Flotsam & Jetsam

Isn't that a cute car? I thought it was an old Simca, but the doors make me skeptical. I spotted it on my way to work the other day. It's like a retro version of the smart car. Note the way the front doors open.
(Update: it's a Fiat! Click here for photo evidence)

This post is just a collection of accumulated photos. Bits & pieces from here & there, like debris afloat in the sea. The next three pictures were taken on a day trip to North Carolina last Saturday to see Sheldon's brother and sister-in-law, Bill & Wanda. They live in a lovely old home in Eden, North Carolina. The house was built in 1926.

The first shot is Sheldon in front of the house, and the next photo shows Sheldon and his mom. The third picture is of Francesca, Bill & Wanda's little goat, assisting with groundskeeping.

The area containing the town of Eden was once part of a 70,000 acre estate owned by William Byrd II (who founded Richmond, Virginia, on land he inherited from his father). William Byrd II dreamed of founding a "Land of Eden" by importing Swiss Protestants to his land, but things went awry when a boatload of the settlers perished in a shipwreck off the Virginia coast. William Byrd II died in 1744, the land then passed to his son. Billy Byrd the 3rd was not interested in colonization; he liked to spend money, so he sold off his father's land piecemeal. Scotch-Irish settlers moved into the Land of Eden, and then everything went to Hell, of course.

The Land of Eden (North Carolina version) existed only in William Byrd III's mind, apparently, until 1967 when the towns of Leaksville, Spray, and Draper voted to join hands and incorporate under the new name of Eden. Today, Eden still has remnants of these original towns' distinct business districts. Bill & Wanda were gracious hosts, and drove us all around Eden showing us the sights.







Meanwhile, back in Richmond, Penzey's Spices operates a shop in Carytown. My friend Sherry & I went there earlier this month. We bought some spices and then went to World of Chocolate and Jean-Jacques Bakery. That's Sherry below, selecting some spices to take home.


Last week a couple of friends from Chicago were in town on vacation. They stayed at the Commonwealth Park, which is right across the street from Virginia's State Capitol. I snapped a few photos of the capitol grounds when I picked them up at their hotel.


Thomas Jefferson designed Virginia's Capitol. A new visitor's center opened recently, strangely embedded in Capitol Hill. Jefferson was all about symmetry. He's probably spinning in his grave when he thinks about the new visitor's center.


Thus always to tyrants...we'll step on you and knock your crown off your head.




You can get a glimpse of the Bell Tower in this photograph.


This view is looking south from Capitol Hill.


After I picked up Lauren & Andy from their hotel, we went to dinner at Bacchus, and then took a walk along Monument Avenue to walk off a few calories. I took a picture of them in front of Robert E. Lee's monument. It was a pleasant evening, and we were adopted by a cat who accompanied us for several blocks until we got back to the car. She was happy, well-fed, and wore a collar, so we concluded that she was just being a good Virginia hostess.

Thanks, Dad!

I've had a nice Memorial Day weekend, and it was wonderful having three days in a row to do as I pleased. On Saturday I went with Sheldon and his mom to Eden, North Carolina, to visit his brother & family. We left early, and got back late. Sunday I slept late, and puttered around the house, ending the day at my neighbor Karen's for a cookout. Today I went to an early morning meeting, followed by breakfast with three friends at Joe's Inn. A movie at home and a nap finished up the afternoon.

Over the past few weeks I've been watching Ken Burn's documentary series on World War Two. As I expected, I have learned a lot. My dad served in the U.S. Navy during that war, but he rarely & reluctantly talked about his experiences. He was mainly assigned to the Pacific Theater, and fought at Iwo Jima, Guadalcanal, Bougainvilla, Cape Esperance, Okinawa, and other hot spots. He served on a little ship, the destroyer USS Buchanan, which was one of the first vessels that sailed into Tokyo Harbor after the Japanese surrendered. He witnessed horrific action, and his normally cheerful face looked troubled whenever I questioned him about his war years.

Tonight, sitting in my den watching sitcoms and sipping coffee, I am grateful to my father and the many men & women like him who have made it possible for me to enjoy freedom in the United States. My life is easy, and I give thanks to those who keep me safe.

The Woman Who Knew Too Much

If you are as seriously alcoholic as we were, we believe there is no middle-of-the-road solution. We were in a position where life was becoming impossible, and if we had passed into the region from which there is no return through human aid, we had but two alternatives: One was to go on to the bitter end, blotting out the consciousness of our intolerable situation as best we could; and the other, to accept spiritual help. This we did because we honestly wanted to, and were willing to make the effort. - Alcoholics Anonymous


In late March , I started getting calls from a woman whenever I was assigned to answer the local AA hotline. She became a familiar voice, averaging a call to me about every other day. I feel like I got to know her fairly well over the course of the next few weeks. I'll call her "Leslie."

