I will say it and not spray paint it on a railroad support.

Take Me to the River

James, is that you I hear?

When I headed down to the river today, it was with the expectation that the river would be high, brown and fast-moving, just like it was yesterday on the T Pot Bridge when I'd watched enormous tree trunks, branches akimbo, bobbing along like toothpicks.

That was child's play compared to what I found once I got down to the pipeline walkway today.

When you descend the metal ladder to access the pipeline, the water all around tends to be shallow, nearly still and many feet below. It's a popular place for ducks to paddle around and bob for food.

Not today. I was gobsmacked to find that the raging James is already swirling maybe barely 18" below the walkway. Completely under several feet of water were my favorite beach as well as the bikini beach and the fisherman's beach.

It was completely disorienting to have all the signs of land missing with only treetops breaking the surface of the water.

The first set of rapids you usually see when walking west are so far underwater that they're no longer recognizable as rapids. Pshaw, it's just another maelstrom in a fiercely fast river. The second set, a favorite of kayakers whom I've seen careen over it and then intentionally flip themselves 360 degrees, looks downright terrifying in James' new state.

Powerful brown waves crash and circle a vortex of some sort, a huge and unnatural-looking hole in the water where rapids should be.

It was impossible even to get to the end of the walkway without waves hitting the pipeline with such force (and a mere foot below walking level) that my legs and shoes kept getting wet. The river itself was completely over top of the pipeline beyond the walkway, and not just covered in water, but with waves rolling along it.

Herons perched on old bridge supports and tucked themselves into the northern shoreline, one nabbing a fish from the river while a group of us watched. A woman with a telephoto lens captured arresting pictures of the herons going about their business on a day on the river where it was anything but business as usual.

I paused to speak to a couple who'd come down to walk and then have a picnic lunch. Holding up the little cooler that housed their food, the wife said, "I don't know where we're going to picnic now!"

My suggestion was Libby Hill Park for a completely different kind of view of the James in action. Surely that historical glimpse of the famous bend must be breathtaking now from so high up. They loved the idea, saying they'd never have thought of it.

What they'll lose from up there, unfortunately, is my favorite part: the roar of the James and today its volume and dynamism rival that of an ocean, a roar made up of fast-moving water and waves crashing in every direction.

Intellectually, I know such force is the sound of danger, but emotionally, the sound of water translates to a relaxed, almost meditative state for me. I attribute it to my parents first taking me to the beach when I was 14 days old.

I could stand here all day listening to you rage, James. And honestly, I don't mind getting a little wet to do it.

Bathing Caps and Pity Sex

It was a lot to spring on a man.

When my bike-riding friend had suggested we get together, I'd suggested tonight so we could walk over to ThetareLAB and see "Dry Land." He'd offered up dinner in exchange for the play and was even willing to walk wherever I chose to dine.

We like that in our friends.

Given the balmy evening, nothing suited me better than meandering to Maya for tilapia tacos and a discussion of the best couples therapy book he's ever read. Across the street, hundreds of family members streamed into Centerstage for the Richmond Ballet's annual Minds in Motion performance.

By the time we left to walk over to TheatreLAB, the sun was waning and the night air ideal for a stroll. At this point, my friend still had no idea what he was in for, but it didn't take long to find out.

A sign by the box office was a trigger warning about the play and as strongly worded as it was, from the first scene it was clear it couldn't have been worded too strongly.

Taking place in a locker room, the story follows high school girls on the swim team dealing with the usual high school angst - you know, abortions, slut-shaming and the ugliness of female friendships.

Midway through the 90-minute play, my friend leaned in and whispered, "This is a tough play!"

He wasn't exaggerating, but it was also so well executed that you couldn't look away no matter how challenging it got.

As usual, TheatreLAB had managed to totally transform their basement space, this time into a blue-tiled locker room with wooden benches and lockers. You could practically smell the chlorine in the pool just offstage.

Like they always seem to do, TheatreLAB had also chosen a topic-of-the-moment, infusing it with veracity given the completely believable performances of leads Aiden Orr and Jessie Kraemer as the swimmer determined to abort her pregnancy and the swimmer doing her best to help her do so.

