Castaways

Thinking back to your childhood, what changes did you go through in a four-year span? Four years is a long time in the life of a child. I remember thinking after each Christmas that Santa's next visit would take forever. Meanwhile, without even realizing what was occurring, I was going through amazing changes from one year to the next.

The growth of a child doesn't wait. It cannot be put "on hold." I've always thought it strange that I don't remember my infancy, when my mental and physical development was at its peak. Living each hour was an explosion of experiences that refined my motor skills, vocalization capabilities, cognitive thinking, and ability to interact with the world around me.

As I learned the basics of moving, talking, eating, and controlling my bowels and bladder, my parents also taught me how to interact with other people. They taught me to use good manners, obey rules, consider the safety of myself and others, and share my toys. My parents were the stewards of my development. I am grateful that I had such loving and responsible guardians.

I feel a bit unsettled today. I'll tell you why, and maybe you can help me out by sharing your comments with me. I had mixed feelings when I heard about Florida's State Supreme Court decision concerning gay adoption. For those of you who may not have heard, a judge ruled that the state law blocking gays from adopting children is unconstitutional.

Why do I have mixed feelings? First of all, I am happy about that decision. The state, though, intends to appeal it. They think it is horrifying. They cite studies that show that gays are more likely to abuse drugs and alcohol, and that gay relationships are less stable than heterosexual marriages. I am sure that we will be treated to newscasts of outraged citizens bitterly denouncing the judge's ruling.

Where are these people when it comes to opening their homes to foster children? For years the state of Florida has been using gay households as dumping grounds for the "undesirable" children in need of foster care. Does the kid have mental, physical, or behavioral problems? Are they "too old" to adopt? Diseased? Ugly? Halt or lame? Stick those kids on the list for queers. Hell, they'll take any scraps we throw them. We'll save these shiny-looking kids for the choosy heterosexual foster parents.

Let me be clear. I think these kids are valuable. But the state of Florida does not. Otherwise why would they have allowed these two children to live in foster care for four years with gay men, when the state's position is that their home is unfit and dangerous for adoption?

Here's an interesting quotation pulled from a news article:

John Stemberger, chairman of a successful drive earlier this month to pass a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage in Florida, called the ruling
"classic judicial activism" and predicted it would be reversed on appeal.
"Everywhere in the law where children are affected, the standard must always be what is in the best interest of the child," said Stemberger, an attorney in Orlando. "What is stunning to me is that when it comes to dealing with gays, that standard goes out the window. Children do better with a mother and a father."

Oh, really? How many children does Mr. Stemberger foster in his pleasant home? In the landmark case the children are ages 4 and 8, and have been in the care of Martin Gill and his partner since 2004. That's a lifetime for one child, and half a lifetime for the other.

When I was a teenager, over half of my close friends were being raised by single parents, resulting from unsuccessful heterosexual marriages. Of the others, two lived in homes with unhappily married parents. One friend broke down in tears one afternoon and told me that her parents' marriage was horrible; her father had slept on the couch in the den for years and was an alcoholic. From the outside, she seemed to be from an all-American home, but the emotional turmoil inside that home had her marrying the leader of a religious cult within a few years. Having a mother and a father coexisting under the same roof did not make her "do better."

Awhile back I saw a documentary about two gay men, both nurses in a pediatric AIDS unit, who took five children into their home that no one else wanted. They fed them, clothed them, educated them, hauled them to after-school activities if they lived long enough, kept them on their individual daily medicines, disciplined them, and loved them. One of the fellows gave up his career to provide at-home care to these sick children. The film is We Are Dad, and here is what one viewer had to say about it:

By chance I had the honor to see We Are Dad. It totally changed my mind regarding adoptive gay parents. I grew up with the (wrong) notion (given to me
by the adults around me) that gay parents couldn't provide a healthy medium for a developing child to be raised in. Come on! How many nuclear families screwed up their kids. And these two gay guys are the best. After seeing it and pondering about it I am a lot more inclined to be all for gay marriage and adoption by gay parents. I am really glad I saw this factual film. It opened my eyes, mind, and heart. I recommend to anyone to see it. You will have more facts with this documentary on which to base your opinions so you can also give it established on some ground and not only on discrimination and narrowness of mind like I did.

