Yes, We Have No Burnett's

The moment one learns English, complications set in. — Felipe Alfau

Somehow, certainly not by careful design, much of my worklife has been spent communicating with others by telephone. In my younger days, I was an employee of the good old Bell System, back when people could choose between telephones with buttons or dials. When I began working there, no one had a cell phone & nearly every household had landline service. Subscribers in rural areas could still get party lines.

When it was time for the Christmas holidays (Remember those? We were able to say "Merry Christmas" back then without offending anyone), I would volunteer to work the skeleton crew so that most of my co-workers could leave early on Christmas Eve. We didn't get many calls on that day anyway, and I'd get to leave early on New Year's Eve as a trade-off. I recall one Christmas Eve when I got a call late in the afternoon from an elderly woman.

She was in a nursing home and was being moved to another room. She needed to get her phone service moved as quickly as possible, because they were moving her that very day. When I told her we could not move her phone until the following week, she immediately started wailing. She sounded so frail.

"Oh, Lord! You got to move it today, else I won't be able to talk to my family on Christmas!"

I felt quite bad for her, but the technicians were booked solid, and only emergency orders had a hope of being worked the following week. I was already expediting her order because of the circumstances.

She continued to whine and moan, and I did feel sorry for her. I had questions, though, and said "I'm so sorry the nursing home is moving you to a different room with no warning. That's very unusual."

"Mmmm, well, yes. I suppose so."

"Why are they doing that?"

"It's this lady I'm in this room with. It's all her fault! She keep worrying me & worrying me. And when I hit her, they move ME!"

There's always more than meets the eye. Here she was acting pitiful, and she'd just been caught beating up her roommate. I told her her service would be moved at the end of the following week, and wished her a Merry Christmas.


Wilton, circa 1750-1753
The photographs on this post are of Wilton, a plantation house owned by the prominent Randolph family. Yes, Morris & I were out exploring again. It was a chilly day with drizzling rain, so the pictures look a little gloomy. I decided to be adventurous and play around with some button called picnik. Usually, I limit photo manipulation to cropping and adjusting the contrast, but I experimented with some of the more mundane picnik features this time. I didn't want my pictures to look too freaky.

Front view of Wilton
It took a lot of money and many slaves to support the lavish lifestyle of the landed gentry in Old Virginia. By the time a few generations had passed, the economic climate had changed. The last of the Randolph family to live there was Robert, who died in 1859. Here's what a northern visitor in 1833 had to say about the house:
"...spacious wainscoted rooms, high ceilings, broad staircases and fine hall give you a very magnificent idea of the grandeur of the former proprietor who so long ago had an establishment that wants for nothing but a fitting up, to vie with modern elegance. But such ruin! - Broken down fences, a falling piazza, defaced paint, banisters tied up with ropes etc. etc. - the general aspect of the house is that of forlorn ruin."

Center Hall at Wilton
The illicit photo of the interior was snapped when our guide, Tom, dashed off to the bathroom before we began our tour. Honestly, what is it with us Americans? You can go to Europe and practically lick the walls of 12th Century structures, but over here we act like something 100 years old will turn to dust if it's looked at cross-eyed. Photography, with or without flash, was not allowed inside the house.

One of the most striking qualities of Wilton is that the entire interior is elegantly paneled - even the closets. The early Randolphs were very wealthy indeed, and the house reflects their importance in colonial society. But consider this: hot, humid summers + no window screens + mosquitos. Sure, the place looks great now that it's renovated, but in its heyday on a summer night it would have been filled with a bunch of hot itchy sweaty malarial rich people. I'll happily accept reduced circumstances with window screens & air-conditioning.

Rear view of Wilton
Zooming back to current times, I once again find myself in a job that requires a good amount of telephone conversation. The wonderful thing about answering the AA hotline is that you never know what to expect. It is quite common for callers to pay no attention to what we say when we answer the phone, and we do get a lot of wrong numbers since ours is one digit different than a local television station's phone number. I fielded calls all day when the nation's TV stations went digital two summers ago. I finally started telling callers that unless their television was causing them to get drunk, I could not help them.

The previous office manager told me a story that still makes me grin. It goes something like this. She answered the phone one day with the usual "Alcoholics Anonymous, how can I help you?"
"Uh, yeah, my wife handed me this number and told me to call it. Who did you say this is?"
"Alcoholics Anonymous."
"F%CKING BITCH!!!" (shouted to someone in background as the call was disconnected)

The Chesterfield Apartments
Richmond's first AA meeting was held here in June, 1943
A few weeks ago I got a call from a blurry-sounding woman asking a question. After a bit of confusion, I understood that she was asking about a brand of liquor, Burnett's, and whether we stocked it. I told her I couldn't help her.

