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Bluegrass Jam Established in 1794 along what was then known as the Richmond Road, Stanardsville, tucked against the eastern slopes of the Blue Ridge Mountains, was a sweet spot for weary travelers to rest and fill their supplies before heading on. As the last westward waypoint before the Swift Run Gap, Stanardsville grew into the largest town in the region. Today, however, the rustic mountain town doesn't appear on many maps, and those on which it does feature it only as a small dot. This small dot would be my home for the next two days.
So she escorted me up Lydia Mountain to tour some of the rustic Cabins, which bore charming monikers such as Honeypot, Fantasy Hideaway, and 3 Bears. With views overlooking the valley below, each cabin was set far enough apart so it seemed to be alone in the wilderness. They were also appointed with hand-carved wooden furnishings and stone fireplaces, and would have been a great place for me to "get away from it all." Alas, I had reservations elsewhere. Instead, I stayed at the Lafayette Inn, an 1840 Federalist style building with colonnaded porches and thick brick walls. Embracing the region's history, The Inn furnishes each room with antiques and decor specific to a particular historical figure. The Washington Room, my room for the night, had walls festooned with pictures and paintings of Washington as a young man, as a military leader, and as president.
The Lafayette is known not only for its history; it is also known for its five-star restaurant, which was voted Virginia's Restaurant of the Year in 2006 by the Virginia Winery Association. I feasted on Atlantic salmon on a bed of rice, and it was everything I hoped it would be: tender, juicy, and coated with a heavenly Mediterranean glaze. Delicious as it was, the meal was just my appetizer for the evening. The main course would take place up the road at Karen's store, which hosts a bluegrass jam every Friday night. The musical event was, of course, Karen's brainchild and the main reason I'd come today. Although the Lydia Mountain Country Store is slightly bigger than a typical 7-Eleven, they somehow managed to cram 75 people inside for the night's festivities. Most people sat in folding chairs in a side room that had been cleared out for just this purpose. Overflow sat atop the ice cream coolers in back or stood in the store's main room and watched through the doorway. The stage was no more than an area rug placed between shelves that held bric-a-brac such as Prince Albert in a Can, tiny figurines, and antique metal signs. Behind the stage, a white curtain served as a backdrop.
Kicking things off were The Deanes, made up of four members of the Deane family plus three close friends. The gray-haired patriarch, Larry Deane, played from a wheelchair. He put the band together about 25 years ago. As Eddie Deane puts it, "He's been playing bluegrass since bluegrass wasn't cool." But tonight, bluegrass was very cool. The Deanes played a full hour, a few originals and plenty of bluegrass standards, the kind with frenzied banjo picking that set the whole place to slapping their knees or tapping their toes. Amazingly, one of the Deane's finest players was their youngest family member, 14-year-old Jordan, who alternated between mandolin and guitar. His fingers blazed, and whenever he fired off one of his rapid-fire riffs the rapt crowd would burst out in applause and loud hoots of joy. "He used to watch me," Larry said with a laugh. "Said I was his idol. But he's gone way beyond me now." Several more groups took turns playing, but the highlight of the night was when Virginia Blue stepped up to the mic. Their sound was crisp and clear with skilled picking and backup melodies. Each song would kick off the same way, with the lone woman in the group, vocalist Dana Roach, telling a joke or sharing some biographical info on her cohorts. They'd be standing around relaxed and laughing, then Scott Foltz would pick a roll on the banjo and before he was two notes into it everyone else would jump in with instant melody. Page Meadows' lead vocals were the type you'd expect to hear in a sold-out concert hall. Guitar and mandolin frequently alternated between the front spot at the mic to spotlight their equally talented play. Before I knew it, four hours had passed and the audience, without being asked, gathered up the chairs and stacked them against the side wall. On their way out, several people wished me luck on the rest of my walk. Everyone treated me like family and I was sorry to see it come to a close. Our magical, musical night may have ended. But it will be many years before it is forgotten.   Trees, Trees, Trees "Today I have grown taller from walking with the trees."Virginia is one of those lucky places where the temperature seldom gets unbearable and the landscape is beautiful beyond compare. The Old Dominion boasts the world's longest pleasure beach�Virginia Beach�and the country's oldest mountain chain�the Blue Ridge Mountains. My walks to this point have crisscrossed the flatlands of Tidewater and have journeyed out west in dribs and drabs, but this weekend I would enter the Blue Ridge and hike through one of the most beautiful preserves in the country: Shenandoah National Park. I'd made plans to hike a portion of the Shenandoah National Forest this morning with Cathyrn Kloetzli, an agent with the Virginia Cooperative Extension Program in Greene County. Her job involves grassroots community development, educating and empowering folks in agriculture, natural resources, family and consumer sciences, and a variety of other aspects affecting the community. We made a good pair: she was a skilled instructor and nature lover who could shed some light on Shenandoah's wonders, and I was an ignorant gawker in need of education. We agreed to meet at the Lafayette in the morning. I'd hoped to be done with breakfast before she arrived, but my meal had just been served moments before Cathy arrived. Automated music played classical tunes on the grand piano while I asked Cathy short, open-ended questions and tried to wolf down my chow while she answered. Pretty suave, huh? With my first spectacle of the day complete, we headed out to the Greene County Park where Cathy's friend, Robbi Savage, the Executive Director of the Rivanna Conservation Society, was leading a volunteer project to plant trees in the red soil overlooking a grassy soccer field. In addition to beautifying the area, the trees would help prevent erosion of the red soil. "We're the upstream neighbors of the Chesapeake Bay," Robbi said. "That's why it's so important to keep the dirt out of our water." Cathy and I grabbed a wheelbarrow loaded with gear and began digging with a specialized tool called a dibble. It looked more like a fireplace poker than a gardening implement, but hey, it did the job. Then we planted saplings in the holes, patted dirt around them, and shielded them from pesky birds and insects with protective sheaths. There were about 40-or-so volunteers of all ages working the hill. "This is what I love," said Robbi, indicating a young boy affixing mesh atop the protective sheaths. "He's going to come back to this park and say, 'I planted these trees.'"