Florida should put its money where its mouth is. If they think gays make unsuitable parents, then don't use them as foster parents. Let the straight Floridians take on the burdens from broken heterosexual relationships. Instead, the state says that gay households are unfit for adoption, but sees no hypocrisy in funneling its unwanted children into them for foster care.

Now, with this recent court decision, it will be interesting to see how Florida, and the rest of the nation, reacts.

Virginia Byways

I'm so grateful that gas prices have dropped, because one of my favorite things to do is hop in the car with a friend and explore the two-lane highways of Virginia. Richmond is geographically convenient for day trips that will let you be at the Atlantic Ocean, Blue Ridge Mountains, Chesapeake Bay, Colonial Williamsburg, or our nation's capital in less than two hours.

Spurred by Suzanne's wedding, I finally bought a digital camera. I love it! It's just a basic model, a Panasonic Lumix, but it has a lot of features for $150.00. Some of the available settings for taking photos I will probably never use. In addition to what I would expect (portrait, scenery, sports), I can select soft skin, food, party, candle light, baby, pet, sunset, starry sky (the van Gogh setting), fireworks, beach, snow, aerial, and underwater. Some of these options have come in handy, but I usually use the point & shoot setting.

I thought I'd show you some photos from a few recent jaunts.

Jeffrey & I took a ride up to Montpelier, the home of James Madison. Montpelier is an estate in the foothills with a view of the Blue Ridge Mountains - the frontier, back in Madison's grandfather's time. The original house was a modest frame structure, built by Madison's grandfather. Madison's father built a handsome brick Georgian house in 1764, which James Madison enlarged with two separate expansions. In the early part of the last century, the plantation was purchased by William duPont. The duPonts slapped pink stucco over the original Flemish Bond brick, and added wings, rooms, and bathrooms until the twenty-two rooms numbered fifty-five.

In 1983, heiress Marion duPont bequeathed the property to the National Trust for Historic Preservation, and a colossal restoration project began in 2003. All of the duPont additions were dismantled, and the pink stucco was painstakingly removed. Now the restoration is nearly complete, and it is a marvelous place to visit. I'll probably write more about Montpelier, but I'd better get on with the photographs before I get too distracted by the Madison story. The picture below shows the front of Montpelier, and the one below that is the view from the veranda atop the west wing. Note the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance.




A few weeks later, Sheldon & I piled in the car and headed to Madison County. We passed very close to Montpelier, and headed northwest. Our goal was Yoder's Market, operated by Mennonites on a country road. It's one of those places you wouldn't find unless someone clued you in. I love going there to buy baking goods. This time, my items included raw sugar, dried cherries, pitted dates, baking cocoa, dark brown sugar (which makes the dark brown sugar from a grocery store look sand-colored), macaroon coconut, and various spices. Sheldon bought a slab of Amish butter, and a bag of dried hominy, and some other items. He also bought sticky buns, which we ate in the parking lot. The market is on farm-like land, and there were goats in a side pasture that came dashing up to the fence, sensing that Sheldon was an easy mark. Sure enough, Sheldon purchased several handfuls of food from the modifed gumball machines beside the goat pen.



Our ride happened in the nick of time to see autumn leaves. Although some trees had peaked, many were still boasting brilliant reds, yellows, and ambers. The day was sunny and invigorating. After we shopped at Yoder's, we drove to Madison Courthouse and ate at the Pig & Steak. Isn't that a fabulous tell-it-like-it-is name for a restaurant? Remember your favorite Vegan this season with a gift card from Pig & Steak.

After lunch we drove down through Charlottesville, past Jefferson's famous Rotunda at the University of Virginia, and south to Scottsville. Along the winding road, we stopped to admire a simple hillside, pictured below. By the time I got my camera out, a cloud had obscured the sunlight that lit up the bright yellows, but it is still a nice picture which shows the rolling hills surrounding Charlottesville.



Scottsville is a pleasant town of about 550 people that sits on the edge of the James River. It was the westernmost major commerce point in the region during the 1700's. Before the train came into use, agricultural goods from the Shenendoah Valley were brought to Scottsville to be transported by water to Richmond and the sea. Hatton Ferry, just west of Scottsville, is one of two operational poled ferries in the nation. There are several beautiful old buildings in Scottsville, including the charming little church shown below.



