Well I'll Be .....damned.

 I had totally lost this blog.  Now it's found.  Guess it was misplaced out there in some space I don't understand at all.  In the meantime, I have started another blog, and just today decided to change that one to a different name.  So if I'm not totally confused, I'm sure you are. I'm not sure I can find it again myself. I'm pretty sure Google Chrome is the key.
I figure I'm writing my jigs and juleps for mostly my benefit anyway.  Anyone else who stumbles across this is welcome.  We just meander about here.

 So welcome back to Walking Woody, aka Still Walking Woody.

Tag-Team Babysitters

A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of joining my friend Faye for a babysitting gig. Here’s how it went.

 

You are invited: to help me babysit

Honorees: 2 adorable grandchildren (Amaya & Selma)

Location of Venue: Richmond, VA

Time: Wednesday ‘till Friday

 

I gotta say, I never hesitated.   Faye and I always have a good time…wherever we’re headed, whatever we’re headed into.  So off we went to Richmond with an open itinerary.  Our charge was to deliver and pick up the girls from school, feed them and put them to bed.  There were no long lists (left by their mom) as to what to feed, when to bed down and how to spend the afternoon hours until lights out.  The details were left up to us and  

we tackled the task with creativity and enthusiasm.

Our location was picture perfect.  The girls live (with their parents) in a beautiful old 3 story townhome in the heart of Richmond known as the Fan District.  Here the streets fan out like the spokes of a wheel, and the traffic roundabouts are adorned with massive statues of mostly Civil War heroes.  (There is one renegade statue of hometown local Arthur Ashe)  Tree lined sidewalks, quaint coffee and bake shops dotted about, and every house spit-spot, make this neighborhood totally charming.  

We walked the girls to school both mornings.  The scene on the school yard corner is truly Norman Rockwell; mothers with strollers, children with scooters, daddies on bicycles and folks just milling about talking and visiting with one another.  They are waiting for a connecting bus to the pre-school, or waiting for the morning bell to ring signaling it’s time to bring the children inside.  And indeed they do.  When the bell rings, everyone…mothers, fathers, grandmothers and fathers and sitters and nannies all escort their darlings into the building, down the halls right into their respective classrooms.  Where, I will add, the teacher is at the door to greet everyone with a cheerful good morning!  It was wonderful!

By 8:45 in the morning, we had adeptly performed our duties and were foot loose and fancy free until 3:15.  It goes without saying (or maybe I should) that we used our time wisely, or at least used it to our liking.  Our “to do and to see” list was much longer than the hours we had to fill.  The only task we had promised to do while in Richmond was to locate a particular beer supply store, and buy George the ingredients needed for his next brew batch.   It took a bit of time to find the tiny hole-in-the-wall, but once we did, the well informed fellow behind the counter took charge, and while we shopped the antique/thrift shops across the street, he pulled things off his shelves, mixed up concoctions and totaled it all up for us.  One swipe of the credit card and we were out of there with two bags full. 

We had a blast.  We shopped ‘till we dropped at every thrift shop in the west end.  We swung by Trader Joes and stocked up on specialty items.  We lingered over sweet, rich coffee at Kuba-Kuba and had French fries for lunch.  Oh, what decadence. 

We found a couple of real treasures…a red leather chair and a wooden porch bench.  Fitting it all into the back of the car was a real jigsaw puzzle, but we were determined.

It was 3:15 before we were half way down our list, and we sped back to pick up the girls.  That’s when the fun really started.  We drove over to Maymont, a breathtakingly beautiful park with 100 acres of gardens, fountains and waterfalls.  The impressive Victorian mansion on the grounds was built in 1893, and the entire property was given to the town of Richmond by the owners for future generations to enjoy.  The park also serves as a sanctuary for injured birds and animals or otherwise endangered species.  We got up close and personal with an enormous pair of black bears, and shared a moment with a fox being served his evening meal. 

