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Snowmageddon I've been stuck at home and unable to walk for the past two weeks due to all the snow. The first big snowfall seemed fun and I took advantage by getting outside and building a snowman. Of course, it wasn't a regular one. My snowman was chilling on a beach chair wearing shades and holding a sun reflector in his twig arms. Hang loose, dude!
As the snow and ice continued, it became much less fun. I wasn't getting any walking done. I wasn't getting blogging done. One of my friends, Jill Winkowski, was worried about my lapse and wrote up a blog entry for me, detailing events from our hike on the Eastern Shore from her point of view. I'd written it up our January 3rd adventure, but since I have nothing much to add after telling you about the snowman, I thought I'd share her view of this walk down memory lane. Thanks, Jill! Jill's View of Things. Hugging it Out My "February Plan" had been to knock out the stretch of mountainous road from Charlottesville to Lynchburg, saving a small stretch for March when I'd go mud-bogging (see Jan 28 entry). But Mother Nature had other plans. The snow has kept me housebound too long, so I decided to add onto the Walk Across Virginia with a leg headed down from Smithfield to the North Carolina border. I'd already intended to step across each of Virginia's state lines at some point, but figured I would hit Carolina when I made it to the western part of the state. Well, as Brett Farve says, "Plans change." My former co-worker Wendy lives near the area where I'd be walking today, and she agreed to drop me off at my starting point. The walk itself was fairly uneventful, just a 6-� mile hike from Smithfield down to Windsor where I'd parked my car at Boykin's Tavern. It was too early (7 a.m.) to visit the historic site before my walk, so Wendy and I strolled across the street to have breakfast at a lovely little restaurant called Kim's Courthouse Cafe (17167 Courthouse Highway, Windsor).
There were kitschy signs hung on the walls ("Drink coffee: Do stupid things faster and with more energy!) and notes from appreciative customers hanging above the pass-through. Most of the patrons were regulars and everyone was treated like family. Well, not like my family. If they were, everyone would be screaming and throwing things. Here, it was all smiles and hugs. Literally. We were the first customers to sit down, but two guys in jeans and frayed workshirts came in shortly afterwards. The waitress greeted them by name and gave them each a hug. Then a smiling woman in a flowered medical shirt came in and the cafe owner, Kim, gave her a hug. The nurse said, "Honey, you're going to have to give me another hug. I missed coming in yesterday." "I'm feeling left out," I told Wendy. "How about giving me a hug?" "Yeah, right," she said, not even looking up from the menu. The special of the day was Salt Herring, something they only serve on Friday and Saturday. I'd just heard of the dish for the time in an unrelated conversation earlier that week, so I didn't see how I could resist. "Salt herring can be a little overpowering," Kim said, "so we soak it first." Whatever it was they did to it, it all worked. The fried fillet and corn cakes were delicious. A much better experience than last month's gizzard fiasco. But, hey, I'll try anything once. When we left, Kim said, "Y'all come back now." I will. And when I do, I expect my hug! The Great Pumpkin When faced with a choice, choose "happy." �Pancho Barnes Dawn came along on my next trip to Kim's Courthouse Cafe, and I didn't have to wait long at all to get my hug (see Feb 20's entry). Just after we'd sat down, the same nurse who had asked Kim for a second hug entered the cafe. She remembered me and greeted me like an old friend, so I jumped up and gave her a hug. In corporate America, this action would slap me with a sexual harassment suit. But here in the charming South, it was mere hospitality. We ordered eggs and I chatted with the private duty nurse. She was just getting off her regular night shift and coming in for her weekend ritual: the salt herring special. When I discovered her name was Lolly, I said, "What a lovely name. It's perfect for you." "Why's that?" "It's a happy name, just like you."