This past weekend, it was time for another Sunday drive with Jeffrey. This time I aimed the car to the east, and we drove to Virginia's Middle Peninsula. We roamed around West Point, Urbanna, and Deltaville before coming to the road's abrupt end at Stingray Point. The name was coined in the 1600's when Captain John Smith was stung by a ray while fishing. It was a life-threatening injury, but he was saved by Indians who brought a natural remedy from a nearby creek. As a way of expressing our thanks to the natives, we proceeded to take everything that was dear to them, consign them to barren, unwanted land, and turn them into alcoholics. Happy Thanksgiving to all Native Americans! Pack some Manifest Destiny in your peace pipes and smoke it!



The picture below is from the bridge into Urbanna. This is a quiet town, unless you attend the annual Oyster Festival. The Urbanna Oyster Festival is wildly popular, for reasons that bewilder me. Friends of mine had a river home nearby, and invited me down for the festival each year. One tent was famous for its oyster fritter sandwiches, and I watched with fascination as the cooks scooped the batter-fried oysters out of the bubbling vat of oil, squeezed about a quart of steaming fat out of each fritter, and slapped it between two slices of white sandwich bread before handing them to my friends. The bread soaked through with oil immediately, and my friends had to eat rapidly. Oil smeared their lips and fingers. They encouraged me to eat, but I demurred. About fifteen minutes later, they complained that their stomachs felt like lead.


Along the highway, we passed a street sign. The inclusion of rural areas in the Enhanced 911 system requires that every household be assigned a definite street address, so roads previously known by route numbers now have names. Below is one we found interesting.



I know, I know, but it was startling to see as we were zooming down the road. I had to turn around to take a picture. There's a street in Ashland, a town just north of Richmond, that has a name that is as bad - if not worse. Lickinghole Road. I kid you not. You can run it through Mapquest if you don't believe me.

Home again, home again! That concludes today's glimpse of Virginia, with the exception of a snapshot I took one morning this week. Below is Lee Circle on Monument Avenue. Thanks for dropping by, and Happy Thanksgiving!

The Holiday Meal (redux)

It's that time of the year when everything seems to go faster and faster. I have a list in my head of all the things I'd like to accomplish during the holidays, but I'm taking a realistic attitude toward everything. If some items do not get crossed off the list, the world will probably keep spinning. Most holiday stress, even though it is fueled by merchants and media hype, is self-induced. I'm going to take a look at the things I am happy to have, instead of the things I lack.

I hope everyone takes time to relax during the upcoming days, and spends some time with love ones. In the spirit of Thanksgiving cheer, I'm dusting off an older post. Have a safe and happy Thanksgiving!


Debbie carried the last steaming dish into the dining room and positioned it on the beautifully laid table. She beamed at Don, noting with approval that her husband had already carved half of the turkey. Her children, Corey and Chelsea, were just seating themselves, and Steve and Susan were placing their napkins in their laps.

"This looks good, Mom," said Corey. "I'm starved!"

The mingled aromas of roast turkey and dressing, fresh rolls, candied yams, and pumpkin-spice tapers hovered over the assembled family. Everyone looked freshly scrubbed and well-dressed, and the polished silver gleamed in the mid-afternoon light.

Another Holiday Meal with the family.

"Shit!" cried Don, a streak of blood splashing from his thumb to the off-white carpet as he staggered toward the kitchen. "Are you trying to kill me with them damned sharp knives?"

"Sweetie, do you need help?" Debbie called after her husband. "Here, Susan, will you start passing the vegetables while I check on Don?" Debbie hurried into the kitchen, and Don's slurred curses were muffled as the door swung shut behind her.

"Here, y'all, just pass me your plates and I'll load them up," declared Susan, grabbing a plate from Chelsea's place beside hers. "We need to fatten you up, Chelsea! But, you know, I think your face looks a little bit fuller than last time I saw you."

"Oh, God! Really?? Am I fat?" Chelsea bolted from the table.

"Gimme her plate. I'm hungry," Corey yelled, reaching out a pudgy hand to take Chelsea's brimming plate.

"Boy, you look like you done started Thanksgiving way back in January," sneered Steve. "Say, is that eye-shadow you's wearin'?"

"As a matter of fact, yes it is, Uncle Steve. But don't worry, I didn't steal yours, or the panties I found in your man-purse...oh, sorry, satchel," retorted Corey.

