What's your point, Vivian?

I ran away from home on Friday, and ended up in New York. The days were peaceful, the vistas clean & serene, and the nights were so quiet that I slept the deep sleep of the carefree man. Most mornings I was up before the sun, and my companions were deer, muskrat, and heron. "New York?" you exclaim. Well, yes, there is more to New York than Manhattan. I was Sadie's guest at her summer home in the Thousand Islands region.

It took quite awhile to get there, but the time spent was well worth it. I love traveling to see new places, especially in the company of friends. Sherry, Robespierre, and I made the journey together, and we returned to Richmond late last night. Sadie's place is on the St. Lawrence River just west of Alexandria Bay. Her cottage is adjacent a the tiny resort settlement on Point Vivian. I'm including several photographs of my daily sightings, all taken from Sadie's porch, dock, or yard. I hope you like them, because I took a lot of pictures, so more are sure to follow. The first snapshot shows my first dawn from Sadie's dock. The second is a view of sunset the same day.



Here's the cottage as seen from the boathouse & dock. Sadie's dad built it in the mid-70's, and subsequent additions expanded the home to a spacious house with plenty of room for guests.


The town of Alexandria Bay is just a ten-minute boat ride (or a couple of miles by land) from Sadie's house. Within walking distance is Point Vivian, a charming resort community established in the late 1800's. I was curious about this hamlet, so Sadie pulled out a booklet about Point Vivian which was written by her Aunt Louise. Louise Gaylord Cooke now makes the old family summer house her permanent home in the riverside neighborhood, and I learned about the history of this settlement from her carefully researched efforts. Bear with me while I share this information with you.

Now known as Point Vivian, the cluster of resort cottages originally had no name. It was just a grouping of small Victorian homes built by inland friends & neighbors who wished to have relief from the summer heat. Little did they know how things would heat to the boiling point in their peaceful enclave.

In the mid-1880's, one of the original residents, Pastor Josiah Clatterbuck, died of a heart attack while fishing one morning. His wife, Vivian, decided to make their small cottage her permanent home. She bade tearful farewells to her summer neighbors when they departed at season's end, and promised to greet them the following summer. Vivian's neighbors told her that they worried about her spending the winter on the isolated point, but her resolve was firm and she steadfastly refused to return to her inland town. She said she was ready to move forward with her life, and she needed to embrace the changes that God was unfolding day by day.

Vivian's lady friends wrote to her frequently throughout the harsh winter, fretting about her safety & comfort. They were relieved when Vivian replied that many of the local fishermen stopped in to provide her with freshly caught food, and even removed the snow & ice from her paths and performed household maintenance. The pastor's widow's melancholy was lifting, and letters began hinting at a gaiety of spirit that Vivian had never dared reveal with her dour husband at her elbow.

Time passed, as it is wont to do, and the summer residents returned to the lovely point on the St. Lawrence River. As their carriages rumbled through the woods toward the shoreline, the view of the blue water was interrupted by a flash of bright color. Vivian had painted her house pink!

Even Vivian's outhouse was pink, and a wraparound porch had been added to the house. And there was Vivian, emerging from the outhouse like the sun bursting over the horizon! Gone were the dark mourning gown and shabby black cloak Vivian had worn when her neighbors last saw her at the end of summer. Her clothing was more brilliant than a peacock's plumage. Indeed, it looked like a peacock had sacrificed its life for the enormous hat that adorned Vivian's head.

The summer villagers did not know what to make of these changes in their quiet friend. The women could not rouse her for their quilting bees or scrapbooking soirees until late afternoon. Candles seemed to burn behind Vivian's new garish draperies (tightly drawn) into the wee hours of the morning. Vivian's soft titter had transformed into a braying laugh that startled small children and horses.

Vivian's former benefactors, the local fishermen, were sulky, and hinted that Vivian had no use for them now that the millionaires had returned to their nearby islands. Indeed, a new hundred-foot dock had appeared near the store, and the pleasure craft of the seasonal wealthys crowded out the modest skiffs of the common folk. Nighttime seemed endless, for laughter and piano music throbbed from Vivian's pink cottage until the neighbors had to slam their windows shut for any hope of rest.

The ladies of the town, although dismayed, did their best to take a charitable view of Vivian's behavior. The poor thing had gone mad over the lonely winter, they whispered, and she would settle down soon enough now that her neighbors had returned. They would take her back to the interior of Jefferson County when summer ended. For the time being, they would do their best to ignore the liquor bottles that littered Vivian's flowerbeds.

