Dam It!

There’s a storm brewing in my little hometown: a century-old dam is slated for demolition, which will change the character of the river upstream from it beyond recognition and which has the potential to introduce severe toxins to that stretch of water from industrial contamination downstream. No one is happy, except for the board of the condo complex that owns and failed to maintain the dam and the local representative of a trout fishing organization who claims the “restored” river will be a magnet for anglers, who will descend in swarms upon the town, making it the tourist mecca it was always meant to be. Dream on, trout man.

Now, I’m not a huge fan of dams. I’ve read Edward Abbey. I know about the breathtaking redrock landscapes destroyed forever by the Glen Canyon Dam. I have no doubt that before the dam was built in the opening days of the 20^th century, South River was a lovely and bucolic stream, wending its way through the apple orchards that once flourished where the city park now lies. But in the century following the construction of the dam, the impounded waters formed a wider, deeper river where locals used to swim and where they still canoe, fish, and enjoy the river wildlife. They also used the deeper waters as a convenient place to dump their big crap, including appliances, worn out tires, and who knows what else. There are also a number of exposed pipes below the surface, especially near the dam… You can see where this is going, right? Especially since in the century since the dam was built, homes have also been built along the riverbanks, upstream of the dam all the way up to the park boundary. That riverfront property didn’t come cheap. And apparently the owners’ land rights extend to the center of the river. Oh yes, you can see where this is going.

From the time I was two, my family has lived about a block from the river. My mom and brother still live in that house, which is situated on the street that leads down to the city park and dead-ends at the river’s edge. There used to be a boat ramp at the end of the street; now it just diverges into parking lots on either side. My dad used to pull my brother and me in our purple “Happy-Time” wagon down to the river to feed the ducks. He also had an old wooden rowboat that he had painted bright blue, and he used to row us in that boat up and down the river as far as we could go. There was a broad island with shallows on either side that stopped our progress upstream just at the park boundary, but we could go all the way down the river to the dam, which was originally constructed by a factory that made pump parts and later stoves. I was always afraid of going too near the dam—when I was a kid, it seemed to me to as dangerous as Niagara Falls, if not quite as high. In reality, only the highest of water could have swept anyone or any craft (even an innertube, I’ll wager) over what is anything but a precipice. Really, it’s little more than a weir, isn’t it?

Anyway, by the time we rowed up and down the river (and later paddled it in a canoe my dad built, which supplanted the rowboat in our family fleet), the company that built the dam in the first place had gone out of business, and the factory loomed empty and abandoned over the dam. It burned down a good forty years ago, and in its place, a condo complex of townhomes arose. As it turns out, the condo complex owns the dam and, although many of the residents love the sound of the water coursing over the structure (according to an article in the hometown newspaper about the brewing controversy), the condo association never bothered to maintain this part of their property. So now it will cost three times as much to restore the dam as to demolish it. Which the condo association board has agreed to do. Demolish it, that is.

Apparently, the only person outside the condo board who had any wind of the plan before it went public was the aforementioned local representative of the trout-fishing consortium, who has (according to local rumor) been meeting regularly with the board to encourage them to get rid of the dam so that the river can become a fast moving trout stream again. Which, according to trout-dude, will bring tourists in droves. Really, trout-dude? Seriously? This is Waynesboro we’re talking about. As a native daughter (well, almost… I was born in Staunton, 12 miles away), I see the community’s charms. But tourist mecca it ain’t, nor will it ever be.

Now that the trout has jumped the hook, so to speak, and word about the demolition is out, the homeowners who live upstream and many others in the community who enjoy paddling on and fishing (just not for trout) in the waters impounded by the dam are understandably upset.

It may well turn into a community battle the likes of which has not been seen since Phil Sheridan wupped Jubal Early’s ass on the battlefield that eventually became the playground for my elementary school (which is now just ball fields, because the erstwhile school is now the town’s Senior Center) back in 1865.

Which leads me to ask...

WHY?

Didn’t the condo board even consider the ramifications of this decision? Didn’t it occur to them that the property owners upstream of the dam and the people who enjoy the river and its current crop of wildlife might be understandably upset to wake up one morning to find a muddy, trash-filled, pipe-laden ditch with a trickle of water down the middle where a pretty, lazy river used to be? Because I can clearly see that the homeowners will be knocking on the condo board’s door to demand that said board pay for clean-up, landscaping, loss of property values… And I am no math whiz, but even I can do this arithmetic: The cost of demolishing this dam may well cost the condo association a lot MORE than the $250,000 they claim it would take to restore the dam.