"This isn't the ABC store??? Who is this?"

"This is Alcoholics Anonymous."

"Huh? Who?"

"This is Alcoholics Anonymous. We're who you call if you want to stop drinking."

"OH MY GOD!!!" she screamed, and slammed the phone down.

Downtown (the smaller version)

Hop in my car, and I'll take you on a quick tour from the countryside of central Virginia to the bustling Tidewater region. The picture on the left was taken in front of the Chrysler Museum in Norfolk, but we'll start in Montpelier, Virginia, and we'll explore that area before we leap to the east. I don't have any details on the equine statue, anyway; It was a cold night and I snapped the photo from the warmth of my car.

From the previous blog post, in addition to exploring Morris's grandmother's house, our travels took us through portions of Hanover, Louisa, Orange, and Madison counties. We made a calculated decision to take backroads - true backroads that veered off of the two-lane byways - that were paved but off the standard roadmaps. This allowed us to see places like Beaverdam, Bumpass, Fredericks Hall and Cutalong. Some were just crossroads, others were towns that declined when rail travel fell out of favor.

When I ride through these areas, I often wonder how I would like living in such a bucolic setting. In my fantasy I can visualize an old cottage, surrounded by flowers in the spring, and a comfy chair & a book next to a crackling fire in wintertime. I think I would enjoy living in the country, as long as I had a reliable connection to the Internet. And no job to slog off to each day. And a Useful Man (link to The Old Foodie, a very interesting blog) to take care of tasks that would confound me. In other words, I'm better off in my maintenance-free home unless an unexpected & sizable windfall drops into my bank account.

Downtown Montpelier

House in Downtown Montpelier

Church of our Savior (Episcopal)
Montpelier

The Aaron Hall Free School

Just south of Beaverdam, near a place with the alluring name of Old Bandana, we happened upon the Aaron Hall Free School. Boarded up but well maintained, it was obviously an historic property, and we stopped to take a closer look. Aaron Hall, a farmer, bequeathed funds upon his death to establish a school for his neighbors who could not otherwise afford formal educations for their children. What an act of love! The central portion of the structure is obviously the oldest part of the school, constructed with rough-hewn logs in 1844 at a time when this section of Virginia had no nearby schools.

I love exploring city & countryside with Morris because we share a curiousity about our surroundings. I like taking pictures, and Morris never gets impatient when I pull over or turn around for a photo opportunity. No road is too narrow and no village too obscure when we set out for a drive. We took one road near a dot on the map called Rising Sun, but turned around when it began looking suspiciously like someone's driveway.

When we return to our homes, each of us likes to research what we've discovered via the Internet or area libraries. A wealth of information from reliable sources is at our fingertips nowadays. The Library of Virginia, the Virginia Historical Society, the National Park Service, and Virginia Commonwealth University have established websites where we can view court records, maps, essays on history, and old photographs.




Downtown Beaverdam

The old train station in Beaverdam

Terrell's Store, across from the Beaverdam train depot

The Court Cafe in Louisa
The outside looked promising, but the Court Cafe was obviously more bar than restaurant, since at midday we were the only two patrons. People probably swing from the ceiling lights at night. Still, we had good food & very friendly service.

A railroad building in Louisa

A simple country church at a crossroads called Cutalong


Old and new buildings in downtown Norfolk

Madison Hotel
Norfolk

Delicious fare on Granby Street
Norfolk

Colley Avenue Pharmacy
Norfolk
I made a spur-of-the-moment trip down to Norfolk to see Suzanne, who was in town from Amsterdam visiting her mother. I doubted I was going to see her, because we didn't talk until the midpoint of her stay, but I was able to arrange a day away from the office on short notice. We had a fine time. We rode by our old high school, stopped & sat awhile in front of the house where I grew up, and had a nice dinner in Norfolk.

Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person; having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but to pour them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then, with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away.
George Eliot

I've got two friends, Suzanne & Brenda, whom I've known since childhood. We have so many shared memories and stories.We have seen each other through the calamities of life: loss of romantic relationships, financial uncertainty, ill health, crazy thinking, financial uncertainty, change of careers, and the death of loved ones. We have celebrated each others' joys & successes. We have shared hours of unbridled laughter. We have seen one another at our best and our worst, but we remain constant. Old friends know us better than we know ourselves, in some ways.
And a youth said, Speak to us of Friendship
And he answered saying:
Your friend is your needs answered.
He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.
And he is your board and your fireside.
For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.
Kahlil Gibran

Cake made by the owner's wife at Jenro's Diner
Virginia Beach

To Grandmother's House We Go

Door with peeling paint
Her first name was Ivy. She was the grandmother of my friend Morris, and she moved into this house in Mineral in the mid-1940's. Although the house was probably a single-family home originally, by the time Ivy moved in, it had been divided into two flats. She lived in the lower half of the house. Aunt Dot lived upstairs; she was the sister of one of Ivy's daughters-in-law. Not really an aunt, in other words, but that's how we say things here in The South.