Although it was a small part, Dixon Cashwell, in a t-shirt reading "Pity sex," managed to be both awkward and sweet, a combination he always nails splendidly.

But ultimately it wasn't a play about abortion, but a play about children - because that's what high school students are - making important decisions without the assistance of the adults in their life, layered with the usual coming of age issues of how kids want their friends to see them, with a heaping helping of navigating female friendships and their mercurial nature on top of it all.

A reminder, in other words, that the high school years are exhausting.

Let's just say that by the time we'd watched the screaming agony of bloody labor, my friend was in no mood to stay for the talkback with the cast. Instead, we had our own discussion of the play as we walked home, quickly realizing that our gender disparity meant that I'd picked up on things few men, including him, would have.

"I think this is a play I'll be thinking about for a while," he observed as we sallied through Jackson Ward, thanking me again for inviting him.

Not every guy would be so gracious about seeing so much estrogen playing out onstage. Luckily, I'd asked someone just tough enough.

Whether or not he's willing to accept another play invitation from me remains to be seen.

Found Light

Walking is the thread that connects up everything for me in this city.

Usually when I walk to Belle Isle, I come back through Oregon Hill on Pine Street. Today I wanted to walk Laurel instead for fresh views.

In front of just another house, I spotted one of those red-roofed wooden boxes with the clear front intended, usually at least, for real estate fliers about a house for sale. But this house had no for sale sign, so I looked at what was inside.

Poetry. There were several sheets of paper, each with a poem called "Forever Light" inside the box. But the real surprise was the poet's name because it was one familiar to me: Peter LaBerge, whom I'd just seen at a poetry reading at University of Richmond last Wednesday. If I'd stumbled on the box two weeks ago, the name would have meant nothing.

Standing on Laurel Street in the morning sunlight, I knew before reading it that the poem would be dark, elegiac even, and I wasn't wrong. You can learn a lot about a poet from one reading.

More alive
the body unit

Body made visible
after dawn.

Seconds of kissing
a man & I touching.

Body the gods decide 
should riverspin.

Arms and legs
invisible in seconds.

When I wake, a gun
nesting in my place.

Proof a man sunk
is a man inanimate.

Yet surely somewhere
dark there I am.

Chest disintegrating
lips: a feast of blue.

No skin to feed
the earth so I face up.

Bones green from a long
bed of moss.

Memory, a shorn path
through the forest.

Yet still regret is silver
and more silver.

Body beaming light
through the trees

It's Poetry Month, so perhaps Peter left the poems in the box for nerds like me who might appreciate poetry wherever we find it. Maybe he was simply curious whose eyes might alight on the box and investigate its contents. Walking is its own reward, but found poetry felt like a deliberate gift today.

Also a reminder - perhaps not to this young poet, but certainly to a body unit much older than Peter - that regret, silver or any color, is a waste of time and energy. Life's too short.

We Can Still Be Friends

With time you learn there are various levels of friendship.

Even the guys down on Leigh Street selling crabs are sort-of-friends, in that we see each other regularly, speak often and, above all, they were ready to open a can of whoop-ass when they heard what some guy had said to me as I walked through the neighborhood. Today, it was letting me know that crabs are in already. Casual but steadfast acquaintances.

There's FotoBoy, a friend of the past 8 years (with whom I had two dates before we were smacking our foreheads and realizing we wanted friendship) who is pretty much at my beck and call when I need an extra mouth for work. That we can talk about the nitty gritty in our lives only adds to the depth of the friendship. That he appreciates how excited I get when a train conductor waves at me is gravy.

There's the friend I'm still getting to know who's given me an intermittent front row seat to watching him figure out who he is and what he wants, a fascinating chance for me to find out what makes him tick with no risk involved.

Since it has been four weeks since our last rendezvous, I knew I could count on some new revelations, maybe even a new character or two in his life. When last I'd seen the stubborn one, things were heating up with a woman I'd pegged as high maintenance from the start, but he was still dazzled by how fast she was on wheels, or at least, that's what he told me. For the sake of discussion, she was dubbed "Bachelorette #1."