Here’s the saddest thing about this: I cannot help but think that homeowners and those who enjoy the river as it is would have been willing to work with the condo association to find a solution to the funding issue. Community members working together for the good of everyone concerned. Civic lessons learned. Civic pride reinforced. BUT, since the board decided to move on this without letting anyone know about it until they had to reveal their plan, the route of cooperation is probably closed to them forever. The route of lawsuits and bad feelings, though, THAT rocky road is wide open.

Sigh.

A Yuletide (Well, Kinda) Memory

During my walk this lunchtime (which, by the way, has become a futile effort in terms of exercise due to sporadic—at best—neighborhood sidewalk snow and ice removal), my playlist of Christmas favorites offered up the Phil Spector/Bob B. Soxx and the Blue Jeans version of “The Bells of St. Mary’s,” and a memory surfaced.

Back in old Waynesboro, Virginia, my hometown, there was precious little for high school kids to do of a weekend evening. There was especially precious little for kids who hadn’t yet fallen prey to the usual high-school pastimes of dating and drinking and such. Oh, there was the Skyline Drive-In (which was also, I’m sure, a great place for those who dated and drank). We used to pile a bunch of us into a car and go there to watch cheap scare movies and provide running commentary.

We used to collect stuff from our basements and attics and dress up the local statue of David (a be-fig-leafed replica of Michelangelo’s masterpiece) in the finery we scavenged.

We went to the local dine ‘n’ dance dive, the late and maybe lamented by someone High Hatter, where we dared each other to walk through to the ladies’ room (or the men’s room, depending) to buy two-for-a-quarter prophylactics from the machine therein (for prevention of disease ONLY). We then filled the condoms with water and held water balloon fights—usually, though, not in the High Hatter parking lot. Even we knew that was a sure way to get our asses kicked by humorless bikers.

After our evening of hijinks, we often headed to the local Pizza Hut (which is now home to Scotto’s Italian Restaurant, and has been for years) where we shared a pie or two and, invariably, played the jukebox. And this is where the memory starts.

At some point, one of our number—Cindy F., to be exact—discovered that among the usual top-40 offerings on the Pizza Hut jukebox was a version of “The Bells of St. Mary’s” sung by Bing Crosby. And from then on, whenever we went to the Pizza Hut with Cindy in tow, we knew that we’d be regaled with “The Bells of St. Mary’s” somewhere in the mix. Sometimes twice in the mix. And then…

And then came that fateful evening when Cindy loaded up the jukebox with quarters. And played “The Bells of St. Mary’s” over and over and over and over…

Well, it was not hard to tell which table had perpetrated this outrage. Every time the song would start again, howls of laughter would rise from our corner booth. Our crime discovered, our merry band was ejected from the Pizza Hut. A classmate who worked there told us later that the management finally had to unplug the jukebox to stop the onslaught of Der Bingle. It was one of Cindy’s finest hours.

Not really a Christmas memory—I don’t think it happened at Christmas—but brought back to mind by my Christmas playlist.

Ah hear! They are calling the young loves, the true loves, that come from the sea…

Road Trip!

Ah. Lovely Waynesboro, Virginia. And what better time to drive there from Chicago than late September?

Jeff and I have made this trip many times, and only once in the past have we stopped overnight either to or from. That was many years ago when Jeff came down with pneumonia and the drive back to Chicago was just too tiring for the both of us to attempt in one day. This time, though, we decided to take a couple days to drive down to Virginia and a couple days to drive back. Take our time. Slow down a bit and enjoy the scenery. So we did.

On the way down, we stopped for the night at Carter Caves State Resort Park in eastern Kentucky. There are two caves open to the public there (and many more on park land--most of them used to be open to cavers with permits, but the white-nose syndrome has become such a threat to local bats that such excursions have been halted for now): Cascade Cave and X Cave. We arrived in time to tour the latter. It was a small but interesting cave, formed when the bore holes of two streams met, forming an X, literally. One of the passages is highly decorated, and the other is very sparse and spartan. I wish I had photos to show, but alas! I discovered all too late that I had left my data card at home, and the gift shop did not carry them. Sigh.