Beneficence turned to ire, however, when the ladies' own husbands began 'taking walks' late at night, returning home at unholy hours, and giggling in their sleep. Mrs. Rhutan found a rouge stain on an article of her husband's clothing of which she claimed only she, he, and God should have any familiarity. After a hastily arranged quilting bee at Mrs. Garlock's cottage, the women marched down to Mr. Henry's store to confer with him. Mr. Henry, a fussy man, placed the 'closed' sign in his window, and led the ladies upstairs to the town's meeting room above his shop. Plans were made over the next three hours.

About two weeks later, the supplies were received by Mr. Henry's store. The ladies insisted that Vivian join them for an afternoon picnic, and served her morphine tea. Meanwhile, Mr. Henry entered the pink house, a small box in hand, and laced all of Vivian's liquor bottles liberally with laudanum. The ladies returned to the point, and deposited drowsy Vivian on her fainting couch. Later that evening, the laughter and music from Vivian & the men died down quickly.

The ladies, aided by Mr. Henry, circumnavigated the slumbering husbands & millionaires, and carried Vivian down to the dock. The firewood was already arranged in the hull of the wooden skiff, and the lamp oil was at hand. Vivian was placed atop the wood, the flames were lit, and Mr. Henry gave the boat a robust shove into the swift current. Vivian raised her head briefly and croaked "What's the point?" before falling back into her stupor.

No more was heard. The band of villagers watched silently from the dock. The breeze on the water encouraged a merry blaze, and soon Vivian & her pyre disappeared behind Gypsy Island.

The next morning, the energetic women - every last woman in town - assembled in front of the pink house. Under the firm direction of their wives, the chastened men set to work with ladder & bucket. The women barked orders to their spouses, and tidied up the yard. The interior of the house was cleaned from top to bottom. The liquor bottles, indoor & out, empty or full, were tossed in a little donkey cart which Mr. Henry supplied. The piano was carried to the store, and hauled upstairs to the town meeting room (where it can still be seen today). By the end of the afternoon, the pink house was a crisp white, but the ladies decided that the outhouse should remain pink. The women slept easily that night, and the men got whatever rest they could manage with one eye open.

And that is how Point Vivian got its name.

Today, I try to use my imagination for good, not evil. Therefore, I must tell you that this story is my own fabrication. I found no reference in Louise Gaylord Cooke's brief history of Point Vivian concerning the origin of its name, so I just did the best I could. I hope you enjoyed it. The story was inspired by the marvelous snippets of historical arcana which you will find at Lidian's Virtual Dime Museum. Admission is free; go take a look.

Come back for more tales from the Thousand Islands. Some of them may be true. At least the pictures won't lie. Here are a few more for your enjoyment...


That's Sadie's dock & boathouse above.

Sadie & Robespierre braved the chilly waters, while Sherry & I remained on dry land.




Although we were at leisure, we had occasional reminders that the St. Lawrence River is a workplace for some.



And here I am, Day One, looking a bit stunned that I am sitting on the dock of the bay before the sun has broken the horizon.


p.s. Sheldon told me that this is the worst picture of me that he has ever seen. Sweet of him, huh? What does he expect for a 5a.m. photo before a shower, shave, and second cup of coffee...sheesh!

Sunset Cruise

I took the above picture one evening last week as the sun was setting over the International Deepwater Terminal at the Port of Richmond docks. It had been an unusually busy day at work, with people crowding the office and both phone lines ringing steadily. I looked forward all day to a sunset cruise on Sadie's boat.

One of the calls I got during the day was from a man who had contacted me previously. When he called in May, he had been sober about a month and was calling for information about AA meetings in his area. Tuesday he called again, now two months sober, and said he felt like he was losing his mind. He still hadn't been to a meeting, and was trying to figure out things on his own. He thought he would feel better after he stopped drinking, but instead he felt worse. I told him that I understood how he felt.

I had the same expectations when I stopped drinking, and the same results. For about three or four months, I went through a period of confusion, restlessness, and feeling as nervous as a cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. Like the guy on the phone, I thought I'd instantly feel better as soon as I stopped drinking. Instead, my brain felt scrambled, and I could only string together about three hours of sleep at a time. I frustrated my friends and frightened small animals. My behavior was self-absorbed and erratic.

The meetings I attended regularly helped a great deal, but I knew that it would take time to smooth the rough edges. Talking daily to other people who had been through the same thing helped tremendously. I didn't feel like I was the last man on Earth. And I wasn't. Thousands of people had been through this before, and I was nobody special. It took awhile to stop taking myself so damned seriously.