Morris remembers visiting his grandmother, and staying overnight on weekends frequently. He & his brother would also spend at least one week each summer with her. The house is in Mineral, originally known as Tolersville. Morris recalls hearing the train wail in the quiet hours of deepest night, for the house is situated just a couple of streets over from the train tracks that run through town.

The town was known as Mineral at least as far back as 1902, when it was incorporated as such because of the many nearby mines. Fool's Gold (pyrite), as well as real gold, copper, sulphur, and iron ore were mined by various companies, and hauled out of Mineral over the railroad. At one time there were fifteen gold mines within two miles of town.

The picture above shows the current view of the guest room where Morris slept when he stayed with his grandmother. Like my own grandmother, Ivy was poor but feisty, and she enjoyed having her family in to visit. Although the home was small, with two bedrooms, a living room, and an eat-in kitchen, places were found for everyone to sleep. Privacy wasn't a priority when it came to family get-togethers. There were two double beds in the guest room, and the overflow would sleep on sofas or with Ivy.

All the women would pitch in to cook the family meals. Ivy had a "modern" stove in a corner, and a wood stove along the center of one wall. The kitchen was large, but there was no dining room, so meals were served in three sittings at the kitchen table. Ivy ate with the men at the first seating, since it was her house. Her presence probably discouraged food fights, also. The rest of the women took the second seating, and the kids ate last.

The women cleaned up after the meal, except for Aunt Kat who disappeared upstairs to her siser's flat with a promise to be back to help in a minute. The other women exchanged looks, because they knew they wouldn't see Kat & her manicured nails until the last pot was washed & dried. The men & children ran off to play.

Morris and I were on one of our explorations, this time through the countryside northwest of Richmond. We visited his mother's grave in Hanover County, and then continued into Louisa County, stopping in Mineral to see his grandmother's old place.

Both of our grandmothers lived through hard times in the Great Depression, and both spent most of their lives in rented homes. My grandmother bought her first home in the 1960's when she herself was in her 60's. Morris's grandmother lived at her home in Mineral until she died at the hospital in the 1980's. Both of our grandmothers were widowed in their 60's, and lived into their 90's. Both used wringer washers, and enjoyed their stories (soap operas) on afternoon television. You could hear the trains pass by from both houses; one in Mineral, the other in Morrison, Iowa. For their grandchildren, both created lasting memories of home-cooked meals and the fellowship of family.

Ivy never locked her doors. In fact, when new tenants moved in following her death, the landlord had to install locks on the doors. Now, the house has been vacant for many years. It was the first time that Morris had been inside since the estate sale. It was good to see him walking through the rooms, and hear him share his memories. Mineral is today a sleepy town with many of its businesses gone and old buildings demolished. Coleman Hotel, Mineral Hotel, Noel's Store, and the Mineral Tea Room exist only in photographs. The town has a population of a little over 400 souls, quite a drop since the 1910 census tallying 3,200.

Morris remembers when staying in Mineral meant excitement. We both grew up in suburban neighborhoods; you got in the car to go places. At his grandmother's, he was right in town, with trains chugging by, stores a short stroll away, and the fire station down the block. It was heaven for a child from suburban Richmond.

As we drove away for more adventures, we both reflected silently on our childhood memories. I would walk to the post office to fetch Grandma's mail, and return to her house for a glass of cold milk & a handful of homemade cookies. The postmistress, Jessie, would put a notice of our visit in the social column of the Grundy County Register, and it was always exciting to see our names in the newspaper. Grandma knew who lived in every house in town. Times sure have changed.

Two Richmonders Against the Odds

Good grief! Planet Bill's first post of 2011, and we're treated to a cemetery shot? Am I in a dark mood? No, not at all; I've just been roaming Richmond with my camera, and Morris & I found ourselves sticking our noses in a couple of places that were new to us. Let's take a look.

The picture at the top was taken in Holy Cross Cemetery, located at the southwestern edge of Chestnut Hill. This district was one of Richmond's original streetcar neighborhoods, and contains many examples of Queen Anne, American Foursquare, Greek Revival, Bungalow, and Colonial Revival homes. The sky was gray, and the wind was cold & brisk on the day that Morris & I rode through the graveyard. We came across a curious plot with multiple iron crosses with no names, simply the abbreviation for Rest In Peace.