At any rate, here's a set of photos I found on flickr:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/dandeeshots/sets/72157617560136344/

Many thanks to DanDee!

It was a rainy, rainy night, but the lodge was comfortable and boasted a decent restaurant.

The next morning dawned foggily, and I worried that the mist would interfere with my morning driving plans, but by the time we reached Charleston and left the interstate for U.S. 60, most of the fog had burned off. At first I didn't think much of the scenery of this "scenic drive." The road hugged a river, the opposite bank of which sported mills and shacks and, well, lots of the accouterments one associates with Appalachia... and not in a good way. But as the road veered away from the river and climbed higher into the hills, the scenery improved. And the frequency of hairpin turns increased. Finally, we got to Hawks Nest, a lofty perch overlooking the New River Gorge. Of course, no photos--still hadn't found a data card--but well worth the detour.

We had hoped to be able to check out the Mystery Hole, which is located along highway 60 near Hawks Nest, but alas! It was closed! But here's the beauty part: When I got to Waynesboro, my BFF Barb presented me with a lovely sweatshirt from there! Yea! At least I have the appropriate apparel should I ever be lucky enough to pass that way again and find the attraction up and running.

We rolled into Waynesboro in plenty of time to take Mom to dinner.

The highlight of the weekend was a gathering of Fools to eat pizza and attend the production of Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street featuring the incomparable Barbara Spilman Lawson as Mrs. Lovett. It was an accomplished production, with the leads (Brian Holsopple played Sweeney Todd) bringing performances that would have been welcome on any major stage in the world. It was great to spend a bit of time with old friends and see a wonderful, creepy play in the bargain.

We were a bit early for the full fall color display, but we did manage to catch a few glimpses of what was in store for the valley a few weeks on:



Jeff and I strolled around the old neighborhood and down to the park, where we discovered that the old boat ramp was returning to its natural state and hosting a few ducks to boot.



And of course we enjoyed Sunday brunch in Staunton with Mom and brother John. We went to the Clocktower, where they prepared our omelets to order. Tasty. We rolled out of there more than satisfied.



We headed back to Chicago on Tuesday, breaking for the night at Batesville, Indiana, where we ate at the historic Sherman House. Good German food to be had here!

We got home in the early afternoon on Wednesday, weary and ready to rest from the road. For a while. Only for a while.

Prism-wrapped Planes and Such

A while back now, in late August, I flew down to Waynesboro to visit my mom and to witness first-hand the unveiling of the spiffy new marquee at the venerable Wayne Theater.



In order to avoid spending Friday in transit, I arranged an early-ish Thursday evening flight out of O'Hare to Richmond. It worked well. I got to Richmond around 9:30, rented a car, and by 11:00 I was at the old homestead. By far the best reward for this strategy, though, was something I glimpsed from the plane: As the sun was setting and it's rays grew long, I gazed out the window to see the shadow of the plane passing along a wall of clouds. And surrounding the shadow was a full spectrum--as if we were flying within a prism. Of course, my camera was in my computer bag, which was in the overhead because the plane was too small for it to fit under my seat. Sigh. You'll just have to take my word for it and envision it yourself!

Oddly enough, the spectrum theme was repeated the next afternoon when, only an hour or so before the marquee was scheduled to be unleashed on the world, a sudden downpour produced one of the nicest rainbows I've seen in many a year.



By the way, for those in the know (or who want to be), that photo was snapped from Linden. The house in the foreground used to be where my primary-school friend Ginny used to live. Ginny had one of those skeery kit-kat clocks with the moving eyes and tail. And her parents always stocked cases of Mountain Dew in the fridge. Lot's of good memories of sleep-overs and dancing to the latest Beatles single with that house...

At any rate, the rain subsided in plenty of time for the downtown festivities to begin.



There was music, an installment of a serial radio play, stand-up comedy, more music...



A moment of utter serendipity occurred when a folk-singer was warbling about hearing that old train whistle that reminded him of home, and the train that just happened to be passing through town as it does every evening sounded its whistle loud and long.

Young and old attended the festivities--everyone had a great time!



And once the sun set and the program drew to a close,



the band kept on playing so those who felt so moved could groove to their hearts' content!



Please note that Barb is prepared to move and groove in safety through the night with those reflecto shoes! Heh!

