Strange Interlude

One day, our next door neighbor, Mrs. Ranhorne, was summoned to her front door by a knock. When she opened her door, I thrust a naked doll at her and said "Here, you take this doll baby. It's naked, and I can't play with it no more." Then I marched off toward home.

I was probably three years old at the time, and although my mother tried to keep an eye on me, I was lightning-fast and very sociable. I liked to make the rounds. My folks would wake up some mornings to find I had already visited several neighbors. When the Munsons over on Farrington moved away, I was the first in the neighborhood to welcome the new owners, Bill & Sylvia Harris. I had to stand on their aluminum milkbox to reach the doorbell, but I beat the Welcome Wagon by several days.

Mr. and Mrs Ranhorne lived next door, and were quite a bit older than my parents. They had a son who was grown and lived in another section of town. Mr. Ranhorne died when I was still a little boy, and I remember visiting them with my mother when he was sick. He had cancer of the larynx, and had endured a tracheotomy. I stared at him with wide eyes as he smoked a cigarette through the hole in his neck.

Before Mr. Ranhorne died, he and his wife were sitting in their den when they heard ghostly piano notes coming from the other side of the kitchen's swinging door. When Mrs. Ranhorne ventured to investigate, there I sat on the piano bench, fingering the ivories.

After Mr. Ranhorne died, Mrs. Ranhorne was lonely for awhile, but then she found a boyfriend named Smitty. Smitty drank a lot and didn't fit in with the neighbors, but everyone figured if he made Mrs. Ranhorne happy we'd all put up with him. Smitty would try to mow Mrs. Ranhorne's lawn, but it never worked out well.

Smitty would careen around her yard, always sitting side-saddle on the lawnmower, clutching a beer in one bony hand and trying to steer with the other. After a few loop-de-loos and random patterns, he'd get bored and disappear into her house to pass out, leaving her yard a half-mown mess. My mother would sometimes go over to finish the job.

Movable Stairs & Dead Chivalry

I've discovered escalators in the 1950's office building where my office is located. They are hidden behind some doors in back of the elevator bank. Do you remember that weird pinky-beige that was so popular in the late 50's and early 60's? If you do, then you know exactly what these escalators look like. They are in an enclosed stairwell of sorts, and I guess they just rumble along all day, although few people seem to use them.

They came in very handy over the past couple of weeks, because the elevators were verplunkt. First, one elevator broke down, and then, in a sympathetic gesture, the second elevator followed suit. There is a third set of elevator doors, but rumor has it that there is no actual lift, and that the builders just put them there to add an air of solvency and prosperity to the railroad company that occupied the building initially. Finally, the escalator between the first and second floors joined the fun of the mechanical strike. The freight elevator was pressed into passenger service.

Many people grumbled about taking the freight elevator, especially Jessie from Building Maintenance because he had to run the thing up and down all day long. I just took the stairs or the escalator, although I did take Jessie a piece of chocolate cake one day to keep his spirits from flagging. The odd thing is that the moving stairs only go up to the fourth floor, and my office is on the sixth. I conjecture that originally the lower floors were staffed by secretarial pools and general office staff, so they were told to ride the escalators, while the executives took the elevators to the upper levels. Who knows?

I loved escalators and revolving doors when I was a small child. From my vantage point in a department store, I could see the on/off buttons at the base of the escalators, right below where the thick rubber handgrip disappeared. I always itched to switch the machinery off, but the fear of consequences kept me in check. I was also afraid that my shoes would get sucked into those toothy grooves at the end of the ride, and my feet would be mangled. It was part of the thrill of disembarking. It paid to be nimble.

Another thing I remember about shopping with my mom when I was little is the small bells that were scattered through some departments below a sign that said "Ring Bell for Service." I caught hell for that one.