I told the fellow on the phone that I would have someone in his area contact him. I called the same member, Miles, who had contacted the man for me in May. When Miles heard who was calling back for help he asked "Has he been to a meeting yet?"
"No, he's been flying solo."
Miles chuckled and said,"It's like going back to the doctor and saying 'Doc! My ass is still falling off!' and the doctor says 'Did you take that medicine I gave you?' 'Well, no...'
I'll call him again and tell him to come home to where we are."

But, that's how it is with most of us. We'd rather admit to robbing a bank or flying to Argentina to visit a mistress than stand up and say "I'm Bill, and I'm an alcoholic."

It was so pleasant to spend quiet time with friends on an evening river cruise. We took fried chicken, snacks and drinks. There was a nice breeze, and the air was cooler on the water. We talked and laughed, and enjoyed a gentle end to a busy day.

Here are some additional pictures for you to see.
First up is Captain Sadie at the helm, with Robespierre looking insouciant in the stern.


The Pocahontas Bridge spans the James south of Richmond.


Robespierre happily full of fried chicken and chocolate chip cookies.


The remains of the day settle over the historic James River...

Spank Scott

Today is Scott's Big Ol' Birthday!

You can click here to drop by Scott's place and give him a spanking.

Happy Birthday, Scott!!!

Fifty Years of Splendor

When I was in sixth grade at Hermitage Elementary School in Virginia Beach, an exotic creature joined my classroom. She had thick blond hair and deep blue eyes. She wore pointy blue-framed eyeglasses, seemed quiet & shy, and had recently moved back to the United States after living in Europe for several years.

I instantly fell in love with her, so - being a boy - I teased her mercilessly. Her name was Susan, and she hated me. Little did we know at the time that we were forging a friendship that would endure all these years. Together, we went through the Virginia Beach school system until college took us on separate paths. When Susan went to the University of Virginia, she became Suzanne.

Today, Suzanne celebrates her 50th birthday. I am amusing myself this morning with memories of our capers and misadventures. With thirty-nine years of friendship behind us, there are too many to tell today, but I'll share a few.

Suzanne's mother was a foreign language instructor at a local college, so Suzanne spent her afternoons after school practicing the piano. Sometimes. Frequently, Suzanne & I would work feverishly on homework assignments play together before her mother got home from work. When we saw the mommy-mobile drive up, Suzanne would scramble to set the kitchen timer for seven to ten minutes ("Look, Mom, almost finished!") and dutifully work the ivories, while I sat quietly and read a book. Her mother never caught on.

Our mothers would cringe when Suzanne & I got the urge to create a culinary masterpiece, because it meant that one of their kitchens was going down. Most of our finished products were edible, but there was one notable exception. One day, Suzanne, Fred, and I decided to make chocolate mousse. Fred's father, a single parent, was out of town, so we had his kitchen all to ourselves. Suzanne & I had scouted out a recipe from one her mother's gourmet cookbooks, and we selected chocolate mousse because it only had three ingredients. Plus, Suzanne's mother had a set of elegant, individual dessert pots - delicate things with twin gold handles and cunning wee lids with gold knobs.

Oh, they looked scrumptious when they came out of the oven! The lifted lids presented glossy, dark chocolate, and we couldn't wait to sink our spoons into our high-brow desserts. We were so proud of ourselves. Our delight turned to dismay when we our spoons revealed that thick slabs of unsweetened chocolate hid a revolting, viscous stew of sugar and partially cooked egg.

One of my vivid memories is of a hike through Seashore State Park (now First Landing State Park) in Virginia Beach. It was just the two of us, and we parked at the Shore Drive entrance. We wandered through the wild beauty of the park's cypress swamps, salt marshes, maritime forests, and dunes. We were pretty well exhausted when we found a quiet place to rest on the sandy shoreline of Broad Bay. It was very peaceful, and we felt that we had left civilization behind. Indeed, we had; the park encompasses 2888 acres of undeveloped land, and we had worked our way back through the less-traveled trails to a place where few people ventured. We hadn't seen a soul for quite awhile.

Lost in our own thoughts, enjoying the natural serenity of our view across the water, one of us finally turned to the other and remarked "What a beautiful sunset."

"Sunset???" we both cried in alarm. We were impossibly far from the car, and in an unfamiliar section of the wilderness. We wasted several minutes trying to decide which way to exit the park. It had taken us hours to reach our sandy beach, so we opted for the back exit at 64th Street near the oceanfront. It meant unfamiliar trails, but we weren't thinking clearly. Darkness came swiftly.