In the time that's elapsed since the August visit and now, I have yet another trip to the Big W under my belt... so stay tuned for more Waynesboro hijinks soon!

As Promised...

More fall foliage.

First, a view of the Shenandoah Valley from the Blue Ridge Parkway:



I believe the colors reached their peak last weekend, which was about three weeks or so since this was taken. Still you can see how lovely it was, even at maybe a quarter of peak. This is a special spot. This was the spot from which we scattered my dad's ashes over the valley. Illegal, yeah. But my guess is the statute of limitations has run out on that misdemeanor. It was his wish, and we made it happen. And now it's my mom's wish, and mine as well.

Here's another view, a glimpse through the trees down a path from the overlook, very near the scene of the crime.



While the trees in the valley and on the Blue Ridge were lovely in their early changes, the colors we encountered in West Virginia on our way home to Illinois were gorgeous. Here's a sample, snapped on the go, out the car window.



As we were passing through the West Virginia mountains in the early morning, the mist obscured some of the deciduous patchwork...



But it made the road ever so much more mysterious and compelling. Damn, but I love road trips!



We returned home to Chicago with our own northside foliage display right out our sunroom windows!



Quick kitty update: Mifune has the run of the house now, which means she spends a lot of her time hiding under the bed and other low-slung furniture. We capture her a couple times a day for socializing time, and she seems to like being petted and cooed over and fussed over once she's gotten past the indignity of being wrangled. She goes in Thursday to be spayed...

Fall Foliage and More

A couple of weeks ago Jeff and I took a brief road trip down to Waynesboro, VA to visit my mom and our pals there and to take in the glorious local Fall Foliage Festival. If you've been following this blog for more than a year, you know this is an annual pilgrimage for me, but Jeff hadn't been down to Virginia for this weekend for eleven years. It just never worked out, vacation-wise, for him. But this year--yea!

We started the festival off at the pancake breakfast, served in the social hall of Main Street Methodist Church. What memories that room has, as it was the venue for many a Junior Girls Choir practice. That's where I met Barb and Susan (aka, Chibby), who were to become my fast friends through the vicissitudes of junior high school, and beyond. And this year the pancake breakfast proved to be a reunion of sorts, with Susan and Laura--a fellow former Young Fool, now a psychologist--providing some of the entertainment.


That's Laura on the left, Susan on the right. They sang folky duets, including an old Girl Scout camp fave, "Walk, Shepherdess, Walk." I'd forgotten the song completely until they began singing it, and every word came back.

Barb met us there, and Susan's mom joined our merry band as well--we were the fun table.

That's my mom, of course, mugging for the camera.

After the breakfast, we headed down Main Street hill to the legendary art show.

There, at the fabulous Ed Brownlee booth, we met up with Beth and Cortney to check out the ceramics.



And check them out, we did:


Barb found a couple of kindred spirits and spirited them home with her.


Jeff and I each bought our own ceramic jar. Mine has insane bunnies on it, as you can see:


And Jeff's has a sad ghost.


It didn't take long for us to walk off our pancakes and sausage among the many booths of photography, ceramics, pottery, watercolors, glassware... and I really should have taken a picture of the guitar-playin' dude in the purple suit. He had flowing curly blond locks that he threw back in ecstasy as he strummed, his long teeth bared in the rictus of what can only be called orgasmic pleasure. Or pride. Or pain? But anyway, before we knew it, we were lining up for some fried rice.


Alas, we did not partake of the sacred funnel cake at this festival, but it was available had we wanted to. As always, Barb, this snap's for you:


Notice the shorts on the dame in the picture above? Everyone was dressed for summer. It was well into the 70s--maybe even 80 degrees. As I noted last year, that seemed way too warm for early October in the Shenandoah Valley. In fact, I have a picture of myself about 20 years ago at the FFF, and I'm wearing a sweatshirt, jeans, and a thick corduroy jacket. And a hat! Times have changed, or at least, the climate has. Everyone was in shirtsleeves, including Beth, who also seems to have a spindle sticking out of her cranium.

In reality, it is the steeple of the aforementioned Main Street Methodist Church.

There were other, more troubling changes to the Big W... for example, I found this sign to be rather disconcerting for a returning ex-pat:


Yikes!

Well, the bulk of the fall foliage pictures (and there ARE more than the mere teaser at the top of this post) will have to wait for the next entry.