"Well, don't grab your brothers," 15-year-old Perrin quipped. Perrin, whose soccer team plays and practices on the field below, gave another good reason for planting trees on the hillside: "Now we won't be able to do punishment runs up the hill!" We finally left the tree-planting so we could walk among some of the oldest and grandest trees in the state. Cathy dropped her car off at the Swift Run Gap entrance and hopped into mine, noticing the Bull Island sticker on the rear window. "Bull Island," she inquired, "where's that?" Poor girl. Obviously not well traveled. Or so I thought. Then I discovered she'd gone to Niger to build a 3-acre vegetable garden and visited such needy areas as Kyrgyzstan, Nepal, and Uzbekistan to educate farmers, and taken a dozen-or-so other trips to exotic locales for work and play. But, really, how well-traveled could someone be if they'd never heard of the teeming metropolis of Poquoson with its five�count them, FIVE�stoplights. I rest my case. I parked at The Oaks Overlook and we began the 6-� mile hike back to Cathy's car. We followed Skyline Drive, the thoroughfare that runs the ridgeline through the Park. All along the Drive were scenic overlooks where minivans disgorged their occupants to gaze at the wonderful views below. A couple of times when we stopped to check out the views ourselves, people seemed shocked that we were actually walking. "All the way down there?" one woman asked, pointing back toward Swift Run Gap. "But that's, like, miles and miles away." She said this with the awe of someone discussing the real-life possibilities of something possible that shouldn't be, like cloning, or bending time, or dieting.
"Nah," one of them said, "We're going to chop up trees that have fallen down." Turns out the men�Phil Barry and Harry Glenn�were two of the 6,000 volunteers who maintain the Appalachian Trail. The Appalachian Trail, or A.T. for short, is a 2178-mile nature trail that runs from Georgia to Maine. Although it winds through 14 different states, one quarter of the Trail lies in Virginia, and the portion that runs through Shenandoah National Park parallels Skyline Drive for most of the way and crosses over it in a few spots. Phil is responsible for a section of trail known as Saddleback Loop. "My loop is nicer than the rest of the AT," Phil said with a wink and a grin. Then off they tromped into the woods. As Cathy and I walked the final few miles, I quizzed her about something that had happened earlier in the day. When we'd bumped into Chris Breiner, managing partner for Stone Mountain Vineyards, he lit up upon noticing Cathy. "Cathy," he'd said, "I just wanted to thank you again for the great class. I got my Gempler's Catalogue and I'm checking out the gloves." "Oh, that," Cathy said. "We are required by VDACS (Virginia Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services) to give [pesticide recertification] classes, which sounds totally dull, but it's pretty interesting stuff. I think, anyway." "Chris seemed pretty impressed," I said. She beamed for just a moment before a rosy blush crept into her cheeks and she tried to change the subject. Wow. Not only was she someone dedicated to helping others, she was also someone who didn't like to toot her own horn.
Okay, so I might not have been able to show up Cathy in humility, or class, or philanthropy, or even walking ability�she'd twice done a 60-mile breast-cancer walk over the course of three days. There's still one place I have the upper hand. Of the two of us, I'm the only one who's been to Poquoson. So there! If you live in or ever visit the Greene County area, consider purchasing foods from these local sources: Greene County Local Foods brochure Trying Hard to Walk
We poked around the store, checking out various baked goods provided by the Mission Home Mennonites and the wall of Virginia wines. One local variety caught my eye: The "Revenuers' Select" from nearby Stone Mountain Vineyards. The sign posted by the wine read "Our tribute to Moonshiners and the Revenue Agents who pursued them. Easy to drink, especially on a hot summer afternoon...a sweet wine, great for picnics & hot tubs." Well, they definitely knew their demographic, because that advert was enough for me to pick up a bottle. We didn't uncork it till we'd returned home and were boozing it up with our wino friends, who each agreed that it was "wonderful, crisp, and powerful." But, we weren't there to eat and drink. Wine would have to wait and the ice cream would have to be walked off. But that would have to wait for one more side trip before we hit the road. We dropped Dawn's car off at our ending point, the Oaks Overlook, and ventured out onto a rocky outcropping to pose for a few silly pictures. We weren't the only ones with that idea. A van and a truck pulled up and disgorged their occupants. Kids scattered and ran around in sugar-induced frenzies while the father stood by the fender surveying the scene and scratching himself like a big-league pitcher. The mother was clad in a tight, pink tank-top that didn't cover her black bra straps. A barbed wire tattoo circled one biceps and crawling across her back was some large ink animal�a dragon or wolf or some other beast screaming to get off this redneck ride.