The latest update on all that personal business was delivered after a warm walk in a light drizzle from Jackson Ward to Dinamo - spent discussing what a creature of habit he thinks I am because, he says, I always choose restaurants within my sphere, which I suppose means walking distance - where we took seats at the bar next to a couple discussing church business and adult children who can't problem solve.

I'm not sure which topic was more depressing.

Our meal was anything but, with his homey and hearty fava bean and maitake mushroom pasta and my seafood salad with enough clams, mussels, shrimp, calamari, octopus, onions, lemon and oil to mimic a meal eaten seaside to guarantee we both wound up happy campers. A glass of Orvietto and a sea salt Nutella cookie took me to the finish line.

Meanwhile, the owner shelled fava beans nearby and we talked about his love life and yes, since we met last, onto the scene had come a new contestant whom we dubbed "Bachelorette #2," after briefly considering calling her "No Agenda" but deciding that such a phrase could also apply to Bachelorette #1.

The fact that they both, in fact, have agendas was deeper than he wanted to go tonight. So far, Bachelorette #2's only obvious weakness (and it's worth noting given his personality) is that she's terribly compliant and not especially opinionated.

Some friends would call that boring, but I try to be more diplomatic than that.

Leaving Dinamo shortly before the last customer could, we got as far as Grace and Laurel before the pouring rain was too much to slog through to get back to my place and his car, while Ipanema was a block and a half away. It wasn't a cold or unpleasant rain but it was definitely a directional one and we were both getting soggy.

As always, Ips was an oasis of warmth and soft lighting and with glasses of Spanish white and red in front of us, as good a place as any to continue exploring why people do certain things and what that tells others about them.

Coming in out of the deluge, a guy sat down next to me and began writing in a Moleskin. When I asked the subject, he said he was working on his thesis and you know I had to know. "Disaster Capitalism," he informs me.

My next question is what year was he born, an inquiry that so delights him he throws back his head, smiling.

"That is the best question ever asked!" he claims before explaining how his thesis deals with a post-human worldscape. My questions continue, my friend returns from the head and joins in and the future thinker asks if we're professors at VCU. Negative, but we play them in bars.

When I ask if he has a happy social life around working on such nihilistic theories, he assures me he's an optimist, albeit one in a post-human world. Yet again, I marvel at how differently his generation is wired than mine.

By the time our wine glasses are empty, the rain has stopped, the temperature and humidity have dropped, and we bid farewell to our disaster capitalist.

Could I see him as a friend? Certainly with his polar opposite worldview and comparatively brief body of life experience, I could enjoy many conversations delving into his thoughts and theories, just to hear them. I'd definitely have myriad questions to ask him.

While I'm sitting here typing this, the phone rings despite the relatively late hour. "Are you with a man?' asks FotoBoy - aka he who appreciates my enthusiasm for life - in a hushed voice as if someone might be listening.

Only a really good friend would have the nerve to call at this hour and check on whether I'm alone or not and then ask about lunch plans. But come on, friend, have we met? Do you think I'd answer the phone if I weren't alone?

And yes to lunch, always yes to more conversations. They're the stuff that the best friendships are made of.

Praise the Walk, Man, Praise the Walk

'Tis a day for avoiding the green.

Setting out on my walk, I couldn't do my westward circuit because of Shamrock the Boulevard and I wasn't going anywhere near Shockoe Slip due to the Sine Irish Pub Festival. The low line and Chapel Island were definitely out because of the vomit-inducing Blarney Bash in the Bottom, which left me bound for the river.

Walking down Fifth Street just before noon took on shades of Bourbon Street when I spotted a middle-aged foursome walking along while sipping on wine from glasses hung from embarrassing neck strap wine holders. That was my reminder that this was the weekend of the Virginia Wine Expo at the Convention Center, but a better point might be, how the hell did they get out of the building with wine in their glasses?