"Er, I'd better check on Chelsea. See if she needs help," sputtered Steve, heading toward the bathroom, where the sound of retching could be heard.

"Steve, you stay away from that girl," shrilled his wife Susan, frantically.

"Here," Corey grabbed the plate from a distracted Aunt Susan along with two extra rolls, and lumbered off down the hall. "I'm eating in my room."

Debbie's tearful muffled voice came through the kitchen door, "Don, put down that damned bottle. You promised! Give it to me now!"

"Stay away from me, Uncle Steve! I don't want you to rub my back!" Chelsea screamed from the bathroom.

Susan, alone at the table, looked around sadly. "What was that weird looking stuff in the green beans?" she wondered. "Didn't Debbie know that Rachel Ray said you should never try anything new or different at a Family Holiday Meal?"


I hope your Thanksgiving dinner fell somewhere between Norman Rockwell Advertisement-Unreality and Totally Dysfunctional Family Ordeal.

Facts In Five

I still enjoy playing board games, and I loved them when I was a kid. My grandfather & I played Uncle Wiggily every day when I came home from kindergarten during his last visit to Virginia Beach. My friends and I played Monopoly, but I don't remember ever finishing a game. Every family had its favorites: Parcheesi, Sorry!, Checkers (regular and Chinese), The Game of Life, Clue, Scrabble.

Television provided fertile ground for game seedlings, but most died before the show went off the air. Here are a few shows that sprouted board games: I Dream of Jeannie, Gunsmoke, The Addams Family (and, of course, The Munsters), My Favorite Martian, Man from U.N.C.L.E., The Brady Bunch (and Partridge Family), Dragnet, Gomer Pyle, Get Smart, 77 Sunset Strip. There were many I'm leaving out; if you had a favorite, feel free to tell us about it in a comment.

Popular culture inspired quite a few game crafters. In 1962 a game appeared called The Kennedys, and the box showed a creepy Mt. Rushmore-like illustration of Kennedy heads in a mountain. All but two are dead now, and that count could have changed as I type this. Mystery Date was another pop-culture game, and I secretly wanted to join the girls down the street when they played it.

In 1891 you could play The Errand Boy, which sounds like the title of a gay porn movie. Or so I've been told. There was a board game called Grandmama's Improved Game of Useful Knowledge offered by the McLoughlin Bros. in 1887. I guess it was a precursor to Trivial Pursuit.

My own grandmother developed a mania for Aggravation in her later years, and would ensnare visitors to play it with her at her kitchen table. She could play it for hours. My mother would mutter that the game had the right name when Grandma called her to the table. Grandma's arthritic hands would have fared better with Trouble's Pop-O-Matic dice rolling system of gaming technology.

On one of our family trips to Iowa, my cousins Scott & Steve introduced me to Facts in Five, a timed game of knowledge from the bookshelf game series by 3M.

Hmmm.

Five.

That reminds me of something...now what is it?

That human beings and other primates have five digits on each hand as well as five toes on each foot?

No, that's not it.

Possibly, I'm probably thinking that No. 5 is the name of the iconic fragrance created by Coco Chanel. Or that in radio communication, the term "five by five" is used to indicate perfect signal strength and clarity. Perhaps, at the back of my mind, I'm pondering how five is the atomic number of boron. Or...The Jackson Five???

Probably, though, I'm thinking about my buddy Scott, and that his five year sobriety anniversary is tomorrow, November 18. I'm really thrilled for him. He's a good friend in sobriety, and his website is a daily source of inspiration and gratitude. And he's smark with a paintbrush, as you can see here.


You can click right here if you'd like to wish him well.

I wish you a Happy 5th, Scotty! It's quite a milestone, and that's a fact.

That Darned Dog!

I got another amusing story in my mailbox from my cousin Shelley in Iowa. I'll include it below, but it made me think of a couple of dogs I used to share living space with in my younger days. Before I share my recollections of Ivy and Calpurnia, here's the story Shelley sent me.

Jasper and the Unbaked Yeast Rolls

We have a fox terrier by the name of Jasper. He came to us in the summer of 2001 from the fox terrier rescue program. For those of you, who are unfamiliar with this type of adoption, imagine taking in a 10 year old child about whom you know nothing and committing to doing your best to be a good parent.