When Leslie first called, she said she was staying in a motel and needed to get to a meeting, but had no transportation. I had a woman call her to arrange a ride, but by then Leslie was no longer interested. The next day Leslie called back, and the story repeated itself.

A few days later, Leslie was back on the phone, telling me that she had been sober for twelve days and had detoxed herself in a motel room. She bragged about having a master's degree. She said she had been a substance abuse counselor several years ago. She did not realize that she was talking to the same guy who had answered the phone on her previous calls. Some folks seem to think they are dialing an enormous call center when they call the local hotline. I told Leslie that if she had been drinking as constantly and heavily as she indicated, that withdrawal from alcohol should be medically supervised. She said she had been sober for thirteen days, and detoxing was the hardest thing she had ever done. Did I tell you that she sounded quite drunk during this conversation?

"A minute ago you told me that you had been sober twelve days, and now it's thirteen," I said. "You haven't been sober for three hours. In fact, you're drunk now."

Leslie broke down in tears and said I was right. I told her she needed help, and that we could provide the help she needed. She said she would get a pen to write down some meetings, and then she hung up on me.

I'm shortening these conversations, because they tend to go around & around in circles with an alcoholic in their cups, but she continued to call the AA hotline several times each week. Her moods varied; sometimes she seemed filled with hope and ready to accept help, and other times she would be in complete despair. I was brutally honest with her about the disease, but encouraging about her chances if she stopped trying to recover on her own. She would reach out for a helping hand, and then bat it away.

With her permission, I gave Leslie's name and number to K, one of our volunteers who is like a friendly badger when it comes to helping the alcoholic who still suffers. It seemed that we would take two steps forward followed by a step or two back. K was finally able to take her to a meeting, and Leslie drank before K picked her up.

One Saturday at the beginning of May, Leslie called and asked me "How does a person with a master's degree get this bad?" I told her that if she wanted to know the source of her problems, she should look in a mirror. "Be quiet, and listen to me. Sympathy will kill an alcoholic. Your ego is the only thing preventing you from recovery," I said, "and you keep playing with a disease that has three outcomes: you will end up in jail, you will be institutionalized, or you will die. Those are your choices without help, because you cannot fight this disease alone. You want to be special. You are not special, you are not unique, you are not different. It doesn't matter how many degrees you have, you are a drunk. You are not better than or different from all of the other drunks walking this earth.

"I will tell you how you can be special. Out of one hundred hopeless drunks roaming around out there, only ten will make it to Alcoholics Anonymous. Out of those ten, only one will surrender their ego and recover. If you want to be special, then start your recovery. Start returning K's calls and let her help you get to meetings. There is a beautiful world out here for you to enjoy. We want to help you live the life of contentment that is waiting for you. You deserve it, and you can do this." I didn't make any of this up. I used the collective knowledge of thousands before me who have recovered from the misery of alcoholism to lead happy, useful lives.

I got a couple of calls from Leslie the following week. She still was not willing to make any changes, but a spark of something (hope? survival instinct?) kept her picking up the phone to call AA. "If nothing changes, nothing changes," I thought to myself. "Surely I've used that line on her." I kept trying to think of what I could say that might make a difference. I prayed for Leslie each day and asked for guidance.

On Friday the 8th, as I was preparing to close the office, K called me. She had talked to Leslie that morning and arranged to give her a ride to a meeting that evening. Just before calling me, K had dialed Leslie's number to tell her she was on her way to pick her up. A police officer answered the phone and asked K about her relationship to Leslie, and K explained that she was trying to help her. He told K that Leslie was dead.

How many people like Leslie have we lost to this disease? We may never be able to calculate the number. Only a percentage are directly attributed to alcoholism. The CDC reports over 21,000 alcohol-induced deaths in 2005 (excluding accidents & homicide), plus nearly 13,000 alcohol liver disease deaths in that same year. But there are other deaths influenced by alcohol but listed as suicide, heart failure, fire, vehicle accident, drowning, injury, diabetes, anemia, and other reasons that are not included in these CDC statistics.

Leslie was an intelligent, accomplished woman who could not accept her current circumstances. She was unwilling to surrender her self-will so that she could be helped. Her distant past as a substance abuse counselor gave her all the answers she needed, or so she thought. If she had accepted her situation and subdued her pride, she may have later been able to share her experience, strength and hope to help others recover.