"Sounds like you just volunteered," I offered. "Uh uh," she replied. "I'm in charge of this heah expedition. These are all my chillen." Having scratched into submission whatever had been vexing him so, the husband came walking up and added his two cents. "Baby, don't go down there and git yerself hurt." Baby made an aggrieved tsking cluck and rolled her eyes. "That's what I just sayy-yed." "Send one of the kids," he continued, undeterred. "They're young. They won't mind so much if they break a bone." Then he patted her behind and added with a wide grin, "Sides, we can always make another." Dawn was sitting in the passenger seat of my car crooking her head indicating that we should get going. So I said farewell to the Redneck Family Robinson and hopped in the car. "I deal with people like that all day," she said. "I came here to get away from that." Dawn, it should be noted, is a pre-trial investigator and spends much of her time socializing with guests residing in the Newport News Jail.
Finally, we reached Big Meadows Campgrounds and got ready for our 8-mile hike. It was a hot day so I wanted to carry a full load of water in my rucksack. That meant I'd have to refill the two bottles we'd drunk in our long quest to get started. We stopped at a water fountain right near the exit onto Skyline Drive, but the fountain didn't work and we had to head back to the camp store where the restrooms were located. Dawn waited out front while I stepped in to fill up at the sink. But when I came back out, I noticed a gathering of people at the spot where I'd left Dawn. When I reached the gaggle, I saw Dawn crouching beside an elderly woman named Betty whom everyone thought had passed out. She'd actually plopped down on the pavement, claiming that she'd lost all her energy and was just trying to collect herself. One of the people gathered around Betty was an EMT. Noticing my rucksack, she said, "Let's use that as a pillow to prop her up." She apologized for not being able to do much without her equipment but suggested giving her some Gatorade. She went on and on so much about the beneficial electrolytes and everything else that I looked around to see if I was in a Reality-style TV commercial. Betty's son ran into the store and bought a bottle of G and, sure enough, that did the trick. Betty took two sips then sprung up into a handstand, did a couple of back flips, and shouted, "I wanna be like Mike!" Well, no. Actually, we sat around while waiting for an ambulance, the nearest of which was 45 minutes out. "I feel fine, really," Betty said. "No need to make such a fuss." Dawn patted her hand and told her that it wasn't any fuss and not to worry. Meanwhile, I watched the sun slowly sinking. Every now and then I eyed my rucksack and wondered how much of a stir I would cause if I just yanked it out and made a run for it. But I was a good boy. I waited for the ambulance to arrive and for the paramedics to take over. The walk itself was anticlimactic. We hiked the 8 miles and stopped at each of the overlooks along the way to marvel at the beautiful sight of the valley below. The plan had been for me to go on a second walk by myself after we finished. Dawn drove me up the road to the drop-off point and I hopped out of the car. But I'd made it no more than three steps before the first fat drops of a storm slapped my cheek. Looking up to the sky, I said, "Okay, I get it." Then I turned around and got back in the car. What can I say? Some days you're just not meant to walk. Mountain Miles Are Longer Dawn had a meeting to attend in Culpeper this morning, so our plan was for her to drop me off at Big Meadows so I could walk by myself until her meeting broke up. Then Dawn would join me out on the road and we'd continue together from there. And, unlike yesterday, our plans actually worked out. Each overlook I passed had a sign with the elevation marked on it. When I passed "Skyland," the sign boasted that, at 3680 feet, it was the highest point on Skyline Drive. I'd hiked up from a 3000-foot elevation overlook to get there, but it hadn't been a steady incline, nor was it a steady decline afterwards. For 12 miles, I climbed up and rambled down the steep slopes, each marker indicating a change of anywhere from 50 to a couple of hundred feet in elevation. When Dawn finally pulled up next to me in her car, my legs didn't have much juice left in them.
Dropping my ruck in her car gave me some relief and having Dawn along for company made the miles go by quicker. Not that we were in any hurry. The views were spectacular, and we took long breaks at each overlook to snap pictures of the valley below and simply to gawk. A couple of miles into our walk, Dawn noticed a peak looming ahead of us. "We don't have to climb up that, do we?" "Not exactly. The road weaves around the lower portion of the mountain. So we'll only have to climb up part of it." Turns out I was a liar. I was right about the road, but I wasn't right about where we were going. Shortly after we noticed the mountain, we bumped into an Appalachian Trail volunteer getting out of his car with a rock-busting sledgehammer. When we told him where we were going, he nodded thoughtfully. "Well, sure," he said, "you could follow the road to get to Pinnacles Picnic Grounds. But you could also hop on the A.T. right here and it'll take you there as well. Much more scenic on the trail."
The narrow trail snaked ever upward through rocky terrain. As we climbed higher, I noticed a cell phone repeater tower perched at the very top. I hadn't been able to get a signal in a while, so I told Dawn I was going to go off the path for a minute to climb up there and check it out. "Go ahead," she said, flopping down on the ground, "I'll wait for you right here." Up near the tower, I called my friend Bill Walsh, both because he's a walking fanatic and because he used to work for a phone company. "You're standing next to the tower?" he asked me. "You probably have enough microwaves going through you right now to fry your liver." "Good thing I like fried liver," I quipped. Though I did say that while hastening down from there.