Like a child, the dog came with his own idiosyncrasies. He will only sleep on the bed, on top of the covers, nuzzled as close to my face as he can get without actually performing a French kiss on me. Lest you think this is a bad case of 'no discipline,' I should tell you that Perry and I tried every means to break him of this habit including locking him in a separate bedroom for several nights. The new door cost over $200. But I digress.

Five weeks ago we began remodeling our house. Although the cost of the project is downright obnoxious, it was 20 years overdue AND it got me out of cooking Thanksgiving for family, extended family, and a lot of friends that I like more than family most of the time. I was assigned the task of preparing 124 of my famous yeast dinner rolls for the two Thanksgiving feasts we did attend. I am still cursing the electrician for getting the new oven hooked up so quickly. It was the only appliance in the whole darn house that worked, thus the assignment.

I made the decision to cook the rolls on Wed evening to reheat Thurs am. Since the kitchen was freshly painted, you can imagine the odor. Not wanting the rolls to smell like Sherwin Williams #586, I put the rolls on baking sheets and set them in the living room to rise for a few hours. Perry and I decided to go out to eat, returning in about an hour. The rolls were ready to go in the oven. It was 8:30 PM.

When I went to the living room to retrieve the pans, much to my shock one whole pan of 12 rolls was empty. I called out to Jasper and my worst nightmare became a reality. He literally wobbled over to me. He looked like a combination of the Pillsbury dough boy and the Michelin Tire man wrapped up in fur. He groaned when he walked. I swear even his cheeks were bloated.

I ran to the phone and called our vet. After a few seconds of uproarious laughter, he told me the dog would probably be OK, however, I needed to give him Pepto Bismol every 2 hours for the rest of the night. God only knows why I thought a dog would like Pepto Bismol any more than my kids did when they were sick. Suffice it to say that by the time we went to bed the dog was black, white and pink. He was so bloated we had to lift him onto the bed for the night.

We arose at 7:30 and as we always do first thing; put the dog out to relieve
himself. Well, the dog was as drunk as a sailor on his first leave. He was running into walls, falling flat on his butt and most of the time when he was walking his front half was going one direction and the other half was either dragging the grass or headed 90 degrees in another direction. He couldn't lift his leg to pee, so he would just walk and pee at the same time. When he ran down the small incline in our back yard he couldn't stop himself and nearly ended up running into the fence. His pupils were dilated and he was as dizzy as a loon.

I endured another few seconds of laughter from the vet (second call within 12 hours) before he explained that the yeast had fermented in his belly and that he was indeed drunk. He assured me that, not unlike most binges we humans go through, it would wear off after about 4 or 5 hours and to keep giving him Pepto Bismol. Afraid to leave him by himself in the house, Perry and I loaded him up and took him with us to my sister's house for the first Thanksgiving meal of the day.

My sister lives outside of Muskogee on a ranch, (10 to 15 minute drive). Rolls firmly secured in the trunk (124 less 12) and drunk dog leaning from the back seat onto the console of the car between Perry and I, we took off. Now I know you probably don't believe that dogs burp, but believe me when I say that after eating a tray of risen unbaked yeast rolls, DOGS WILL BURP. These burps were pure Old Charter. They would have matched or beat any smell in a drunk tank at the police station. But that's not the worst of it. Now he was beginning to fart and they smelled like baked rolls. God strike me dead if I am not telling the truth! We endured this for the entire trip to Karen's, thankful she didn't live any further away than she did.

Once Jasper was firmly placed in my sister's garage with the door locked, we finally sat down to enjoy our first Thanksgiving meal of the day. The dog was the topic of conversation all morning long and everyone made trips to the garage to witness my drunken dog, each returning with a tale of Jasper's latest endeavor to walk without running into something. Of course, as the old adage goes, 'what goes in must come out' and Jasper was no exception.

Granted if it had been me that had eaten 12 risen, unbaked yeast rolls, you might as well have put a concrete block up my behind, but alas a dog's digestive system is quite different from yours or mine. I discovered this was a
mixed blessing when we prepared to leave Karen's house.