Alcoholism plays a cat-and-mouse game with its victims. It bats us around and wounds us, and then sits back and watches us prior to the next assault. Some of us are fooled into thinking we still have control of our situation, instead of realizing that this mouse is dead without outside help. The cat always wins unless a power greater than its claws steps in.

The recovery poster at the top of this post is the work of my good friend Scott, and you may see more of his work by clicking here. Thanks, Scott!

Crispy Critters

There's something I want to write about, but I just haven't found the time yet. This post will have to suffice in the meantime. I wanted to assure everyone that I still know how to type...kinda.

Oh, by the way, those are azalea blossoms up there to the left. Azaleas grow well around here, and are a local hallmark of spring. They look stunning for about a week, and that's it; they're done. But, it's a glorious week when they are all in bloom.

My face is starting to fall off. My arms and legs sting. The skin on my forehead feels taut and dry. I am sun-burned. The inevitable peeling has begun. Still, it's mild compared to the severe sunburn I got a few years ago when I was visiting Suzanne in Spain. I fell asleep on a terrace with a cool Mediterranean breeze wafting over me, and burned myself to a crisp.

Last Sunday I went boating on the James River with Sadie on her new boat. I thought I had everything I needed, but forgot a beach towel and sunscreen. Oops. Did you know that when you are out on the water on a mild, breezy day, you have no idea how much sun you are getting until it's too late? You would think I'd have learned from my Mediterranean Scorchfest.

Even though I am feeling slightly crispy, it was a fun day that I will remember. There were four of us, although the boat will hold up to seven. This allowed room for the snacks we brought. We probably could have lasted all summer on the water with the amount of food assembled. Sadie bought a cute boat; it's white & yellow, with an inboard-outboard motor, very comfortable seats, and a stereo system that broadcasts Gangsta Rap no matter which station is selected on the tuner. Sadie docks her boat at the marina at Rockett's Landing where she lives. Below, Sadie & Dot head out from Sadie's building for the marina.

The weather was clear & mild, and it was a perfect day for an outing. We anchored below the Varina-Enon bridge, and had an informal & impromptu meeting on the James. We laughed & talked & ate, and the three brave girls jumped in the water. I stayed in the boat. There wasn't a lot of traffic on the river since it was Mother's Day. We figured that most people were standing in the parking lot of Outback Steakhouse or Red Lobster clutching pagers.


That's Dot above with Sadie at the helm. The picture below is Candy.


Next we have Jimmy Dean's home. Jimmy Dean is famous for an awful song called Big Bad John, and some darned good sausage.



Across the river and down a ways, we came to an industrial behemoth at the river's edge. This is where Jimmy Dean makes his sausage. Live pigs are brought upriver by barge, and then forced to swim to the sausage factory. You can see the partially opened intake door in the photo below. This method accounts for the superior quality of Jimmy Dean sausage. Only the fittest pigs survive the swim from the barge to the factory. The rest are swept downstream by the current. It is rumored that the producers of inferior sausage (such as Gunnoe's) wait downstream to fish the weaker (and, some assert, dead) pigs out of the water for processing at their own sausage plants. PETA is headquartered down the river in Norfolk, and they frequently have "Save Our Swine" flotillas along this stretch of the James.


You didn't really believe that sausage story, did you? That's actually a power plant operated by Dominion Power. Most of the views along the river are tree-lined and pretty, but you come across some eyesores like this from time to time. Those truly are pictures of Jimmy Dean's home up there, but he sold his sausage empire to Sara Lee back in 1984, and he moved to Virginia in 1990 and built his riverfront home.

Oh, look. There's Dot sunning herself on the stern.


Here we have some scraps of food. A little maritime picnic of hummus, pita, fruit, cheese, chips, crackers, popcorn, and cookies. This photo looks sort of like one of those Hidden Object games. Can you find the hand?


We saw many birds in the air and on the water. This blue heron had found a serene place to perch off mysterious Hatchers Island. Hatchers Island was created when the Dutch Gap Canal cut a more efficient channel along the river's meandering path. We passed under a rickety wooden bridge that spanned the western loop of the old riverway, providing a connection from mainland to island. It didn't look safe enough for foot traffic, but I could see a sign up on the bridge that said "Speed Limit 3." I don't think I've ever seen a speed limit of 3 mph.


A pleasant day on the river comes to an end back at Sadie's home. We all got a bit crispy, but we had a lot of fun & laughter.