Cemeteries have never terrified me. Even as a child, when I found some of them pleasantly creepy, they were assurances of the order of life. I remember visiting the graves of relatives, some known and others gone prior to my birth, and hearing remembrances of these people from my grandmother. Like the books I loved to read, there was a beginning and end, but the stories between the similar covers were colorful, fascinating, and unique. Death is part of the natural order of life. Ashes to ashes, and all that. What is important is what we write on our pages.

After a Saturday breakfast at a place called Yesterday's (appropriately named, since we were fueling up for a day of local history), we drove toward downtown. At the edge of the city limits, we took a detour up a rutted road in search of Woodland Cemetery. It was a forlorn place, barely kept, and made meaner by winter's harsh light. Groundskeeping seemed limited to common areas, for many gravesites were wild with dead weeds & brambles. The cemetery was bordered by untamed thickets on two sides, and industrial buildings on another. The two pictures, above & below, give an idea of the unwelcoming atmosphere.

What better place to bury a local hero! Yessiree, here's where you will find Arthur Ashe, champion of Wimbledon, the Australian Open, and the US Open. After a lifetime of battling racial discrimination, he rests in a place for Richmond's deceased black citizens - desolate Woodland Cemetery.

Arthur Ashe grew up in Richmond. His athletic grace was matched by his intelligence. He had to fight to play tennis, growing up in a time when he was not allowed on most courts. Ashe was a fighter on & off the tennis courts, breaking into a traditionally "white only" sport, and then becoming an AIDS activist. Ashe contracted HIV through an unscreened blood transfusion in 1983. Although he wished to keep this information private, when he learned that USA Today was nosing around his business, he pre-empted their news coup by calling a press conference to make his own disclosure of his disease. He established the Arthur Ashe Foundation for the Defeat of AIDS, and became a champion of humanitarian causes.

Arthur Ashe attended Maggie Walker High School in Richmond, a school for black students during segregation named for another determined underdog, where teachers urged their pupils to excellence. Our destination, although Morris & I got sidetracked by cemeteries, was the Maggie Walker House in the Jackson Ward District. I highly recommend the tour of Maggie Walker's home, which is now a National Park Service property.

Maggie Walker was the first female president of an American bank, an accomplishment all the more noteworthy because she was African-American during a time of unabashed racial discrimination. Her mother was a former slave who took in laundry to support the family after Maggie's father was murdered. Maggie attended the Armstrong School, and became a teacher there after graduating. At that time, only single women were allowed to teach, so she left her job upon her marriage. She rose to a prominent position in the Independent Order of St. Luke, a benevolent organization that assisted African-Americans with health care & burial services. She chartered the St. Luke Penny Savings Bank and became its first president in 1903. Keep in mind that this was even before the Nineteenth Amendment gave women the right to vote in elections. Her bank gave many black citizens an opportunity to have a savings account and buy a house.

The picture above shows one of the double parlors in Maggie Walker House. When touring most historic homes, the tour guide (when pressed) will say something like "These pieces are reproductions. We've furnished the house the way we sorta kinda figure it might have looked originally." Not so with Maggie's house. The house passed directly from the Walker family to the National Park Service in 1979, and still contains most of the original furnishings, including the pictures on the walls. Recently, the Walker descendents donated fifty additional original items to the house. You really get the feeling that you are walking through Maggie's home, and that her boisterous grandchildren may run through the room at any moment.

Another wonderful aspect of the tour is that you get to see nearly the entire house. Parlors, dining rooms, and bedrooms are part of touring most historic homes, but I always want to see how people really lived. What were the back rooms like? Above you see the kitchen, and below is the laundry room. Can you imagine cooking a meal for a large family plus guests in a kitchen with no countertops? Today we have Viking ranges, granite counters, motorized gizmos, and most Americans haven't got a clue about cooking from scratch. If the box doesn't say add water & stir it's time to make restaurant reservations.

A small bedroom for a granddaughter has her collection of dolls on the bed.

Now, I can pretty much assure you that you're not going to take a tour of a gilded-age mansion and hear a tour guide say "Mrs. Vanderbilt repaired to this chamber when she needed to take a slash." Next we see Maggie Walker's bathroom, complete with clean-but-stained toilet, bidet & bedpan. There are no pretenses here; the tour guide will even point out the upstairs window where Maggie's son shot & killed his father, mistaking him for a midnight intruder.