We stumbled along as fast as we could, sometimes feeling our way. It was fully dark by the time we saw the lights of 64th Street, and we still had quite a walk before we found a motel with a payphone.

Both of our mothers were in high-intensity panic mode; each possessed a keen ability to leap mentally to the worst-case scenario. My father was quietly alarmed, because he knew that more than one lonely trekker had become hopelessly lost in this wild place and perished. Poisonous snakes and other beasts roamed these woods and swamps. Park rangers had found my car at the other end of the park, and were organizing a search & rescue team. Our parents were too overjoyed that we were safe to muster up much anger with either of us.

Even though she is an ocean away in Amsterdam, I hold my dear friend Suzanne close today as she turns fifty, and wonder what our next adventures hold in store. Happy Birthday, Suzanne!
1959 was an excellent model year!

A Bowl of Cherries

It's been awhile since I have written on this blog, and my handful of readers is getting impatient with me. Truthfully, I have been feeling a bit glum. A few weeks ago, my beloved sponsor was diagnosed with inoperable brain cancer, and I have been sad & fearful. There are life events we cannot influence, and this is one of them.

After three weeks in the hospital, he is at home. Even so, he has had to make daily trips to the hospital for radiation treatments. He is bedridden, requires a lot of care, and has been unable to have visitors because his immune system is compromised. Nevertheless, I have been able to speak to him by phone, and his spirituality shines brighter than ever.

I went through about a week of anger, realizing that it was really the manifesation of fear. I had to struggle for acceptance, finally coming to the conclusion that I didn't have to like something to accept it. My Higher Power doesn't get perturbed when I get angry with his plans, and allows me the time that I need to come to full acceptance. I don't guess any of us enjoys knowing that a loved one is going through a difficult time.

For the next couple of weeks, my sponsor will be able to rest at home without going in for radiation treatments. He would like for me to visit him, and I will do that if he feels well enough. When we talked yesterday, he asked me to tell everyone in our home group that he misses them and keeps each of them in his daily prayers. He is with us in his mind each morning at 6:45, our regular meeting time, and he goes around our circle, picturing each of us in our seats. He asked me to tell everyone how much he loves them.

Earlier today, a man was in my office from a town 80 miles southwest of Richmond. His wife is in the final stages of brain cancer, and in MCV Hospital. It sounds like his wife's brain lights up with a thousand points of malignancy when test results are read. All she wants is to be taken back home. "Sometimes doing the next right thing is the hardest thing in the world to do," this man said to me. With these situations, we pray that our decisions are free of self-seeking motives. This man faces a difficult choice. I remember the regret that my mother felt after my father begged her to take him back home, because he spent months in ICU and died anyway.

I got a message from my pal Tracey a few days ago. She was downloading music, and one of her finds was Lynn Anderson's "(I Never Promised You a) Rose Garden." Well, I can't argue with that. Expecting life, mine or yours, to run according to my plans is sheer folly. Also, things would be pretty boring for all of us if I were Manager of the Universe. Like it or don't, life is not a bowl of cherries. Feeling sad won't kill me.

Speaking of a bowl of cherries, last night Sherry & I bought three pounds of fresh cherries, and made two cherry cobblers to take to our morning meeting. I have named Sheldon the Cobbler King, because he makes a basic & simple fruit cobbler recipe that is superb. Sheldon's workplace just cut back everyone's hours, so I took him a chocolate pie yesterday to cheer him up. While I was there, I got the recipe for his cobbler. Here it is, in case you'd like to try it.


Sheldon's Fruit Cobbler

2 cups of fresh fruit (so far we've tried peaches, blackberries, mulberries, peach & blueberry mixed, and cherries)
1 stick of butter (real butter is strongly suggested)
¾ cup flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
¾ cup milk
1½ cups sugar
cinnamon (optional)

Preheat oven to 350°. In a medium bowl, toss your fresh fruit with ½ cup of the sugar. In another medium bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, and remaining sugar. If you want to use cinnamon, whisk it in, too. Pour the milk into the dry ingredients, and whisk until thoroughly combined to make your batter.

Melt the stick of butter in a baking pan in your preheated oven. Sheldon uses a 9x13, but you can use a slightly smaller pan if you want. You can melt the butter while you work on the dry ingredients if you don't dilly-dally, but be careful because you just want the butter to melt, not brown.