My cousin Janet tried to enlist Aunt Magenta's help with the wedding invitations. Janet has selected them and an order is in preparation for shipment. Janet thought Aunt Magenta could help from home by assembling the invitations, and stamping & posting them. This task, which appeared so deceptively simple at first glance, became such a mare's nest that I offered to accept delivery at my office. I'll do the stamping and mailing, which will be no bother at all for me. I get package delivery all the time at work. I got a breathless note from Aunt Magenta along with the stamps, cautioning me to have the post office weigh the invitations to be sure they will not require extra postage. Noted.

The other day as I was returning from the bank to the office, I noticed a woman ahead of me a ways down the hall. She was, I can only assume, returning to her workplace from the ladies room. She wore slacks, and a blouse intended to hang loose all around. A casual, professional look. The problem was that half of the back of her blouse was tucked into her underwear. As I debated the wisdom of hollering "Hey, lady! Your blouse is stuck in your drawers from your trip to the loo!" she disappeared into the office across the hall from mine. Thank goodness! I don't know her, and she may have been mortified to see me ever after. She works in a suite of off-site university offices with several other women, and I'm sure one of them was happy to smugly point out her wardrobe malfunction. I'm still not sure if I was chivalrous, or merely shirking an unpleasant act of decency.

Oh, and the coolest thing about taking the stairs occured to me after one of the elevators was repaired. Just a little over a year ago, I was too weak from malnourishment and alcohol abuse to make it up the stairs in my own home. I am grateful that today I have the good health and stamina to walk up to the sixth floor. So I still take the stairs a couple of times each day.

A Stressless, Strapless Wedding

My cousin Janet is planning her wedding, which will take place this autumn. Janet and her fiance live several time zones away from Janet's mother, my Aunt Magenta. Although the romance between Janet and Brad has been smoldering for nearly thirty years, the relationship flamed a few years ago. Brad's proposal came suddenly and unexpectedly a couple of weeks ago, so Janet is planning a small wedding in a hurry. Everything is falling into place beautifully, mainly because Janet is focusing on the outcome instead of fussing over the inconsequential effluvia.

Enter Aunt Magenta.

My aunt is a delight to know. We talk on the phone from time to time, and I always find her intelligence and inquisitive nature stimulating. She's very detail-oriented, however, and it is killing her that she cannot provide more assistance with the wedding plans. The wedding will be at Point A, Janet lives at Point B, and Aunt Magenta is located at Point C. Hundreds of miles separate each location.

To be blunt, my aunt has control issues. Giving her information is like handing over a loaded gun.

Janet is handling everything skillfully from afar - invitations, gown selection, catering arrangements, reservations for the big event and guests' lodging, and more. But she is slowly losing her grip on sanity because of the barrage of questions from Aunt Magenta. To be fair to my aunt, Janet is her only child, and this is her baby's first wedding.

Aunt M's queries and cautionary advice seem to pop in just when they are least helpful. I told Janet that the Good Lord aligned the stars & moon so that she would be far from Aunt Magenta until the wedding weekend. Otherwise, there would be bloodstains all over the wedding dress when she walks down the aisle. "Imagine what it would be like if the two of you lived under the same roof as these wedding plans develop," I told Janet. Here's what comes to my mind:

(2:30 a.m. A dark bedroom)

Aunt M: (tapping softly but insistently - sotto voce) Jannie? Jannie, are you awake?

Janet: mmph...wha???

Aunt M: Oh, good. Listen, when you called the caterer today, did you remember to ask her about the napkins? Because I was remembering the napkins at Dottie Chrysler's rehearsal dinner. They were scratchy and they smelled - I don't know - musty...like they had been bought at a surplus store. You know there was a paper mill outside New Orleans that was devasted by Katrina, and I wondered if some distributor bought them cheap and resold them to Dottie's caterer. You know things like that happen, don't you? Well, never mind, you're using cloth napkins, but they could still be musty.

Janet: glrgh

Aunt M: I know, it's criminal. The things people get away with, it really makes me angry. What did she say about the beef? I'd rather she didn't serve beef, but if she is you should ask where it comes from.