In spite of the late afternoon heat, we had a blast.  Selma gave us a solo performance of “It’s a Hard Knock Life” while standing in the middle of the dome topped pergola. We all marveled at the “surround sound” effect the architecture afforded.  We enjoyed several repeat performances. 

A pizza dinner, ice cream cones and bedtime stories topped off our busy day.  Everyone had fun.

I gotta say, I think we handled our job in a responsible and trustworthy manner.  We may even have performed it with a bit of style and grace.

 Humm, just a glimpse into what may lie ahead.   Maybe I’ll need Faye to tag-team with me some day.   Raleigh here we come!

 

 

San Miguel - A Magic Tonic

A few days in San Miguel is like a magic tonic that sharpens the senses at the same pace it eases you into the slow lane.  The only things moving fast are the wings of the hummingbird I’m watching through the open veranda doors.  The terrace walls are dripping with bougainvillea, and the giant terra cotta pots sprinkled about are bursting with color. 

Our long-time friends, Barbara and David, have set up residence in this bucolic, way south-of-the-border town.  Founded centuries ago, San Miguel de Allende is a charming city of narrow cobblestone streets, beautiful churches, and warm hues of brick and stone buildings.  The markets, plazas and jardins are always busy, filled with locals and tourists alike.  Everyone mingles, everyone offers a friendly greeting, and the air is charged with life.  New smells are offered up as you walk past vendors.  I haven’t been tempted or brave enough to try any street food except for the ice cream – la lima – delicioso!

Barbara and David are true locals and know all the best restaurants and where to shop.  Their wide circle of friends, artists, musicians and actors include many fellow Americans (all ex-pats) and Mexican residents as well.  David plays in a band (his brain child) and Barbara belongs to several acting groups doing a bit of everything from improv to miming.   This wonderful group of folks has made us feel quite included and welcome. 

San Miguel is steeped in a rich history of family, religious rites, celebrations, and revolution.  The Virgin of Guadalope is the symbol of all that is holy and good, and her image emblazes everything from shopping bags to stained glass.  There are daily celebrations of parades and fireworks following the religious calendar.  It takes a few days to sleep though the boom of fireworks that begin at midnight on the eve of the honored birthday of any given saint or national hero….and there are hundreds of saints and heroes.  Some obviously don’t rate as high as others…say Christopher Columbus.  The only quiet night we had was Oct. 13….eve before Columbus Day.  The word’s out - he wasn’t such a nice guy after all.   Then there’s Ignacio Allende (hence the Allende of San Miguel de Allende), Captain of the Mexican Army who led the downtrodden masses in the revolution against Spain.  Caught and beheaded, his legend lives on in the hearts of every Mexican.  During the huge Independence Celebration, canons are fired, dancing and music fill the streets, and fireworks light the sky all night.  Festival de los Locos, to celebrate the arrival of spring, is a huge favorite with most persons. 

In age-old tradition, men dress as women, dancing and music fill the streets, and my favorite, the Mojigangas  (stilt-walkers) parade with their elaborate, enormous puppet-like costumes.  Oh, to be in San Miguel on a festival day!

We’ve got five days to take it all in.  Hurry up to slow down.  There’s the market (I’m addicted), the churches, the hot springs, art galleries, botanical gardens, scenic drives, parties, breakfast engagements, lunch engagements, dinner plans, and open houses.  In between, we soak up the sunshine; wander the narrow streets and mill around el jardin.  

      It’s all good.         

Climbing Crabtree Falls

I climbed to the top of Crabtree Falls yesterday.  It was a perfect day offering up crisp Indian summer temperatures.  In all honesty, I didn’t climb to the top…I clawed and crawled my way upward to the summit. 

This outing had been suggested by several “in the know” adventurous folks who touted the beauty of the falls and urged us to go for it.  So venture forth we did. 