Time to get some shut-eye. I'll have more tomorrow or the next day...

Next Best Thing...

Since we are rather housebound with the sick kitty, we can't make our usual summer pilgrimage to the Big W this year, so I searched back over the photo archives and found a set of pictures I snapped at

the Factory Antique Mall in Verona, about ten miles or so from Waynesboro.

This is one of my favorite places to visit when I have some time to kill in the Shenandoah Valley. It's huge (as you will see), and it can be just a teeny bit overwhelming, but over the years it has yielded a number of treasures: a fun patchwork quilt done mostly in red and green tartans and a few brightly colored calicoes; numerous old linen postcards of places I've been to and places I dream of going to, including a growing collection of big name state postcards with which I used to decorate my office door back when I was working on social studies textbooks; a weird little guy made out of a green sock with glass eyes, a pom-pom nose, and felt features and hat (he sits on my computer desk, a mascot of sorts); and a copy of Virginia's History, my fourth grade social studies textbook.

I can't claim that you can find ANYTHING you are looking for at this antique mall, because I have rather long wish list and I haven't satisfied it there by even a quarter, but it certainly provides plenty of treasure hunting opportunities.



Are you a glass hen covered bowl collector?
Hope you brought a credit card and a car with a big trunk!

Or maybe you covet a more utilitarian type of glassware...
Think of the deposit money!

Are you looking to go retro during during the holidays?
For cross-eyed Santa mugs and splendidly spindly aluminum trees, look no farther!

If books are your passion, there are plenty to choose from here!


And, of course, every antique mall has at least one booth of plush toys and skeery dolls...


Really skeery dolls...


I always find something surprising at this place, and sometimes it isn't even an item on display. On this particular visit, I discovered--gasp!--some bathroom graffiti in the normally pristine restrooms...
I mean, I'm sure the perp's intentions were good, but you have to ask yourself--What would Jesus tag?

So next time you find yourself in the midst of the Shenandoah Valley, stop off at Verona and take a stroll around this place!

A Meme... Blame This on G.W.

I pulled this months ago from G.W. Ferguson's blog, Secret Mountain Laboratory, and I have been meaning to post it for a while now. So here it is:

"Everybody's doing it!" Fill this out about your SENIOR year of high school! The longer ago it was, the more fun the answers will be.

1. Who was your best friend?

Barbara Spilman, who is now Barbara Lawson. We became best friends in Junior High School, and we are still best friends.

2. What sports did you play?

None. Although back in 10th grade when I was still taking Phys Ed, I discovered that I had a knack for softball. I could actually hit the damned thing—and make it go far, too! That never translated into any varsity efforts, though.

3. What kind of car did you drive?


I would sometimes persuade my dad to hand over the keys to our 1969 Buick LeSabre, a white whale of a car that actually had a built-up gas pedal. The only way I (and my dad… both shorties) could drive the behemoth.

4. Friday nights where did ya go?

Mostly to the drive-in movies to see double feature cheap scare and schlock movies. We’d cram several cars full of like-minded individuals and caravan to the Skyline Drive-In or the more down-rent 340 Drive-In and mill about around the cars and make fun of the movies. Blackula, The Corpse-Grinders, and The Undertaker and His Pals were among the favorites I remember. Sometimes we would collect crap from our basements (and/or steal flags off the local golf course) and use the detritus to dress up a half-sized, fig-leaf embellished statue of David that stood at the entrance to a local apartment complex. One of our “dress David” efforts even made it into the local newspaper!

5. Were you a party animal?

No. I was pretty innocent, all told.

6. Were you in band, orchestra, or choir?

I was in Concert Choir, the elite touring choir. You had to audition for it. Membership could be politically motivated, as the principal’s daughter was tapped for the choir as a rising sophomore (the youngest you could be), and she couldn’t sing worth shit. Most of us had at least a bit of talent, though. I was a second soprano—not the first chair either. I was a competent chorister, but not a soloist, by any means—something that carried over into my years playing and singing in bands. The females wore evening dresses and the males wore tuxes, and we gave concerts around the state. A year or so after I graduated, Concert Choir started performing in New York City once a year—but I think that has stopped after there was a scandal with the conductor and some students.