Janet: blorfmg

Aunt M: I don't just mean who she bought it from, either. I'm talking about provenance. They track all the cows now with micro-chips or something, so she should know these things. That Mad Cow disease hasn't really gone away, you know. Oh, God, I just wish Brad didn't eat beef, Janet! It really worries me! Have you told him how it affects the filtration system? It just wears the body down. He should pay more attention to these things. He's a smart man, so I just can't understand why he doesn't care about his diet.

Janet: Mom...please...

Aunt M: Hey, listen, wasn't it unbelievable that the post office workers were so rude about selecting those stamps? I mean, this is important, and if you can get prettier stamps of lesser value and combine them on the envelope...well, they should know that these things take time to decide. They really need more postal workers at that station.

Janet: Mom, I'm exhausted. What time is it?

Aunt M: Oh! Let's see...here, let me flip this light on...

Janet: (screeches - throws covers over head)

Aunt M: Oh, it's nearly three in the morning. Janet, you should get to sleep. We need to be up early tomorrow to see about that veil. I still say it should be Italian lace, and that was NOT Italian lace, no matter what they said. Let me tell you, when I stayed at that convent outside Rome in 1953, I saw what Italian lace looks like.

Janet: (weakly) Mother...the light...please, please, turn it off.

Aunt M: Well, I just turned it on because you asked for the time. It's late. Go to sleep. I'll ask you about the peau de soie pumps in the morning. I'm still thinking more eggshell than cream, but it's your wedding.

Janet: I'm wide awake! Let's talk about them right NOW!!!

Aunt M: Jannie, I'm tired, I need to get some sleep.

(Note: the names have been changed, so that I cannot be sued)

McSick

I've been transcribing more of my mother's diary entries onto her blog today. I'm up to March, 1964, now. At this point, my grandparents are visiting from Iowa, and here's how a Friday in March reads:

Hank came home at 9:30 & got Billy - took him to base for haircut - we went to Roosevelt Gardens Shop. Center to Woolworth's & Rose's - ate dinner at McDonald's - then went to Miller's - Billy messed his pants in there - after coffee Mom, Billy & I went to Ship's Serv. & the Commissary - Billy messed his pants twice more - Mom was sick tonight - We were suppose to go to Dearmon's & called it off -

Probably a good call, Mom, unless the Dearmon's had those clear plastic slipcovers on their upholstered furniture. I'm guessing that McD's was the culprit since Grandma got sick, too. In March '64 I would have been four, and I went through the hair-raising diary entries about my potty training quite awhile back. When I was transcribing those dreary days I thought I would scream if I read "Billy messed his pants" one more time, and - damn- it turns up again like a bad penny.

I haven't eaten anything from McDonald's for at least a year, although there's a brand new one close to my home. It's constructed in the hamburger kingdom's latest architectural style. In 1964 the McDonald's in Tidewater looked like a bathroom turned wrongside out, all white tile with red tile accents, and two golden arches soaring over the sides of the building. There was no indoor seating. There were no Big Macs, QuarterPounders, McRibs, McMuffins, Hamburglers, or psychotic clowns wearing bright red wigs. You had a choice of a hamburger or a cheeseburger, one size (tiny by today's standards) bag of French fries, and a small soft drink.

There were a few outdoor tables, but we usually ate in the car. My parents kept an aluminum serving tray under the front seat so that my food wouldn't get smeared all over the red vinyl upholstery of our 1963 Mercury, and after I ate my mother would whirl around in her seat to reach back and give me the dreaded 'spit bath.' Ugh!

My grandparents probably thought that McDonald's was a treat, because I doubt that even today there's a fast food chain establishment in Grundy Center, Iowa. When we visited Grundy County when I was growing up, the nearest McDonald's was thirty miles away in Waterloo. Iowans preferred Maid-Rites, and I do, too. On my last trip to Iowa for a family reunion, my cousins took me to Taylor's Maid-Rite in Marshalltown. I had a Maid-Rite and a butterscotch milkshake, and they were so good that I would have slapped my grandma if she hadn't already taken the dirt nap.