With a little weaving going on and a whole lot of loud talking, it was obvious that since it was only 12:30, they must have been at the Expo the moment it opened. Passing them, I overheard that they were in search of food and slowed down to investigate.

When they told me they were on their way to Penny Lane Pub, I couldn't help but ask why.

"Where should we go?" they asked, as if there were just one answer to that. My question was what they were looking for: filling (probably a good idea given their blood alcohol levels already), healthy ("Do we look like we eat healthy?" the largest guy asked rhetorically), ethnic (no response), within walking distance (absolutely).

My suggestion was Greenleaf's a block away and I backed that up with reasons: the fun and funky vibe that includes an upscale pool hall, the creative and delicious food (that bar toast!), the brightly-colored Mexican artisan-painted portraits of famous pool and billiard players, shoot, I even mentioned how cool the black and white photographs of female pool players from the '50s and '60s hanging in the ladies' room were.

Let's just say they were profuse in their gratitude for steering them someplace they'd never have found on their own. Wishing them bon appetit and continuing down the hill to the river, the large guy called out his thanks again, adding, "Walk a mile or two for me, wouldja?"

A mile or two? Sir, you clearly have a magic mirror at home if you think that's all you need.

When I got near the bottom of the hill, I spotted the female members of a wedding party clustered around the bridge to Brown's Island, the bride wearing a short-sleeved fur jacket while the lavender dresses of her six bridesmaids were partly covered by white shawls.

All of them appeared to be shivering.

As I passed them, the one woman in street clothes looked up from her phone and announced, "They're leaving the limo now," like she was the secret service or something. Presumably, she was talking about the male portion of the bridal party, but the bride didn't look any too pleased at further waiting.

Not the most auspicious start for marital bliss.

Brown's Island wasn't particularly hopping today, although one guy made my day by stopping to ask if he could tell me something. "You're gorgeous," he said apropos of nothing and then moved on. Maybe he'd already been to the Wine Expo, too, though there was no tell-tale glass hanging round his neck so I couldn't be sure.

Near the lip of Brown's Island, not far from where the pipeline begins, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye and realized that two green hammocks were now strung on top of each other between two trees. The occupants looked to be 14 or 15 year old boys and both were staring at their laps.

I couldn't resist.

Are you guys really laying in hammocks by the river in the sunshine looking at phones? Slowly, the top hammock brought his hands up, "I'm carving wood," he explained, holding up a knife and stick. I rained down praise on him, apologizing for my presumption.

From down below, the other boy peered around the side of his hammock. "Guilty as charged," he said sheepishly. "But I'm putting it away now."

My work here was finished.

On the pipeline, I followed behind a couple who, I would wager, were making their maiden foray on the curved and uneven surface, at least judging by their tentative and turtle-like pace. Coming up behind the man, he whispered to his wife and they paused awkwardly so I could pass.

As I was going around the terrified-looking woman trying to perch near the edge so I could pass, she smiled at me brightly and asked, "How are you doing today?" It seemed an odd moment to strike up a conversation but I stopped and answered.

By the time I got to the walkway, they were mere specks in the distance. Like I said, real slow movers.

After climbing the ladder off the pipeline, I heard the thundering bass and drums of a live band nearby the moment I stepped on land again, alerting me to the proximity of green beer and drunken revelers. Turning away from it, I headed across Mayo's Bridge.

Near the end, a man on a bike came toward me smiling and calling out, "Praise the lord, woman, praise the lord!" so I answered in kind and somehow lightening didn't strike me dead.

Instead, the insect world attacked. Just like earlier this week when Mac and I'd walked it, black gnats still swarmed along parts of the floodwall, a tad surprising given temperatures in the 30s today.

Walking toward me along the path under the Manchester bridge were parents with a young son on his training wheel bike and while the kid was clearly struggling with navigating on the gravel-strewn dirt, Mom was cutting him no slack.

"You have to learn to ride on rocks or regular," she told him firmly as he wobbled side to side on the pitted terrain. Feeling a little sorry for the budding cyclist, I reminded Mom that riding on gravel is hard and she gave me that "life is hard" look and kept walking.