Having discovered his 'packages' on the garage floor, we loaded him up in the car so we could hose down the floor. This was another naive decision on our part. The blast of water from the hose hit the poop on the floor and the poop on the floor withstood the blast from the hose. It was like Portland cement beginning to set up and cure. We finally tried to remove it with a shovel. I (obviously no one else was going to offer their
services) had to get on my hands and knees with a coarse brush to get the remnants off of the floor. And as if this wasn't degrading enough, the darn dog in his drunken state had walked through the poop and left paw prints all over the garage floor that had to be brushed too.

Well, by this time the dog was sobering up nicely so we took him home and dropped him off before we left for our second Thanksgiving dinner at Perry's sister's house. I am happy to report that as of today (Monday) the dog is back to normal both in size and temperament. He has had a bath and is no longer tricolor. None the worse for wear I presume. I am also happy to report that just this evening I found 2 risen unbaked yeast rolls hidden inside my closet door. It appears he must have come to his senses after eating 10 of them but decided hiding 2 of them for later would not be a bad idea. Now, I'm doing research on the computer as to: 'How to clean unbaked dough from the carpet.'

I had a dog when I was growing up, and Pebbles was a bright and cheerful companion. Other dogs I've encountered, though, rarely live up to the standards set by my dog, Lassie, or Old Yeller. Take Ivy or Calpurnia, for example.

When I lived with Virginia on Oregon Hill in the mid-80's, one of her friends brought her new puppy over and convinced Virginia to assume ownership. The pup was a little Black Lab, and I suggested the name Calpurnia (not Caesar's wife, but the no-nonsense maid in To Kill a Mockingbird). The sweet, little puppy soon grew into her huge paws, and indiscriminately ate everything she could.

When Christmas came, we decided to decorate a live tree, and I hauled out my collection of hand-blown glass ornaments from Germany. They were quite special, and they had cost a lot. Each one was unique, and they looked great on our tree. One morning I met up with Virginia in the kitchen. As a police officer, she worked some strange shifts, so we hadn't seen each other in a few days.

"So what do you think of our tree?" Virginia asked.
"I love it. I'm glad we put one up," I answered.

"Have you looked at it closely lately? No? Come here. Notice anything?" I honestly didn't see anything unusual. It was still standing; that was a plus in a house with two cats, and a dog who could clear the top of the coffee table with her tail. "Look carefully at the bottom branches. Do they seem to be missing anything?"

Why, yes, they did. Most of my glass ornaments and the tree lights, in fact. Calpurnia had been spending her days munching away at anything she could reach on the tree. She loved the taste and crunch of those ornaments and glass lightbulbs. And she never seemed any worse for the wear, either. The glass was no match for Cal's digestive system.

Just a few years earlier, I shared a house (hovel, actually) with three other guys on Ellwood Avenue. It was my first home away from home, other than the college dorm. My roommate Danny had a Springer Spaniel named Ivy who was as dumb as a box of rocks. Sweet, but stupid, bless his heart.

Another roommate, Clay, found some string trailing out of his bedroom one morning. He couldn't imagine why it was there, so he picked it up, winding it around his hand as he followed the trail. The string seemed dirty and used, and Clay wondered who'd left it strung all over the upstairs of the house.

He tried tugging on it to wind it in, but it was caught on something around a corner, so he kept walking and winding, only to discover when he turned the corner that the string disappeared into Ivy's butt.

Dogs will just eat any old thing. Cats are much more sensible when it comes to their diet.

The Bride of Bennington

Here is the bride moments before she walked down the aisle. Her gown was handmade for her in The Netherlands, and it moved with her beautifully. It looks good in the picture, but even better in motion.
Today I'm posting a few pictures from the wedding portion of my trip, and I'll be back later to tell you details about my weekend in Vermont. It was a heaping spoonful of fun.

Here's the scrumptious cake, with the yellow icing hiding a layer of dark chocolate ganache/mousse/sin-goop sandwiched between dark-as-midnight chocolate cake layers. Note the little Dutch boy & girl kissing on top of the cake.

Here is the future Mister Suzanne and Suzanne's Lady of Honor, Kristen.
I dashed about town with the Bride and the Lady of Honor the afternoon of the wedding looking for large vases. The roses were flown in from South America. The vases are plastic bathroom trash cans from the local Walmart. Sometimes it helps to have a Queer Eye handy for emergencies.

Oh! Woe! What's a girl to do with leftover champagne?
I know! Can you imagine? Leftover champagne??? Clearly, these were amateur drinkers, leaving God knows how many bottles untouched at the end of the evening.