On my 1999 trip to Spain, there was a McDonald's under construction in Almunecar. Suzanne would hiss everytime we drove past it, but once it opened the Spaniards flocked to it. I guess it's a good thing. After all, why should America corner the market on grossly obese children on the fast track to diabetes?

Stuart Court, Chapter One

One of my favorite former residences is a 1920's apartment house on Monument Avenue. I moved into Stuart Court when I was in my early twenties, and I felt like I had truly arrived when I took possession of my sixth floor apartment. When I first left my parents' home, I moved into a spacious but decrepit house with three roommates. In less than a year, I moved to an apartment with one roommate, and about a year later another relocation placed me in my own small apartment in a modest twelve-unit building in the Museum District.

One summer, Suzanne and her roommate Andy decided to move to Richmond after classes ended. They were both students at the University of Virginia in nearby Charlottesville, and the two came to Richmond to hunt for an apartment. I helped them look for a home, and we took a look at an apartment at Stuart Court. The apartment was unsuitable for them, but perfect for me, since it only had one bedroom. I realized that I would have to act quickly to claim this unusual opportunity, so I arranged to sublet my small two-bedroom place to Suzanne & Andy.

When Stuart Court was built in 1924, it was the sole high-rise apartment building on swank Monument Avenue. Today, it is still only one of two. The stone pediment above the front doors is carved with STVART COVRT. I was enchanted with the apartment as soon as I saw the living room, which was spacious and had lovely wall sconces instead of overhead lighting. My favorite feature in the room, however, was the Murphy Bed hidden behind double-doors. The bed had arched matching headboard and footboard when pulled down from its hiding place, and provided an instant guest bed. This solved the one-bedroom problem, since I often had visitors from out of town. Although very practical, it also added a touch of whimsy to the apartment. Scenes from old Laurel & Hardy movies flashed through my mind, but the bed never sprang back into the wall in the night trapping an unsuspecting sleeper.

The dining room was small, but seemed roomy because of built-in cabinets and two walls of knee-to-ceiling casement windows. The room was also five-sided, which added to its charm. Since my sixth-floor dwelling was three storeys above any nearby building, there was usually a good breeze and always a panoramic view. I could easily see the city's baseball stadium, and on Independence Day my guests and I could watch the fireworks from my dining room table.

Another valuable feature, unusual for apartments in Monument's historic district, was the abundance of closet space. There were five good-sized closets, which was a luxury in a one-bedroom unit from this era. I also had storage space in the spooky, rambling basement of the building, and I will describe this cavern in another chapter about Stuart Court.

The galley kitchen was small, but made efficient by ample glass-front cabinets with pull-out cutting boards, and doorways to both dining room and hallway. Although the kitchen was smaller than the one in my previous apartment, it was more thoughtfully designed and usable.

The building was sturdily built with poured-concrete walls, both inside and out. An axe-murderer could have been hacking up my neighbor as she screamed for help and I wouldn't have heard a thing. My apartment was a serene oasis high above Monument Avenue. When I first moved into the building, the upper floors were reached by hand-operated elevators which required a twenty-four hour staff, including two uniformed hostesses by day and a night porter. Life at Stuart Court was like a step back in time, and I will write more about the building, the renowned architect, and the eccentric residents and staff on another day. Day to day life at Stuart Court was anachronistic when I lived there in the early 1980's, and, although the building still stands, this lifestyle is now part of the building's magnificent past. I am very fortunate to have lived there before its notorious decline.

Accompanying photographs:
Top: Stuart Circle, showing the statue of J.E.B. Stuart on lower right and, above the statue, Stuart Court's south wing and part of the central portion of the building.
Middle: Robert E. Lee's monument on Lee Circle, one block west of Stuart Court
Bottom: Stuart Court as it appears today.