Lolly nodded and beamed. "You've got to choose to be happy," she said. "No one wants to be around you when you're miserable. They've got their own problems. Best I just leave mine at home." "Well," I said, waving my arm across the table at Dawn, "I brought mine with me." That earned a stink eye from Dawn, but I just smiled and busied myself with my eggs. It was a chilly day, so we'd each ordered something hot to drink. Hot cocoa for me and hot tea for Dawn. I grabbed one of the sugar packets and placed it on my chest. "What do you think?" I asked. "How's this for a name tag?" Dawn peeled the top of her creamer and held it up for me. "This would be more appropriate," she said. The label read Mini Moo. Zing. I didn't have to wait long to riposte. As she peeled the top off a second creamer, some of the milk spurted out and splashed across her chest. "You got Mini Moo on your mini moos. That's karma, baby." Dawn wanted a little more caffeine so she could be on top of her game and keep the zingers coming. Her second cup of tea provided the desired energy boost, but the extra liquid was a big mistake. More on that later. After breakfast, Dawn changed into her ski bibs and John, Kim's husband and co-owner, drove us 8.7 miles up the road to our starting point. Thanks again, John! The howling wind was blowing us sideways, and several times I had to stop when I heard Dawn calling out from behind. I'd turn around to see that she'd stopped a dozen-or-so feet back, crouching on the shoulder to stop herself from being blown into the road. See, sometimes it pays to be big. After we'd been hiking for about a half-hour, Dawn complained that she needed a restroom. Dawn has the bladder of a bird and can't fly too far before she has to stop. Unfortunately, the road we were travelling held no businesses or other places with public restrooms (told you the extra liquid was a mistake!). At around the one-hour mark, we were passing by a fairgrounds that looked closed up for winter. Dawn grimaced and said, "Let's try there." The building was about a half-mile off the road on the other side of a large parking lot. As we walked up the weaving gravel driveway, we saw a 10-foot tall pumpkin standing in a grassy field next to the lot.
Dawn cocked her head to the side, furrowed her brow, then shrugged her shoulders. "What the hell," she said. I'd only meant it as a joke, but next thing you know, I was lifting her up to shoulder height and sliding her through one of the triangular eyeholes. I heard her fumbling around inside and then she yelled out, "You better not be taking a picture of this!" She knew me too well. Luckily for her, I'd forgotten my camera that day (we stopped at the park the next day to take a picture). After I helped Dawn back out of the eyehole, she said, "It was just like an igloo in there. Nice and warm, out of the wind." "Is that what you're going to say at the bond hearing?" "Shut up." "So, peeing in an igloo, is that a felony or a misdemeanor?" I continued in that vein for a while, but Dawn ignored me and trudged on. The road we were walking may have been void of businesses, but it was chock full of something else: dogs. We passed several chain-link paddocks filled with baying hound dogs, but they were the least of our concerns. There were also plenty of family dogs loose in front yards, barking their heads off at us. "I think they're feeling protective," I said. "They heard what you did back at the fairgrounds." Dawn slugged me. Hard. She is, after all, Miss D. Meaner. And I, ever gracious and beneficent, am Mr. Innocent Bystander. And if you believe that, have I got some land for you... 750 Acres & 1776 Quarts Today Dawn and I would be hiking from Windsor to the other side of Walters. Combined with yesterday's walk, we were logging an 18-mile weekend. Once more, we stopped at Kim's Courthouse Cafe to power up. Dawn had learned her lesson from yesterday and only ordered a single cup of hot water with two bags of tea. "Twice the jitters and half the juice!" she exclaimed. Kim told us that the Ruritan Club had been cooking up Brunswick stew since yesterday and would be selling it today. Their building was a stone's throw away and we decided that we'd be feasting on stew at the end of our walk. With that bonus in mind and feeling all juiced up (but not too much), we drove down the road and began our walk. A childlike sense of humor is a great companion on long walks, though our humor can be more senseless than anything else. We passed the time poking jokes at just about everything we saw. When I saw a knotty pine, I wagged my finger at it and chided, "You naughty knotty pine!" Then I doubled up with laughter. Dawn just shook her head. When I saw some flattened, red-and-white, jingle bells on the side of the road, I started singing, "Santa got run over by a John Deere..." Later, we came across a run-down clapboard building standing in front of a grain elevator and factory buildings standing behind it. Posted on the front of the wooden building were the words: Beach Camp 186 W.O.W. "Wonder what the WOW stands for?" she said. "Wow, I can't believe how much my parents hate me sending me here! Wow, are there really only 186 health code violations here?" Then we both shook with laughter. 