Dawn's started jumping around and dancing. So much for being tired. Amazing what a little good news can do. "So," I said, "you want to walk on a few more miles?" Being the gentleman I am, I am unable to repeat what she said here. Suffice to say, she declined. With vigor. Virginia Tech, Three Years Later I'm separating today into two sections because I don't want any of my usual silliness to creep into what I say about the Remembrance Ceremonies held on the Virginia Tech campus today. I was a member of the Virginia Tech Corps of Cadets and graduated with a Civil Engineering degree in 1989. My nephew Ryan also attended VT, graduating last year with a math degree. He was a student at Tech three years ago when the shootings happened. I remember that day like most people remember where they were when the President was shot or when the Twin Towers were attacked. I was writing some nonsense at home when I saw a post on a VT message board about someone being shot on campus. I moved to the TV and watched the tragedy unfold, the death toll rising every few minutes. Frantically, I tried to call Ryan to see if he was okay, but phone service in Blacksburg was jammed from hundreds-of-thousands of people across the country doing the exact same thing. My mother, father, and sisters checked in with me every ten minutes-or-so in case I'd heard anything new, their voices heavy with dread at what I might have to say. When I finally got through to Ryan, the sketchy connection was severed before either of us could say much. But I'd heard enough. Ryan was safe. Relieved as I was that Ryan was unharmed, I still felt sick to my stomach at what was going on before my eyes. Shock and grief played out on the tear-streaked faces of students. No one had believed something like this could happen here. Everyone seemed adrift until that galvanizing moment during the first Remembrance Ceremony on the Drillfield just days after the shootings. Then, poet and Virginia Tech professor Nikki Giovanni stood before a sea of lit candles and proclaimed, "We will Prevail. We are Virginia Tech." Blooming from those words in the very same spot where Giovanni devliered them is a permanent monument to the tragedy: a ring of 32 Hokie-stones, each inscribed with the name of one of the victims. This would also be the spot for tonight's Remembrance Ceremony, but it would not be the only place for Hokies to reflect on what had happened. Classes were cancelled today and throughout campus buildings hosted various displays. The War Memorial Chapel played classical music on a grand piano for anyone wishing to quietly reflect. The GLC Multipurpose Room featured an interactive arts project seeking to provide relational understanding of differences. The Newman Library highlighted the academic achievements and interests of the shooting victims. And the monument in the center of campus, the ring of stones bearing victims' names, would be the location for the main event, a ceremonial candle lighting held at midnight. Today, floral wreaths stood at the head of each stone. Personal items were spread around them also, mementoes meant to convey how much they are all still in our thoughts. Flowers, jewelry, candles, cards, even cookies. In the days and weeks that followed the shootings, many questions were asked, not all of which could be readily answered. But the Hokie spirit was buoyed by an outpouring of support from around the country. Individuals and organizations offered compassion, assistance, and prayers, and the Virginia Tech community slowly healed. We are still grieving, but there is no tragedy so great that the human spirit cannot endure. We are strong. We will Prevail. We are Virginia Tech.  And Bingo Was His Name-O Dawn and I started out our day at Tech going to the Visitor's Center to pick up a parking pass. We didn't need one as all the parking lots were open and available for everyone today. Even so, we were glad we stopped there because we got to meet Bonnie Jean Glasgow, whose daughter was considering attending VT next year.
As we chatted, I planned to work all kinds of derogatory comments into the conversation about her daughter's second-choice school ("Oh, that place! Have they cleared the bubonic plague out of their water system yet?"). But then I found out her second choice was Texas A&M and I couldn't bash it. After Tech, A&M is my next favorite school. Especially now that the Aggies have gotten under control the roving band of rabid coyotes that feeds on the soft meat of incoming freshmen. Or so I've heard. Thus armed with no parking pass, Dawn and I moved out to the Drillfield to eat a picnic lunch before walking around campus. Students tanned on beach towels or cavorted on the grass tossing Frisbees, flying kites, or playing various other games. Dawn noticed one couple tossing a softball back and forth and made fun of the girl's poor throwing ability. Then she finished the last scoop of her pudding cup and tossed it at the cooler two feet in front of her...and missed. "Don't say a word," she warned. I couldn't. I was laughing too hard. After lunch, we walked out to the Duck Pond and wished we'd saved some bread from the picnic to feed the many ducks and geese that were paddling about the water. Past the Duck Pond, we came upon a military style obstacle course with some muscular Ranger-type working out on it. Michael O'Brien turned out to be a VT grad (class of '06) and a former Cadet, so we told each other war stories about our time in the Corps. I asked to film him running through the course and he obliged, zipping through each of the obstacles with what seemed like no effort at all.
We continued on, with Dawn stopping to smell every other tree or bush we crossed. The flowers were in full bloom and her nose was having a field day. "Oh, you've got to smell this," she'd say, pressing her nose into a lilac bloom. I'd oblige, but my sniffer is not nearly as sensitive as hers and I wasn't getting the same giddy rush. A little farther on, we came to a full field of dandelions and I asked Dawn to lie down in it so I could take a picture. She obliged and I got on my stomach next to her to take a sweeping picture with her in the foreground and the field of yellow filling the background. But the sun was shining directly on her and her eyes were squinted shut. "Come on," I urged, "stop being such a baby." "You try it," she replied. So, we got up to switch positions and Dawn burst out laughing. "Look at your shirt," she said. My front was covered with yellow blotches as if I'd just suffered a paintball ambush. When I rolled onto my back and squinted even worse than she had, Dawn could barely contain her laughter. It was around this time, after having sniffed half the flora in Montgomery County and soaking up enough dandelion pollen to turn my maroon shirt yellow, that I realized I had forgotten to take my allergy medication. D'oh! We soldiered on, my eyes getting redder and more swollen with each mile and Dawn's entries of "Here, smell this!" growing more taunting. After passing by the huge maroon bushes in the shape of a VT, we continued past Lane Stadium and Cassell Coliseum and through the various quads filled with dormitories covered in Hokie stone. By the time we made it to the University Bookstore, my eyes were the red of tomato soup and my sneezing had the frequency of a machine gun. I purchased some allergy medication and we went over to Squires Student Center to wait it out in the food court.