Crossing the T Pot bridge, I was a little surprised to see 5 kayakers resting on some rocks near the bridge and another 4 or 5 making their way downriver toward them, while behind them were four tubing groups, easily the first of either activity I've seen on the water since before Christmas.

I'd have been less surprised had I seen them on one of the recent 70-degree days and not a chilly, windy one like today, but what do I know about such things?

It's enough just knowing which parts of the city are safe from the green-swilling mob today. As for the sweet-talking wine-swilling hordes, I can handle them any day.

Feed Your Head, Warm Your Hands

It requires a friend of at least 7 years to know my hot buttons.

Perhaps that's how long it takes to know which compliments are going to resonate most with me. Refer to my lifestyle as bohemian? Thank you for noticing. Speak well of long, graceful fingers? I'm gobsmacked. Mention the dimples? Bonus points.

But walk into my living room - not for the first time - and declare that it looks like a salon, well, now I'm eating out of your hand. The fact that he's part of a group holding salon-like events only adds to my pleasure in the comment.

Among stacks of books written by and about women that I've pulled out for rearranging, he points to a copy of "Truevine," asking how I liked it and making a case for how it might have been better accomplished as a work of fiction (agreed).

Seems he went to school with the author back when neither was certain they'd write the books they wanted to. Now they both know better.

Because it was such a beautiful evening, we began with a walk over to 821 Cafe for the sole purpose of introducing him to my favorite black bean nachos and catching up after nearly a month. With the students away for spring break, it was like walking through a ghost town and even 821 seemed like a shadow of its normal state with so few tables and stools occupied.

An ideal place, in other words, to linger over a platter of well-layered nachos and talk about the novelty of simple food, community building through restaurants and the really big news that there's been interest in his book.

Rapid and enthusiastic interest, possibly the best kind.

Stuffed and in need of a walk, we made it as far as Saison Market's patio, understandably hopping with today's warmth tempered by Sunday's forecast of snow, where I amused my visitor with stories of dumb things his people have said to me.

It was somewhere after a story about the western hemisphere that he decided what we needed was some steps to sit on, the better to enjoy the Richmond air and notable citywide quiet.

Conveniently, my house has some and we took up residence there, first on the wide wooden steps of the house and then on the narrower brick steps leading to my door. Every time even a hint of breeze would lift a stem of the rose bush, the scent of hyacinths wafted up to perfume the air.

It's for that reason alone that I plant them.

People walked down the sidewalk a few feet away without even noticing us sitting in the shadows. Mainly, it was only my laughter that gave us away (my grandmother used to remind me that people could hear me a mile away) and got us a wave or two.

The shame was that he had to drive back tonight - the bohemian was not able to convince the smart mouth to stay for an LSD experience - so we called it quits after five hours of constant conversation, comparing memories and all around fast processing, just the way we like it.

With no one to talk to, I need something to talk about, so I made my way to the Bijou for the late screening of "Sunshine Makers," a documentary about two chemists making 750 million doses of "orange sunshine" LSD in the '60s as part of their plan to turn the world on with acid and raise everyone's consciousness.

Turn on, tune in and drop out, preferably rapidly and enthusiastically.

No one could say they didn't have lofty goals trying to change the world through psychedelics. Check that, Ronald Reagan was shown circa the late '60s excoriating LSD makers and users, but what else is new?

What was even more surprising was that these guys had an established distribution network in the form of a commune-turned-hippie-mafia called the Brotherhood of Eternal Love. The footage shown looked like every happy, hippie commune I've ever seen, full of long hairs, granny dresses and barely-clad children. Not a bra in sight.

Equally fascinating were the interviews with the women who not only dropped acid with them but assisted with their drug-making operations. To a person, they rhapsodized about the mind-expanding qualities of the LSD experience and the noble goals of trying to make LSD therapy available to the masses.

Now in old age, one of the women is again the girlfriend of one of the sunshine makers, although she makes it clear that, "We're partners and lovers, but not under the same roof."

Proof positive that LSD doesn't fry your brain. Speaking of, seems to met a little space doesn't hurt a good friendship much at all.