What can I say? We crack ourselves up. It's easier when you're cracked to begin with.A little farther on, we came across a crafts store and decided to check it out. The front door was locked, but there was a large bell hanging on a post outside and we each took turns yanking the cord and clanging it for all we were worth. The bell-ringing was just another instance of harmless childish behavior, but soon another childish attribute came to the fore. As with many men, I have a competitive streak that can, at times, be unhealthy. So, when I saw a shed beside the lot, I thought of how Dawn had showed me up yesterday by "violating" a pumpkin. Pointing at the shed, I said, "Kind of looks like an igloo, doesn't it?" "You wouldn't!" Dawn said. Alas, I did. While I was inside the shed, I heard Dawn laughing. When I stepped out again, she said, "I just kept thinking about us ringing the bell and calling attention to ourselves." Upon reaching a Stihl dealership, we stepped inside and noticed newspaper clippings posted beside the counter. A local farmer, Rex Alphin, had recently published a collection of essays titled The Nature of Things: Stories from the Land. I commented to the cashier how Rex sounded like an interesting guy and that I'd like to meet him. Next thing I knew she had Rex on the phone and was passing it to me. Rex lived just a few miles away in Zuni and he drove out to pick us up and bring us by his 750-acre farm to sit and chat a while. "I'll let you in on a secret," he said. "Farmers don't do most of the work. Seeds do." He swept a hand out to encompass his fields. "You plant 10 billion of these little things in the ground and know what you're getting into. But what's amazing�" Here, his voice dipped low and he held his finger and thumb close together and stared at the space between them. "�in five days, these little shoots start coming out of the ground. It's a miraculous thing and I'm always amazed by it."
"Thanks for letting us visit your farm," I said. "I can't believe how lucky we were that the woman at the counter knew you." "Out here, everyone knows everything about everybody. We form a kind of human quilt." Beautifully put. But we had more miles to trek. Brunswick stew was in our future and we wanted to get to it! We were a little sapped by the time we finished up our 9-plus miles and were looking forward to chowing down. I'd joked that all the stew might be gone before we got there, but I needn't have worried. The Windsor Ruritan Club had been making and selling Brunswick stew for more than 40 years, and they had it down to a science. They'd cooked up six enormous kettles of stew that they then poured into 1776 quart-sized containers. The patriotic number was a coincidence, but I loved it! Not only was the stew plentiful, it was delicious as well! As we shoveled stew in our mouths, I mumbled something about how good it was to one of the Ruritan members. "Yeah," he replied, "don't like it thin. We got it nice and thick this year. Think it's 'cause we put more possum in it." We paused with spoons in mid-air, then he laughed at our gullibility. After I downed my quart, Stan Turner showed me the back room where they had cooked up the stew. He'd been on duty since 2 a.m., when he'd entered the building and announced, "Time to light the pots!" Back in the day, Brunswick stew was made from game meat like venison and squirrel. But we've moved on to a new day, and each of the pots had been laden with 35-40 pounds of chicken and beef, 100 pounds of potatoes, 40 pounds of onions, 35 pounds of lima beans, and an assortment of other goodies. But no possum.
The next day, Dawn brought her box into the office and shared it with her appreciative co-workers. I brought my box over to my sister's house, but none of them had even heard of Brunswick stew before and weren't interested in trying it out. Hey, all the more for me! My dad took a quart with him and I left the remainder in my car (it was cool enough overnight). In the morning, I went to retrieve my soup and just as I pulled it from the car the newspaperman was pulling up to make his delivery. "You like Brunswick stew?" I asked. "Of course." "Here you go," I said, passing him a quart. "Have a great day!" And you know, it's true what they say. It is better to give than to receive. Especially when you still have another 2 quarts left over for yourself! Vanilla Ice Ice Baby My foot was sore from 18 miles of plodding over the past two days, and I woke at 3 a.m. with a throbbing pain. When I stepped out of bed, the customary nail-through-the-heel pain was more intense than usual, so I went to the freezer and removed a couple of bags of frozen veggies. Mr. Corn & Mr. Mixed Veggie sat under my foot while I did some computer stuff�downloading and resizing photos, web surfing, editing some articles. Next thing you know, 1-� hours had passed and my foot was nummmmm. At least my tendons were no longer inflamed...at least, that's what I'm guessing. Hard to say because I couldn't really feel them (or much of anything else). In a way, this was a perfect way to usher out the nasty month of February. Cold and ice had prevented me from walking all the miles I'd hoped to log over the past few weeks. Now cold and ice were preventing me from walking back to bed. Thus came my first D�oh! of the week. But I felt certain it wouldn't be the last. |
Beth & Megan hang out with Mr. Cool Breeze
Kim & John in the kitchen at Kim's Courthouse Cafe, where laughter is on the menu
Scene of the crime
The view from Rex's back porch
Ruritan Stan and his giant stewpots