But this was not the end of the day's adventures. We drove out to a place I'd passed on a previous walk through Roanoke, the All Star Bingo Center. I'd never played bingo before and it seemed like an interesting way to pass the evening. Stepping inside the converted bowling alley, I bought two packets of bingo cards and two "daubers," ink markers to mark off numbers on the cards. Total cost: $42. Then we settled into a couple of open seats in the non-smoking section and waited for the action to begin. When the caller started rattling off the first numbers, we quickly found ourselves falling behind. Each bingo sheet contained 12 separate cards, and it seemed like I would get halfway through them by the time he called off the next number. I was about to ask Dawn if she was having the same trouble but she all of a sudden threw up her hands and started laughing. Yep, she was. Around us, the bingo veterans were having no such troubles. In fact, many of them were playing additional games on top of the 12-game sheet that we were. Those who chose to pay an extra fee punched the called numbers into a laptop gaming device that showed another 4 bingo cards. They did this at the same time that they scanned their other sheet of 12 cards. Yikes! I eventually learned to simply touch the numbers with my dauber and rapidly move on, instead of marking an X across them as I had been. In the first few games, I had to skip a series of called numbers just to catch up to the numbers being called out. But by the time we got through a handful of games, I felt like I had a handle on it. Good thing, too, because by the sixth game of the night I was an ink-daubing fool. "Bingo!" I yelled. The attendant came over to my position and called out the ID number on my card. "That is a good bingo," the caller said, which was followed by grumbles around me. The attendant handed me a $100 bill and Dawn exclaimed, "This is his first time!" Which was followed by even louder grumbles. After 16 games, there was an intermission. Each game packet had a ticket stapled to it, which gave the holder a chance at winning one of three door prizes. When they called out the numbers for the first ticket, I looked down and, sure enough, they all matched. "That's me," I shouted, waving a hand in the air. I walked over to the reception desk and picked up my prize: a $20 voucher good on my next trip to the Bingo Parlor. How funny. Dawn and I were probably the only two people in there who couldn't make use of the prize. And here's where it gets really freaky. Dawn won the third door prize. I kid you not! We were laughing so hard at the strange turn of events that we were holding our sides. For some reason, our neighbors didn't share our enthusiasm. "Okay," I said, "we can't use these. Who do we give them to?" "Got to choose a non-smoker," Dawn said. I spied a woman in our section reading a book. "There," I said. "See, reading does pay off!" We introduced ourselves to Joyce, who as a frequent bingo-player was thrilled to take the vouchers off our hands. We told her about my walk across the state and she asked, "Well, how do you get to and from the places you walk?"
So, it turned out that we actually were able to make use of the door prizes after all...or so we thought. The next morning, Joyce stood us up. We waited for a half-hour before I finally called a taxi. But that was fine. Even with cab fare and the cost of bingo packets, I still came out ahead with my $100 winnings. And I learned a valuable lesson. Never trust a woman reading a book. Roadside Cupid
She set her luggage atop the nightstand and put her shoes on the table. "You can tell how I feel about a place by where I put my stuff," she said. In the morning, while we waited for a ride that never came, I noticed a piece of paper held down with a rock sitting beside someone's car. Too curious (and nosy) to pass by without peeking, I picked up the note. Someone named James wrote that he'd met the owner of the car once and had a question about something on her license plate. He asked her to write the answer on the back and leave it by his hotel door. My good angel must have been napping, because I brought the note back to my room and composed a reply: "James, I remember you. You're hot. Let's get together...soon." As I left the room to drop the note at James' door, Dawn tried her hardest to stop me from playing Roadside Cupid. I believe her exact words were, "Go ahead. I dare you." Okay, so her good angel was asleep too. In fact, she thought, with my luck, I'd probably get caught and she stood by the door waiting to slam it in my face so I could talk things out with James. But, he never appeared, and we were left wondering if I'd actually sparked a love connection, a slap in the face, or nothing at all.
When I passed by the border between Shawsville and Elliston, I stopped and asked Dawn to take a picture of me by the welcome sign. I posed with 8 fingers pressed against my chest and she said, "What, are you in a gang now?"
When we reached Salem, we stopped at Dixie Caverns and took the 45-minute guided tour of the limestone cave system. Our tour guide, Tyler, paused at the cave entrance and told us how stalactites and stalagmites are formed by dripping calcium and grow approximately one-inch per year. "Don't touch any of the rocks," he warned. "The sweaty deposits from your hands will damage the rocks. There's a $500 fine if you touch anything." Then he led us into the cave and stopped at the first of many giant stalactites, which was dripping merrily away. My first inclination, of course, was to touch it, having already forgotten the warning. "Hey, dummy," Dawn said, slapping at my hand. "Get the calcium out of your ears. He said, 'Don't touch!'"