7. Were you a nerd?

Well, kinda. I was a wannabe hippie chick with a quirky streak. My friends and I didn’t really fit any stereotypes, except that we were all kind of oddballs. We started a group called “Young Fools on the Go,” and we amused ourselves accordingly. We knew we’d never be “popular,” but that didn’t mean we couldn’t have fun or belong to a social network. Here is a picture of some of the Young Fools:


Back row, L-R: Barb and her then-beau Rob; Middle row, LR: yours truly, Lee (aka, G.W.), Chibby (aka, Susan), Ginanne, and Jeanne; Front row: Laura. As you can see, we were a compromised but fun-loving bunch!

8. Did you get suspended/expelled?

Oh no. Never. I was a good girl.

9. Can you sing the fight song?

I don’t think we had one, although we did have a school song to which I still recall the words:

In the hills of old Virginia,
The lovely Shenandoah,
There’s a school that looms supremely.
Each year I love it more.
The sky is bright with the sunshine;
The spirit of love is there.
There’s truth and faith and courage
And friends who do and dare.

Dear Waynesboro High School,
As time goes on,
We’ll e’er be faithful
Daughters and sons.
We’ll float your colors
Only where there’s right.
We’ll keep your standard
Spotless and bright.

There was a cheer that was sung at football games and such, but I don’t think it qualifies as a “fight song”:

La-di-dah
Little Giants are the best!
La-di-dah
Are the best of all the rest!
La-di-dah
Little Giants are the best!
La-di-dah, la-di-dah, la-di-dah.

The name of our team was The Little Giants, as you can probably tell.

10. Who were your favorite teachers?

Michael Hamp was my English Lit teacher, and he was great. I also loved Mr. Zimmerman (or Mr. Z, as we called him), who was the choir director. He had directed my church choir when I was in elementary school, and he had been the director of all the choirs and choruses in which I’d sung since 7th grade.

11. Where did you sit during lunch?

We had a “Senior Lounge” beneath the stage in the auditorium, and I used to sneak over to Mick or Mack (the grocery store across the street—we were not supposed to leave school grounds, but hey) and buy something to eat and some Dr. Pepper to drink and then hang out in the “lounge.”

12.What was your school's full name?

Waynesboro High School.

13. School mascot?

I don’t think we had one. But then, there's this guy:



14. Did you go to Prom?

No, but I did go to Finals Dance, which was an uber-prom for seniors and their dates only. Women had to wear white gowns. Since nobody asked me, I asked a fellow YFOTG member who was about three years younger than me. It was kind of lame, really. I look at the picture now and wonder what I was thinking, using the ribbons I cut off the end of the dress (to hem it—me being a shorty and all) as little bows in my hair. Yikes.

15. If you could go back and do it over, would you?

No.

16. What do you remember most about graduation?

It was really hot, and I was sweltering in the gown.

17. What was your fave class?

Concert Choir. English Lit a close second.

18. Where were you on senior skip day?

I actually don’t recall a senior skip day. Uh oh.

19. Did you have a job your senior year?

No. I ended up working at Burger King (and later doing inventory at General Electric) the summer after I graduated, though.

20. Where did you go most often for lunch?

See above… Mick or Mack.

21. Have you gained weight since then?

Sadly, yes. I’ve been on a yo-yo since then. At my 10th reunion, I weighed 20 pounds less than I weighed when I graduated, and no one recognized me. That was gratifying. But at the latest reunion… feh. Dumpy and middle aged. I’m trying to work on the dumpy part right now. Can't really do much about the middle aged thing, though!

22. What did you do after graduation?

Went to the all-night party, first at the YMCA and then at the Wayne Theater, for a double-bill of cheesy scare movies.

23. When did you graduate?

June, 1973.

24. Who was your Senior prom date?

Bruce Taylor. Well, he was my Finals Dance date.

25. Are you going to your 10 year reunion?

I went… see #21 above. I also attended the 20th, the 25th, and the 33rd (don’t ask).

26. What was your favorite thing to eat at lunch?

I liked the rotisserie or the fried chicken at Mick or Mack. In the school cafeteria, I liked the open-faced grilled cheese sandwiches. They were always kind of bubbly and almost burned. Yummy!

27. Who was your boy/girlfriend?

I didn’t have one, although I had some severe crushes on Robbie Robertson and Chris Sandquist. They were friendly to me, but popular, so there was no way they were going to see me as date-worthy. Sigh.