Sunday afternoons have long been established as an outing day.   We took off from Farmville with little in mind other than to find the trail; hike it and then top off the day raising a glass at The Devil’s Backbone Brew Pub.  What…four, maybe five hours, max?

We lost the navigation signal two hours into the trip as the road fell away and we climbed into the Blue Ridge.  But even sans signal, not long after we crossed the Appalachian Trail, we pulled into the parking lot at the base of the trail.  After wolfing down our picnic lunch, we meandered over to the trail map and discovered it was a mere 1.7 miles to the top.  Piece of cake. 

Crabtree Falls is the highest waterfall east of the Mississippi.  The first overlook of the falls is just a few hundred feet from the parking lot and is handy for even the faint of heart hikers to view.  Several other sightings of the cascading water are scattered along the trail, but only the most adventurous (as the guide book calls us) make it to the top.

I was feeling rather fit and right spunky as I forged ahead…onward and upward.  The trail was well traveled yesterday and often we had to squeeze to the side to allow someone to pass us…going up, as well as coming down.  As we climbed higher and the path grew steeper, my cocky confidence waivered.  I began to really pay attention to my fellow hikers.  There was indeed a lot of diversity.  Surely I can do this if the Vertically Challenged lady in the pink high heel flip flops can!  Right?  And there were people with babies strapped to their backs.  And folks handling dogs…on leashes.  I mean, “What are these people thinking,” I thought to myself?  I certainly could not voice that sentiment out loud (to George) because I couldn’t talk at all.  “Just put one foot in front of the other and pray we get to the top soon."  That was my mantra. 

The climb took us two hours.  Two hours!  I can walk 1.7 miles in about 24 minutes on the treadmill.  What’s with that?

Was it worth the climb?  Damn right.  It was a beautiful panorama vista; a meadow vista the guide book calls it.  I call it tops of trees. 

But it wasn’t about the view at all.  It was all about me.  Yep, I was feeling pretty good about myself at that point.  I had made it.

Everyone claimed it was much easier heading down the mountain and I agree.  I have to say; however, that taking teeny-tiny steps while bracing yourself to keep your footing is hard on the knees.  We made the descent in half the time and limped to the porta-potties.

Ready to put Crabtree Falls behind us, we set off to find Devil’s Backbone Brewery with one thought in mind….an ice cold draft.  It was quite close by, only 13 miles, but we headed in the wrong direction and had to make a few detours before we took our spot at the bar.  The brew and food did not disappoint.  You can indulge with sweet abandon when you rationalize how well deserving you are!

It was a sweet afternoon that left me with sore muscles and much to ponder. I’m checking that one off my bucket list.

 

 

 

Touching Base

      

I talked with all three of my children yesterday.  That may not seem like a sentiment worth mentioning, but I find it fairly remarkable.  My children are grown and live scattered about.  One lives in our hometown of Elizabeth City, NC.  One lives 3,000 miles away on the west coast.  And one lives in our state capitol, Raleigh, NC.  I live in Farmville, VA.

With the dawn of cell phones, email and social media, staying “in touch” is easier than ever.  Friends text to connect all day long, often interrupting work or sleep or just about anything one finds themselves doing while toting a phone.  I’ve seen people who should know better, crossing a five street intersection while texting.  And, we’ve all encountered the distracted motorist looking into his or her lap while waiting for an already green light to turn green.  Or, worse still, careening down four lanes astride the middle line. These days you can “reach out and touch someone” as fast as your fingers can move.

I remember when I left home for college in 1968.  My parents suggested that I call home on Sunday evenings – only.  Using long distance more than once a week would have been considered too indulgent.  Like most girls’ colleges of that era, there was one pay phone on the hall.  There were no pre-paid phone cards.  You either had a roll of dimes or you called “collect” through the operator.  I always called collect. 

It was a time I looked forward to…a chance to share my week and find out about things at home.  Just hearing my mom or dad’s voice over the line often put a lump in my throat and tears weren’t far behind.  There’s an intimacy that comes with talking on the telephone.  It’s a precious familiarity of speaking in hushed tones and hearing laughter and noticing pauses in conversation.