Throughout the tour, we ducked low-hanging stalactites and were bombed by dripping calcium. One particularly sizable blob landed on the toe of Dawn's shoe, and after we left the cave I scraped it into a Ziploc bag and stuck it in my rucksack. "A perfect memento," I said. Dawn looked at the hermetically sealed brown splat I held proudly in my hands. "Yeah," she said, "that'll always remind you of what you would have looked like if James had caught you." Maybe. But the threat of personal danger is not enough to keep me from performing my duties as a Roadside Cupid. Especially when the victim�I mean, loving recipient�is sound asleep in his room. Dreams of the Weatherman Have you ever had one of those dreams where you're running about in town taking care of errands like picking up the dry cleaning or paying the ice cream truck to linger for a half-hour outside the window of your annoying neighbor playing its equally annoying song, when all of a sudden you bump into a celebrity? I don't mean one of those recurring fantasies where you step into a changing room only to discover its already occupied by a nude�and for some reason, drunk�Victoria's Secret model. And when you gallantly hand her the tiny piece of lace from the back of the door, she says, "All I want to wear is you!" No, I'm talking about dreams that are even sweeter than that, dreams where you bump into a local celebrity, one who regales you every day with his guesses about whether or not it's going to rain, and when he gets it wrong�as he is wont to do�he gives that goofy shrug and says, "Oops." I'm talking, of course, about the weatherman. I refuse to call him a meteorologist until he accurately predicts a meteor. "Why," you might ask, "is this dream better than the one with naked supermodels?" Because in it, when I encounter the climatological version of Miss Cleo, I punch him in the kisser and knock out half of his capped teeth. If I sound a little miffed, you've got to understand something. I didn't walk anywhere the past couple of days, not even around my hometown, because the weatherman predicted rain. However, he was wrong. Go figger. So, today, when the weatherman bleated that familiar refrain in his oh-so-cheery voice that there was a 50% chance of rain throughout the day, I ignored his warning and hit the road. On the drive out to Windsor, low-hanging clouds formed a gray tarp blotting out the sun. Just as they had on the previous two days. I parked my car and began the trek out toward Zuni, just short of 6 miles away. And the weatherman was finally right. Go figger. I'd at least worn my blaze-orange poncho, so the downpour didn't soak my clothes. At first. But somewhere along the 6-mile trek to Zuni or maybe during the 6-mile trek back to my car, the rain figured out a way to wiggle around the seams or through the neck hole or simply seep through the plastic itself, turning me into a walking pile of soggy fabric. In that condition, I didn't stop anywhere or visit anything during my walk. I merely trudged and splashed ahead, certain of only one thing. The weatherman has got it in for me. Soldiering On Twenty-five years ago, my high-school buddy Brad Lawing joined the Corps of Cadets at Virginia Tech. I'd joined the year before, which meant I was an upper class cadet, with all the rights and privileges that entailed. So, when Brad came in as a New Cadet�also known as a Newbie, a Rat, or a handful of other derogatory terms�I made sure he was welcomed in the kind and genteel manner that befit my good friend. In other words, I made his life a living Hell.
So, it was with mixed emotions that I greeted my old high-school, college, and Army buddy this morning. I was glad and sad at the same time. But for today's walk�a 9-mile hike along Route 460 into Bedford to visit the National D-Day Memorial�I could think of no better person to have by my side. The forecast called for heavy rain all day, but a couple of Army knuckleheads like us weren't going to let that get in our way. "If it ain't raining, it ain't training," Brad said, giving the oft-repeated Army standard. But we were lucky. Although it rained on us during most of the 4-hour drive out to Bedford, it stopped before we got there and held off for our entire walk, providing us with a nice, cool cloud cover to boot. Brad brought along a couple of walkie-talkies since we took two cars. Every now and then, I'd hear the walkie-talkie squelch and then Metallica or some other heavy metal song would blare through its speaker. We'd taken off at "Oh-Dark-Thirty" and when we pulled into a gas station to fill up, my gas pump only squeezed out 5 cents worth of gas and Brad's wouldn't turn on at all. There were a couple of people rummaging about inside ramping up the convenience store (or inconvenience, as it turned out), and we rapped on the glass and asked to use the restroom. Each of the two attendants refused to even look up, studying their hands and papers on the counter instead. So, we did what Army folk do: we ran over the gas pumps, threw a lighter on the spewing gas to create an explosion, then ran through town with M-60's shooting up everything while searching for the sheriff and shouting, "He drew first blood!" No, wait, that was Rambo who did that. We merely went out back and watered the wood line. Then we hopped back in our cars and headed off for the next gas station. I pulled out of the lot in the wrong direction, and as I did a U-turn my walkie-talkie squelched. "Nice going, Ranger," Brad said. Hmm, maybe bringing him along wasn't the best choice. We finally made it out to our starting point in Thaxton and "rucked up" for the 9-mile hike to the memorial. Or, at least I did; Brad only wore a two-quart Camelback. "What, no rucksack?" I said. "You sure have gone soft since converting to Armored Cav." I knew that would get his panties in a bunch. "Let me tell you," he said, "an infantryman pulls out a little piece of a map that�s like an 8-kilometer movement and he�s whining because that�s an all-day, all-night thing and he�s going to be dead tired when he gets done. But for me, 8k is like, I don�t know, 5 minutes? And there�s always the cold, wet infantryman who comes up and comes beside your tank and says, 'Um, can you turn your tank on? We�re cold and we want to stand behind it.'" I, of course, had been an infantryman. And I refute Brad's description of us, no matter how accurate it might be! Brad went on (and on, and on) about the many great virtues of tanks and then told me about an argument he had with an Afghan tanker, a second-lieutenant company commander who, since the age of 14, had been fighting on tanks against the Russians and Taliban, tribes and warlords. The Afghan commander was claiming the maximum effective range of his tank was nearly three times that of Brad's cutting-edge Abrams, and Brad was telling him that was impossible. Until an interpreter got involved and he saw how they weren't talking about the same thing. "When they would shoot the tanks," Brad said, "they wouldn�t use the sights because they don�t use tanks like we do in a direct-fire mode. They use them to support the infantry in an indirect-fire mode. So they�d be sitting in the gunner�s hatch with their head out of the hatch and then they�d fire a round [like a mortar] and see where it hit and then manually adjust and fire another round. And [this commander] would be pretty much on just because he�d been doing it for so long."