28. What was your favorite memory your senior year?

Making our own 8 mm scare movies at the abandoned Claudius Crozet railroad tunnel through Afton Mountain.


Great fun.

And inner tubing down the Maury River through Goshen Pass.

29. Did you like how you looked in your senior picture?

No. Ick.

30. How have you changed since high school?

I’m a lot more confident, although I look back on the whole YFOTG thing, and I’m impressed at how we all embraced our status as oddballs rather than trying to suppress it and fit in with mundane popular kids who wouldn’t have given us the time of day for our efforts. I’m glad I learned early to trust and follow my instincts and not follow the pack. It’s served me well.

A Couple of Things...

First, some astonishing and wonderful news!

The house next door to my mom's house has been sold!!!

Those of you who are savvy to the Waynesboro scene may know that our erstwhile next-door neighbors abandoned the property fifteen years ago or so. They just packed up their clothes and took off, leaving everything else behind (including, according to the new owner, a refrigerator and a big freezer full of food...ewwww). The house has been falling to ruin ever since then--a neighborhood eyesore and, as you might imagine, an attractive nuisance for less-than-law-abiding youths. Once, in fact, a group of kids broke into the house and lit a fire in the living room; fortunately, the daughter of the owners was driving by, saw that someone was in the house, and called the police.

The city has been cutting the grass in the front yard at the beginning and end of every summer. They would get around to clearing the jungle that took root in the back yard only every other year or so. Saplings were growing out of the gutters. Windows were rotting. Trees and shrubs were obscuring most of the property. There was a mound of dirt on the porch near the front door that was growing weeds and such; the new owner said that most of it was old newspapers that had piled up, somehow gotten covered in dirt (squirrels? pesky kids?), and sprouted foliage.

Now, you may picture my mom's neighborhood as some run-down shanty town, but you would be wrong. It's not an overly affluent street, certainly, but it's solidly middle class. Large lawns, mostly four-bedroom homes, near the local park. Only this house, once a modest but cute Cape Cod, could claim the moniker of "shanty."

And the neighborhood folks, well, they tried to get the city to seize and condemn the property. However the city claimed that the owners were paying their taxes and all the fees and fines associated with cutting the grass, clearing the backyard, etc., so their hands were tied. Go figure. The owners remained (and remain) in the area, staying in motels here and renting apartments or other houses there. There were lots of rumors as to why they left the way they did and why they didn't just sell the place, but until they reveal the truth (and I don't think they ever will), speculation is all anyone has to go on.

Anyway, according to my mom, who heard this from the new owner, the wife of the couple is now in a nursing home, suffering from Alzheimer's Disease. Apparently they sold the house to help defray the cost of her treatment. Now, no matter how bad these folks were as neighbors, no one deserves the suffering they are no doubt going through. I hope the monies from the sale help make her comfortable and keep her well cared for.

I would be lying, though, if I didn't admit to being overjoyed that this house, so long neglected, is going to be brought back to livability. Sometimes, indeed, good things come to those who wait. And wait. And wait.

Second, it's nearly that month again: National Novel Writing Month. Some of you may recall that, although I did not sign up to write a novel last year, I did my OWN personal version of NaNoWriMo to try to FINISH the novel I've been writing on and off for lo, these many, many, many, many years.

My goal was to write 30,000 words in November: 1,000 words a day. And I succeeded. But I was still about, well, 15,000-20,000 words or so short of having that first draft. I figured I could do that by the end of the year. But no. I skived off of it yet AGAIN, only picking at it a little here, a little there... until here we are a year later, and I still have those last few thousand words to go.

And to add insult to injury, in the time between then and now, Jeff not only finished one novel, he's closing in on the last few chapters of a second novel and outlining a third.

So I really need to get on the stick.

Here's my pledge: I will write 20,000 words on the novel this month, or as many as it takes to finish a first draft.

That's only about 666 words a day. Hmmm. Maybe I should change that to 700 words a day! Heh!

Here's the counter:



Let the writing begin!

The Waynesboro Y, or Why the Hell Did I Think I Was Fat?

One of the events my mom had planned for us to attend during my recent visit to the old homestead was a reception and fundraising kick-off for the local family YMCA. My dad was a big supporter of the Y back in the day. He was an avid swimmer (having taught himself to swim as a lad in what I'm sure were the o, so healthful and safe waters of the Mohawk River in upstate New York), and he made certain that my brother and I were enrolled in swimming lessons as early as allowed. Which, back in the day, was around 4 years old, or when you were tall enough to stand in the shallow end of the municipal pool (3 feet deep) with your head above water. None of this infant swim program stuff back then! The municipal pool was fine in the summertime, but once Labor Day rolled around and school started, the Y was the only option.