The morning after the wedding, all guests were invited to the groom's parent's home for a delicious breakfast. Here you can see the scattering of autumn leaves on their front lawn. Bennington is a beautiful little town, and I'm glad I was able to be at Suzanne and Brett's Big Fat New England Wedding.

Stay tuned for my solitary pilgrimage to East Dorset, birthplace and burial spot of Bill Wilson, a co-founder of Alcoholics Anonymous. Our Vermont adventure will continue later...

Friday Grin

It's a chilly & gray Friday here in the middle of Virginia, and my head feels like it is stuffed with cotton batting. The weather changes affect my sinuses.

I was happy to see a message from my cousin Shelley in Iowa waiting in my mailbox. She usually sends a laugh on Fridays, and I'll share today's joke with you.

Moms in Therapy

A psychiatrist was conducting a group therapy session with four young mothers and their small children. 'You all have obsessions,' he observed.

To the first mother, Mary, he said, 'You are obsessed with eating. You've even named your daughter Candy.'

He turned to the second Mom, Ann: 'Your obsession is with money. Again, it manifests itself in your child's name, Penny.'

He turned to the third Mom, Joyce: 'Your obsession is alcohol. This too shows itself in your child's name, Brandy.'

At this point, the fourth mother, Kathy, quietly got up, took her little boy by the hand and whispered, 'Come on, Dick, this guy has no idea what he's talking about. Let's go pick up Peter and Willy from school and go get dinner at Mr. Wong's.'

Horses & Eggs

Earlier this month I drove up to Vermont for my Cousin Janet's wedding. First of all, now that the event is history, I can tell you that Cousin Janet is actually my friend since 6th grade, Suzanne. Since "Aunt Magenta" was a model of non-meddling decorum, it is safe to end the masquerade.

I explored different methods of getting from Virginia to Vermont, but my heart was set on a road trip. Traveling by air was barely a consideration. I used to enjoy air travel, but now I'd rather have a spinal tap. I could have saved a lot of money by going up by rail, but I would have arrived in Albany (the nearest train station) at an ungodly hour. Also, I would have endured a lengthy layover in New York, and what's the fun in that if you are trapped in Penn Station by luggage?

I've made car trips to New England before, so I knew that I wanted to take an inland route rather than the I-95/New Jersey Turnpike corridor. From Richmond, I took I-95 as far as Fredericksburg, and then angled up through Warrenton to link up with Route 15, which would take me up to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. This would allow me to bypass most of the Northern Virginia/D.C. traffic, which I wanted to avoid at all costs.

Northern Virginia is a soulless hellhole of six-lane arteries which overlay a network of ancient pig trails. Every neighborhood looks the same, differing only in age. Traffic is fierce, no one is where they want to be at any given moment, and courtesy flies out the car window as soon as keys are inserted into ignitions. I hate driving in Northern Virginia, in case you can't tell.

Imagine my dismay and disgust when I was greeted by a sign reading "Entering Fairfax." Fairfax is the epicenter of the very area I most wanted to avoid. I knew that my mistake would cost me dearly in terms of time. The only thing I could do was extricate myself as quickly as possible, before my soul got sucked out of my nostrils. No time for regrets.

Soon enough, I was back on Route 15 where I belonged. I left Leesburg behind, and crossed over the Potomac River to Point of Rocks, Maryland. Seeing the sign for Maryland reminded me of how excited I would get when I was little, and we would travel as a family to visit my grandmother in Iowa. I wanted to see the sign at each new state, and hated it when I missed one because I was napping.

The road took me through Frederick, and then into the Catoctin Mountains. I waved at Camp David, and gassed up at Thurmont. From there, it was a short drive to the sign welcoming me to Pennsylvania. The road bypassed Gettysburg, which I had planned on driving through to see if a certain diner was still operating, but my detour through Fairfax kept me at the wheel. At the Susquehanna River, I had a grand view of Pennsylvania's green-domed Capitol across the water, and linked up with I-81.

I'm not a fan of Interstate highways, but now I could make good time. Or so I thought. Note to the PA Highway Department: it may not be necessary to narrow the traffic to a single lane for fifteen mile stretches when the workers are only laboring on an expanse of one hundred feet. Just sayin'. This happened more than once.