Bedford, a small town now, was nothing but a tiny hamlet in the 1940's. For such a small town to suffer the loss of 22 of its boys was a tragedy beyond words. Their town had the highest per-capita loss of any battle since the Civil War. To honor the memories of those who sacrificed everything, the people of Bedford built the National D-Day Memorial, which receives no government funding and is maintained solely through volunteer efforts and donations. As such, I expected something small, a single monument with perhaps a brass placard mounted on its base. I couldn't have been more wrong. From the parking lot of the Bedford Visitor Center, a single lane road winds a half-mile up a steep hill to the memorial. As we hiked up, Overlord Arch came into view. But after we crested the hill, we saw that this huge concrete structure was merely a small part of the entire display. We followed the circular parking lot's perimeter to the north side where a statue of General Eisenhower stood beneath an ornate gazebo overlooking a multi-colored flower garden. "It's nice that the flowers form the shape of a cross," I said to Brad. "That's a sword, nimrod," he said, pointing out the explanation in the brochure about how the English pattern garden was in the shape of the command staff's shoulder patch. "I knew that," I said. "Just testing you."
Most monuments I've seen portray those being remembered in the height of their grandeur, astride a rearing stallion or standing tall with shoulders squared. None of them could ever bear the same emotional impact as this fallen soldier, who so fittingly shows the true and horrible cost of war. The memorial continued on the far side of the water, with soldiers climbing up and over a rocky wall and continuing to charge forward on the other side. Beneath Overlord Arch stood the symbol of fallen comrades everywhere: a rifle planted in the ground with a helmet resting on the butt. We left the site reflecting on all we'd seen, then drove out to the Bedford Diner for a fairly bland meal. While we ate, I iced my foot and we reminisced over college days and mused how lucky we were not to wind up in jail for some of our stunts. It was time for Brad to get back to his family, So the tread-head dropped me off in Forest and I humped back to the memorial site, making it a 19-mile day for me. Being quite impressed with my impressive impressiveness, I briefly thought about giving Brad a call to boast. But then I realized he'd likely just tell me how his tank could have covered that same stretch in less time than it takes a BP spokesman to blame an oil spill on someone else, and I decided to take the high road. Plus, I was too busy icing my foot and moaning. But, hey, which of us had the guts to wrestle a rhino? Infantry rules! 
Up and Over the Mountain After a catatonic night in a Bedford hotel, I woke feeling sore from yesterday's 19 miles. At least, that's my excuse for all the difficulties I had in the lobby this morning. I tried to make waffles in the waffle-maker but didn't spray the iron with PAM beforehand, so when I opened up the waffle-maker the batter ripped apart and stuck to both sides of the griddle. The "sticky waffle iron," I've heard, is the second most foreboding sign in the deck of Tarot cards, slightly worse than "the hanged man" and "death" but not quite as bad as the "Prius gas pedal." An ominous start to a day if I've ever seen one. Undaunted, I grabbed a water bottle and poncho and began the 9-� mile hike from Thaxton through Villamont and Montvale out to Blue Ridge. Mountains towered off in the distance and I considered myself fortunate not to be going that far. I figured I'd hit some of the minor elevation in the foothills, but that wouldn't be a problem. This would be a good time to explain that my eyesight is actually pretty poor, because my depth perception in this instance was wayyy off. Not only did my hike take me up into the mountains, I wound up crossing over them and began to climb down the other side. And my legs were just loving me. One good piece of news: the forecast had predicted rain, but I was once again blessed with road magic. Although by the time I was halfway through with my walk, I was wishing for a little rain. The temperature crept up into the upper 70's, and with the heat reflecting up off the highway it felt more like 90. I wound up soaked anyway, but with sweat instead of rainwater. And one piece of great news: today's walk completed a long portion of my route running across the middle of the state. I had now linked up my various walks from Lynchburg through Bedford, Roanoke, Salem, and Christiansburg to the western edge of Blacksburg. Of course, it had taken me seven months to cover that stretch, with my first leg in the Lynchburg area occurring last September. But even so, it felt great to ink in that line on my map. And I don't need to be a speed demon to complete this walk. Instead, I follow the turtle's maxim: slow and steady wins the race. And the other turtle's maxim: Hey, Baby, what you got shaking under that shell? Shopper's Paradise Dawn and I started today's walk in Dumfries, whose welcome sign announces, "Haste Ye Back, Dumfries, Virginia's Oldest Town." Huh, well how about that? Doing a little research, I discovered that people from Dumfries are known colloquially as Doonhamers since the era of Roman occupation. Of course, that's for the Dumfries located in Scotland. This Dumfries earned its "ancient" status with an asterisk, since its founding date, 1749, occurred long after other towns had been formed in Virginia. However, it outlasted those earlier burgs and remains the "oldest continuously chartered town in Virginia." On this day, however, we knew nothing of its back-handed historical footnote. All we knew was that the town's cultural highpoint seemed to be the Weems-Botts Museum. If you've never heard of it