Except, they didn't have a pool. Or a gym. Or a weight room. Or a facility at all. They did have a swim team which, after I had worked my way through lessons from "Minnow" through "Fish" through "Flying Fish" and, finally, through "Shark," I joined.

How, you may well ask, did they give year-round swimming lessons and field a swim team without a pool? Well, mostly they used the pool at the local girls' boarding school, Fairfax Hall. And sometimes they used the pool at the local boys' military academy, Fishburne. (I think that school was named for the same family who owned the famous local pharmacy.) In 1967, the final year I swam on the team (at the ripe old age of 12), the Y moved into a brand spanking new facility, thanks to donations from my dad and others who felt the town needed such a place.

In honor of those who donated a certain amount or more, the Y put up a wall of tiles with donors' signatures on them, but apparently, over years of renovations, expansions, etc., the wall of donors was removed. Someone had the forethought to save the tiles, though, and, as the facility prepares for yet another expansion and renovation (dag! it is now 40 years old!!), the tiles were discovered. The management of the Y called the families of as many donors as they could track down to invite them to the reception and thank them personally. My mom got the call (my dad passed away nearly 10 years ago), and she wanted to go--mainly, I think, to see the tiles that were going to be on display.



That's my dad's distinctive signature, all right! It made me happy to see it, but wistful as well. I sure do miss him, and will to the day I shuffle off this mortal coil.

There were other items on display as well. Here is the one that caught my eye:



That is the YMCA swim team--the first team to practice in the brand new YMCA pool. And there I am! Can you pick me out? Let's pull in a bit closer...



NOW can you see me?

Here, I'll make it really easy.



I'm the one in the middle of this picture, the gal with the lovely headband.

And here's the thing: I thought I was fat. In fact, the surety that I was fat drove me to start yo-yo dieting from the time I was probably seven or eight years old, which has, in turn, led to a lifetime of weight issues (a situation I'm trying to turn around now, in middle age, for good).

But DAMN! I look at this picture and I see a kind of chubby face (the stupid headband really doesn't help, does it?) that hasn't yet lost its baby fat, and a fairly fit young woman's body. My big issue has always been my belly (although it took me many years to realize that, whether fat or thin, I can guarantee that my legs will remain shapely), but I'm hard pressed to find a gut on the little girl/young woman in that picture.

One thing I kind of regret (kind of) is that I did quit the team after this year. There were several reasons. I was a strong swimmer but not a fast swimmer. I could swim for hours, literally, but I wasn't going to break any speed records. As with running now, I had great form (still do, when I get a chance to swim), even on the butterfly--a stroke I hated. HATED! But, because I could do it properly (and so many of the kids on the team couldn't), I was stuck swimming the butterfly leg on a lot of mixed medley relays. When we got into the new pool, I was determined to work on my times for breast and backstroke so that they would stop making me swim butterfly. It never occurred to me that I could refuse to swim it... but then, that would have pegged me as less than a team player, huh?

The thing was, junior high was harder than elementary school, and, what with the new pool and all, our team practices were four or five nights a week instead of one. I was having a hard time juggling team practice and homework and that all-important TV-viewing time. Then I came down with the flu. When I returned to practice, we were getting ready for the regional Jr. Olympics swim meet, and I really wanted to qualify for breaststroke. So... my first day back, I found myself racing timed laps of breast against someone swimming freestyle--the idea was that I would push myself to a better--maybe even a qualifying--time. But instead, I exhausted myself and passed out in the middle of the pool. For the only time in my life, I had to be "rescued." Literally, they used a hook.

I decided that I'd never be free of the butterfly, and I'd always be a second or third stringer, swimming relays and nothing else... so I quit. But now I look back and wonder if I had stuck it out, would I have made that breakthrough? Would I have gotten to swim breaststroke or backstroke or ANY stroke at the Jr. Olympics?

Oh well...some lessons you learn a bit too late to take optimum advantage of, huh?

Well, I guess I'll just have to be kinder in my assessment and treatment of the aging chassis now!