We all can recall those special phone calls…the ones that change your life for better or worse.  The good news of a new grandchild, or the relief that she’s (he’s) home safely, or the test results were negative.  All too often however, the phone is a channel for bad news.

During the days before telephones were common at Nags Head, we used to occasionally receive word from the grocery store up the road that they had a phone message for us.  I learned that my x-ray had indeed indicated that my foot was broken, and I must travel back to Elizabeth City to have it casted….for a month, in mid-summer.   And far worse, my mother learned of a dear friend’s fatal accident.

 There have been times when I dreaded answering the phone.   Seems there is no good news at 3 AM.  But regardless of what the call might reveal, I always answer.  We now have the marvelous benefit of caller ID and can anticipate before the “hello” whose voice we’ll hear.  Lately the news is all good.  I feel blessed, and oh - so lucky.

Kate, the youngest, called first thing yesterday morning (as she always does before leaving for work.  She was walking her new puppy and just checking in.  She likes to hear my voice just as I like to hear hers.  You can tell at lot by listening closely.  All is well in Raleigh she reported.   Son John (middle child) called about 5:00 (2:00 Pacific time) as he was riding his bike home from work.  He’s working as a prep chef in a restaurant these days and loving life.  He’s doing a fair amount of surfing on his day off.  Santa Barbara is hard not to like.  He was just touching base I imagine because he knows how much it means to me.  Then low and behold, Jenny (senior child) called me to talk about her day.  She unfolded her day for me as I fried fish (yeah, fried!) for dinner.  Just reaching out.  It was nice.

 

There’s a feeling of completeness after I’ve spoken with all of my children.  I can visualize them in their lives, doing what they’re doing and I know that for now, this day and moment, all is well and right in my world.

Shenandoah Paddle

George and I just returned from three days of paddling two of the most scenic rivers Virginia has to offer.  Mind you, these trips aren’t spontaneous.  Anyone who is paddle savvy, knows that weeks of planning and organizing make the trip more fun.  Emails begin flying after folks check their calendars and sign on.  Reservations are booked, kayaks, canoes and lifejackets are secured. And most importantly, picnic menus are discussed, decided upon and divided up.

Our paddle companions were Mary Anne and Barry, Heidi and John, Phyllis and Margene and Casey and Walter…a great bunch.  What some of us lacked in experience, we more than made up for in enthusiasm and stamina.  There were no whiners on this trip.  Well, one small navigation error almost resulted in mutiny, but one loyal mate offered words of perseverance and we forged ahead.  (this occurred on the way to the river….in the car!)  But, once on the river there was no mistaking which way to go….just go  with the flow.

Four of us from Elizabeth City joined two from Farmville (Faye and Chuck) and spent Thursday (Aug. 15 – George’s birthday)  kayaking on the James River. Putting in at Scotsville, we traveled 13.6 miles and pulled out 4 ½ hours later at Bremo Bluff.  We enjoyed lots of class 1 rapids and a fantastic lunch prepared by Faye (culinary queen extraordinaire)  Just when one thinks the river has nothing else to offer, Faye spotted a huge creature moving in the water.  Who would ever guess a manatee had found its way into Virginia waters?  We didn’t have this confirmed until our return and read the newspapers.

 By 5 PM we told the Greens goodbye and headed towards Skyline Drive and Big Meadows Lodge where we were to meet the group arriving from Elizabeth City.  Pulling a trailer loaded with six kayaks and sporting another one on top, we talked about the day’s trip and wondered about the one coming up…. the Shenandoah!