In the next photo we see why there was a bedpan in Maggie's bathroom. She spent her later life as an invalid. She had diabetes, and her cause of death in 1934 was listed as "diabetes gangrene." Her two sons and their families lived with her, and there were up to ten people living in the 28-room house at one point. Upstairs, Maggie had her own little oasis: a large bedroom, her own spacious bathroom, and a kitchenette that had been fashioned from an upper enclosed side porch. The kitchenette had a wall of windows that faced east, and I imagine that she enjoyed this cheerful, sunny room in the mornings.

She also enclosed a porch off her bedroom at the front of the house, which you can see in the first photo of the Maggie Walker House. Here, she liked to sit in her wheelchair to watch the traffic go by, looking down at the Jackson Ward neighborhood that she helped make the "Harlem of the South" and the "Black Wall Street of America."

Alcoholism took its toll on her family. It is said that her husband and both of her sons were alcoholics, and that her husband came home drunk and was trying to sneak into the house via an upper rear porch when his son fatally shot him. There had been a series of neighborhood robberies, but the family had to endure a murder trial before the son was aquitted. He never recovered emotionally from the tragedy, sank deeper into the drink, and died a few years later.

Ending your tour today, we have a few more photographs. These were taken in the very old section known as Union Hill, a district which dates back to around 1805. Thanks for dropping by, and I hope your year has started out smoothly.

So Long, 2010!

Let me apologize in advance. I had dreams of crafting a poignant and deeply meaningful post about personal growth and the transition of the years with such simple eloquence that you would be left dabbing your eyes and whispering "Bravo. Well done."

But, here it is New Year's Eve already and I'm dressed for a party, and my French cuffs make typing an annoyance. You're stuck with another dashed off bit of fluff and a few recent photos. Who was I trying to fool, anyway? Deep & meaningful? You can't get blood from a turnip.

The picture at the top was taken at Homemades by Suzanne, a fine cafe & bakery in a small town just north of Richmond. Morris & I were eating lunch in the front dining area when I noticed the warmth of the old wood of the tables & chairs. It was a cold, windy day and the cafe was cozy.

We rode up the Old Washington Highway to Ashland. The narrow road was still icy from our Christmas weekend snowstorm. Along the way, we passed through the former whistle stop known as Elmont which is surrounded by large stretches of farmland. The wind raised snow wraiths from the fields, and we were happy for the warmth of the car.

Ashland is a charming town with the railway running right down the middle of the main street, Railroad Avenue. Many beautiful old homes and buildings line the split street, and an Amtrak train rumbled by as we drove along.



The picture below was taken at an old church on England Street.

Next we have the train station, built in the 1920's when some Ashland residents would take the local train into Richmond each day for work. Behind the station is the Henry Clay Inn, still in operation.



Ah! Lunchtime! The fare at Homemades by Suzanne is mouthwatering comfort food, especially on a cold, wintery day. I had a deviled egg, succotash salad, and macaroni salad. Perfect.


Later that day, back in Richmond, we had dinner at Garnett's. After Morris & I parted, I walked for a bit along Park Avenue and took a picture of one of my favorite churches at the corner of Park Avenue and Meadow Street.



During my workday, one of my duties is answering the local Alcoholics Anonymous hotline. By now I know that the call volume ramps up during and after the holidays. At the end of the day, I transfer the calls to a volunteer for the night. While I was at home one evening, I got a few text messages from that night's volunteer.

Lyssa: (9:12pm) Lord...was I this pathetic and wallowing?

Lyssa: (9:18pm) Clearly, I was. Don't want to sound callous.

Lyssa: (9:20pm) I must have been a real bite in the ass to be around...

Me: (9:23pm) Are you on the phone with the still-suffering or just randomly musing?

Lyssa: (9:25pm) Just hung up but was held captive by former (still, occasionally?) self for twenty minutes.

Me: (9:27pm) I know the feeling. I talked to me this afternoon for about the same amount of time.

And that's how it can be when we answer the phone. Sometimes the caller is ready for help. Sometimes they just want a sympathetic ear. Some callers get hooked on the sympathy, and still keep on drinking until they lose everything.

I always keep in mind something a man with 30-plus years of sobriety shared in a meeting:
"Sympathy will kill an alcoholic."

I remember that, and dole out sympathy sparingly, but I can go long with empathy & encouragement. I'm incredibly grateful for the opportunity to answer those calls. Those of us who do agree that it goes a long way in helping us stay sober. It's a marvelous mirror of our former selves. When I hear the misery, self-delusion & self-absorption, the bewilderment & madness, it reminds me that that's how I was, too. I do not want to ever return to the life I led before I found recovery.

Happy New Year, everyone! I'm off to a big ol' party. See you next year.