Pennsylvania gave way to New York state reluctantly, and Binghamton came shortly after the welcome sign to the Empire State. Here, I needed to be sure that I veered off on I-88 toward Albany, so I quickly got on a lengthy call with Sheldon so I could miss the junction. Noticing that I was wayward once again, I got off the Interstate at Whitney Point to check the map. I didn't want to backtrack; there's little joy in that, so I found a two-lane highway that would take me to I-88. This was a happy accident, because it was a beautiful country road, and I went through a charming village called Greene.

Along the way to the right road, I heard a fascinating interview with Oliver Sacks on the radio. Oliver Sacks has written many books, but we may best recognize him for Awakenings, which inspired a movie of the same name starring Robert De Niro. His book, Musicophilia, which concerns the relationship of music to the human brain, was discussed.

I passed by a farm with a sign at the end of its lane which read "Horses & Eggs." I made a mental note of the location, because it's hard to get horses and eggs without making two stops. Small towns, diners and antique shops, and signs like "Horses & Eggs" are why I like the roads less traveled. These make the journey an event to enjoy rather than endure. I felt a simple connection to the unseen people in the houses I passed. We're all on the road together.

It was well dark by the time I reached Bennington, Vermont. I'll be back to tell you about Suzanne's elegant wedding.

This Butt's Reusable

It was splendid to get back to my morning AA group after my trip to Vermont. Our meeting starts at 6:45, and we allow time for silent meditation & prayer at the beginning of each meeting, which always settles my mind and prepares me for the day ahead. Each AA group has a set of members who are usually in attendance. Others appear for various reasons; they may have heard good things about a group from others, they may need a change of routine, or someone grows weary of alcohol abuse, wants a better life, and comes in for the first time.

Given the early hour that my home group meets, some folks who were previous regulars can visit us only occasionally because their careers have changed. This past week, we had a visit from Bob. We rarely see him these days because his work hours shifted earlier this year, so we were all happy to see him walk in.

Bob is a strapping fellow who rides a motorcycle. He is always neat & tidy, and he has a head of beautiful snow white hair, although he is not old. He told me once that his hair started turning white when he was in 5th grade. He grew up in New England, and still has a telltale Yankee brogue.

Bob saw many new faces in the group, so he talked a bit about his former life. His world was littered with wrecked cars, drugs, bags of dope, and cases of beer. His home was filled with partiers, but he always felt alone. Conversations revolved around the procurement of booze and drugs. There was no lasting connection with anyone. Laughter was frequent, but empty and devoid of real joy. Even with a trash bag full of marijuana, Bob was trying to score the next one. There was never enough.

Bob recalled walking through his empty home after a typical party, alone & disoriented. He would poke through the ashtrays for a likely prospect until his bleary eyes decided "This butt's reusable." Then the cycle would begin again as he waited for the store to open so he could buy more beer.

Today Bob holds a steady job as a supervisor of others. His leisure time is spent at meetings, and riding the beautiful byways of Virginia on his Harley with other sober buddies. His bike is always polished and clean, just like Bob, and he no longer is alone in a crowd. His needs are always met.

We were all happy to see our Gentle Giant.

Writer's Blockhead

Yoo Hoo! Lookie who's posting an entry on his blog! Don't get your hopes up...it's just a short note to say "howdy."

I'm sorry I have been away from Planet Bill for awhile. Many of you have left comments or dropped a note in my mailbox asking where I have been. I am doing well. I have been taking road trips, answering the AA hotline many hours each week, exploring the city and surrounding areas, adapting to a new job, and spending less time at home. It's been good for me, but I have missed all my blog buddies, so I need to balance my time a bit better.

Here are some of the highlights I want to tell you about soon:

• touring the Maggie Walker House in the Jackson Ward section of Richmond


• being tipped off by a friend to a great little restaurant called The Black Sheep


• an AA meeting we held outside in the rain because we couldn't get inside a church


• my road trip to Vermont for Cousin Janet's wedding

I also bought my first digital camera (because of Janet's wedding), so you may see my actual photos pop up from time to time. As soon as I get the software loaded on my computer. The photos are accumulating in my camera at present.

Thanks for dropping by, and I'll be checking in on each of you soon. I don't have to work this weekend, so I should have time to roam through the blog universe. In the meantime, have an easy day.