What a dream…floating down the stream, kayaking on the Shenandoah.  That pretty much sums up Friday and Saturday as our entourage floated, paddled and navigated that majestic river.  With 8 boats carrying 10 people, we can boast that no-one took a spill.  George and I teamed up in a double kayak and did our best to keep the gunnels above the water line.  My role seated fore was to spot upcoming obstacles and potential danger.  For left-handed George, me shouting “paddle left” or “paddle right” doesn’t get it.  He’s never been able to decipher that basic navigational tool.  We settled on using the clock-face.  “Rock ahead at 1 o’clock” worked like a charm.  The last rapids (Compton’s) was a class 2+ and by late Saturday afternoon we were all ready and prepared to take the dive.  All 8 boats rode it down like professionals and hit the tidal pool with big grins.  The tidal pool, by the way, held 500 college kids in tubes….and an extra 200 tubes sporting coolers.  It was a colorful sight.

The rest is all downriver.  We gathered for cocktails and tales on the Keyes’ patio and watched the sunset.  We laughed about near spills and “out-of water” experiences on rocks.  We shared reflections and the after-glow of a shared adventure.  We’re already talking about our next trip!

Surfing Sixties

A feature article in the morning paper about surf legend Bob Holland led me down memory lane.  Everybody who toted a surfboard on the Outer Banks in the sixties knew the name. Years before he made it into the East Coast Surfing Hall of Fame, he was making a name for himself as an east coast champion.  The kids I hung with were into surfing and were lucky to be a beach local from Memorial Day to Labor Day.  Some of us had family cottages, some stayed with friends and some worked jobs that provided lodging (of sorts).  I swear Pat and Julia spent an entire summer in a camper parked in my family’s driveway.  Where there’s a will, there’s a wave.

I started surfing on a chunky orange board I bought from Nancy Wood Foreman.  When Bob Holland teamed with partner Pete Smith to open Smith & Holland Surf Shop in Virginia Beach, I bought my first real board, a 9.5 ft. Hansen Superlight.  I was stoked!

We lived and breathed surfing and the waves were better then.  Maybe it was the position of the sandbars, maybe it was the wave gods, but we almost always found rideable waves.  You could find our crowd on any given day at dead low tide, somewhere between Hatteras and Corolla searching for the waves. Many mornings we were in the water just after sunrise and ride a few before breakfast. A favorite time was just before twilight when the surf often got glassy.  Our evening surfing slowed a bit after an incident with a shark.  There are no causalities to report, just a little too up close and personal.   Sharks aside, not much else could squelch our dedication and enthusiasm…we ignored jellyfish, sea nettles, sting-rays and bone numbing cold water.  I broke my foot one morning and didn’t feel it until lunch due to the freezing water temperature. 

Those were the golden years of surfing.  West coasters had been testing the waters for decades, but in the mid-sixties the sport took off and ignited the east coast in a hot frenzy.  Fueled by top 40 hits by The Beach Boys and dozens of surfing films, we fell into the scene with complete allegiance.  We followed the weather reports and storm predictions.  We skipped school, drove endless miles up stretches of isolated beaches and waited out the red warning flags flying during gale force winds.  We looked out for each other. 

I recall one incident with sober clarity.  It was at the tail end of a storm when the surf was glassy, but the waves were still huge.  Several of us, including myself, George and Allan (my brother) paddled out at the Nags Head Fishing Pier.  It took a while to get out, past the big swells rolling in one after another, and when we finally stopped paddling and turned to sit on our boards, the beach was a long, very long way away.  We were as far as the end of the pier.  Every wave seemed deadly…too big to take off on.  It grew later and darker.  My mother had put the beach towel on the roof to signal it was time to come it now.  I saw it, we all saw it, but we were scared.  Someone decided we should all take off on the same wave.  So, that’s what we did.  Nobody made any effort to stand up. We all caught that wave and rode it like we were riding a raft. 

Surfing’s still big, but it will never impact an entire generation of teens like it did for us. The sixties spawned a culture that made zinc oxide a symbol of belonging .  It forever changed beach fashion and almost invented the bikini. Surfing symbolized our freedom and gave us the rush we so needed.  It was the perfect time.