before, don't beat yourself up. Weems and Botts were two gentlemen whose claim to fame, like their town's, came with an asterisk. Benjamin Botts was a lawyer whose highlight was that he was one of many who served on Aaron Burr's defense team during his treason trial while Parson Mason Locke Weems wrote a biography of George Washington. Unlike George, Mr. Weems could tell a lie. In his book, he fabricated portions to make it more interesting (can you say Colonial Era James Frey?). The legend of G. W. chopping down the cherry tree originated in his book. Needless to say, we didn't tarry in Dumfries. Instead, we hastened to our next destination: Woodbridge. Woodbridge was another name with connections to the U.K. That was the name of the Royal Air Force Base where I spent my formative years in England. My dad, you see, was a jet jockey, and my family hopped around the globe to various Air Force Bases in the U.S., Japan, Okinawa, and England. His 5-year assignment to RAF Woodbridge was the longest we stayed in one location, and the tiny Air Force Base was a quiet, beautiful place reminiscent of Small Town America in the 50's. This Woodbridge was nothing like the idyllic small town of my childhood memories. Instead of venturing into a far-flung piece of Britain, we seemed to have entered a Mexican enclave. The closer we got to the town, the more stores featured Spanish on their signs. Day laborers congregated in several of the parking lots we passed through and scores of vehicles had been modified to low-rider style, including, incredibly enough, one silly looking mini-van that rode inches off the ground. Several buildings were burnt, closed or spray-painted and litter gathered in clumps along the roadside. "It keeps getting crappier the closer we get to the hotel," Dawn said. "Great choice, Bill." At the Econo Lodge, we had some difficulty opening the door. We each took turns trying the magnetic card key. Each time the light would turn green but the door remained wedged shut. Finally I put my shoulder into it on one try and the door popped open. The manager had just come across the parking lot. "Ah," he said, "I see you learned the trick to opening the door." Two miles to the east of our hotel, the giant sign of Potomac Mills hovered over I-95. Believe it or not, the giant outlet mall is the largest tourist attraction in the state, drawing as many as a quarter-million shoppers on a weekend. Instead of tangling with the teeming masses, Dawn and I headed two miles to the west of our hotel to a distinctly different shopping experience: Occoquan, a tiny town with fewer than 800 residents. The town's name comes from a Dogue Indian word meaning "at the end of the water," and though Occoquan was founded in 1734, 15 years earlier than "Virginia's Oldest (ahem) Town," it was merely a trading post at that time.
We browsed through a gallery with sign that begged patrons to "Please Touch." I was joking around with the sign, suggesting that I should walk around town with it dangling from my neck, when the artist/cashier on duty asked if we needed any assistance. Dawn broke out in a wide smile and said, "Hey, are you from Chicago or Canada?" Dawn, I should mention, is a transplanted Chicagoan and she can easily pick out the accent. The gent was indeed from Chicago and they had a long talk about the Windy City. Then he got to comparing that metropolis to this tiny burg. "People are funny here," he said. "You wouldn't believe how much they argued over what kind of fence to put around a dumpster." Moving on, we came across a sandwich sign in front of a wine shop that indicated they were offering a free Virginia wine tasting. Naturally we stopped in. "Free is my favorite color," said Dawn. We sipped a few and I purchased a wonderful book on the history of Virginia wines, adding yet another bag for me to tote on our walk. At the north end of town, we followed a bridge across the Occoquan River, dallying to follow the progress of a blue heron picking through the shoreline. On the far side, we oohed and aahed at small waterfall before making our way back for another final pass through town before walking back to Woodbridge. At the edge of town, we came across Mom's Apple Pie Bakery and simply had to stop in. At the counter, we chatted up an energetic young man named Chris. Chris had tattooed arms and a penchant for stroking his goatee while talking pensively. When he heard about our adventures, he said, "Man, I envy what you're doing." A sentiment we'd heard often. Chris, however, had done some of his own exploring. Over the past decade he'd worked as a musician, traveling the country. "Who knows," I told him, "maybe one day I'll go as far as you." For now, though, we were just intent on covering the last couple of miles back to the hotel. If I stopped in one more store and purchased one more item, I'd be carrying too much to complete my walk. Then I'd have to live here, and with residents like me the town would quickly lose its wholesome image. No, best to keep on moving and find another town to spoil...I mean, visit. |
Spectacular view from Lydia Mountain
No, I did not entertain diners with my rendition of "Chopsticks"
The Deanes take the stage...so to speak
The Godbolds lend a hand
Confused, Bill looks the wrong way at the scenic overlook
When you've done something goot, you've got to toot
Dawniel Boone
Citing Titanic's "I'm King of the World!" is never a good way to start a trip
Mmm, tar!
Nothing ordinary about this walk
Pausing on the Appalachian Trail
Celebrating 200!
Bill & Dawn act as Good Will Ambassadors for the Glasgows
Bill bows out gracefully
Now sniff this one!
Joyce, aka "Free Lunch"
Resilient, inappropriately named, red buds
Newest member of the Van Buren Boys
Dixie Caverns: where big drips hang out
Brad and his family at his promotion ceremony
Remembering fallen heroes
Epitome of Small Town Virginia