Remove the pan from the oven when your butter has melted, pour the batter in the pan, do not stir. We kinda pour the batter evenly across the pan so that it doesn't all land in the center. Top with the fruit of your choice, and bake for 20-25 minutes, or until the batter is golden and the center looks done. While in the oven, the batter will rise and your fruit will sink to the bottom. You can ponder that amazing process or reorganize your canned goods while your cobbler bakes. Or you can dash to the store for vanilla ice cream or whipped cream if you drive fast.

The recipe calls for two cups of fresh fruit, but we always use more. This is not an exact recipe where every ingredient has to be precisely measured. You can add more fruit or mix & match. Try different spices or none at all. I'd stick pretty close to the measurement on baking powder, because it gives your cobbler leavening, not flavor, and be sure you always use baking powder that is within the expiration date or you will have a naan-riser.

Sherry & I had fun baking the cobblers. We had a good conversation about the oddities of life as we pitted the cherries. If you have a large-bore, sturdy drinking straw, pitting cherries is a breeze, by the way. Just shove the straw through the stem-end of the cherry, and the pit will pop right out the other end. Easy as pie.

This morning I was truly grateful that I not only had the desire to be with my home group, I also had the ability to be present. It is easy to take good health for granted, and I should remember how fragile I was a couple of years ago. I was given a second chance, and I enjoy life even more when I make the decision to approach each new day with gratitude.

Tuesday? Again?

I heard a news segment as I was getting ready for work this morning. I was in my bathroom shaving, and the clock radio in my bedroom featured a gentleman discussing an upcoming election.

The journalist talked about citizens who were unhappy with the incumbent President. They felt that his belligerent and damaging rhetoric had led to poor foreign relations. Their country had become isolated and feared. The President's re-election was uncertain because the nation's economy was in sad shape due to his policies.

Had a time warp zapped me back to 2004? Was I still asleep? I'd never, to my recollection, dreamed about politics. Then I realized that the news brief concerned Iran, and their upcoming Presidential election. I was awake, after all. I finished my ablutions, and went to my morning meeting.

In my last post, I included some pictures of Lauren & Andy's visit to Richmond. Before embarking on their flight back to Chicago, we went to breakfast at the Black Sheep, and I took a picture of the two of them.


The City of Richmond gave Lauren & Andy a nice parting gift in the form of a parking ticket, thoughtfully affixed to the windshield of their rental car. They gave me one, too, so I wouldn't feel left out. I was touched by the city's hospitality.

In addition to the great food at the Black Sheep, I like the eclectic decor. Each table has a unique set of vintage salt & pepper shakers. I am always reminded of my grandmother's S&P collection, which she displayed in an enormous shadowbox on the north wall of her kitchen. That is how my grandmother would have described the location. She used to drive my dad crazy by telling him things like "Oh, will you grab the cake cutter out of the west kitchen drawer?" or "You & Carolyn will be sleeping in the northeast bedroom." All of her directions were based on compass points.

After breakfast, I had Lauren & Andy follow me to nearby Hollywood Cemetery. There's nothing like 75,000 dead people to settle the stomach prior to a plane ride. Below are a couple of photos, the first being President John Tyler's grave. The black iron birdcage behind Tyler is the resting place of President James Monroe.


Let's take a quick look at John Tyler's Presidency:

• first U.S. President to assume office following the death of his predecessor. This event sparked controversy because of the ambiguous language of our Constitution regarding such circumstances, and caused many detractors to refer to Tyler as "His Accidency."


• first President to have a veto overridden


• first (and only?) President to have his entire Cabinet (with one exception) resign


• first President to have impeachment hearings initiated to remove him from office


• led the drive for the annexation of Texas, and began the process of annexing Hawaii


• because of his allegiance to the Confederacy after he left office, he is the only President whose death was not officially mourned in Washington

John Tyler was a slave owner all his life, and fathered fifteen legitimate children. He liked to dance, and added a sixty-eight foot ballroom to his home, making it the longest frame house in America at more than three-hundred feet. Tyler's plantation, Sherwood Forest, lies east of Richmond on the James River, and is open for tours.

Here's a view of the James River from Hollywood Cemetery's Presidents Circle.


For the lighter side of death and dissidence, I urge you to see a movie called Death at a Funeral, which I found hilarious and delightful. I'd say it's an adult movie, but it is not vulgar. It's a British black comedy about family & friends who gather for a funeral. Foreshadowing the misadventures that the day holds in store, the movie begins with the mortician delivering the wrong body for the funeral. It goes downhill for the family from there. It has a wonderful ensemble cast. If you watch this gem and dislike it, I will cheerfully refund your time.

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.