It's not always whether you win or lose, but how good the party is after the game. Can surf but can't unicycle. Once put Bob's Big Boy on my high school's roof. Have raised two amazing girls and can still make my wife laugh. Southern California and Northern Virginia are home. Thankful to have played several years of rugby, and fortunate to have climbed Mera Peak in the Himalayas.
Here you’ll find some of my published writing, a little about me, and my ongoing, Notes from Virginia. Please leave a comment and/or feel free to contact me directly – Thanks!
April 2020 –
I remember when last year was winding down, a lot of people were telling 2019 not to let the door hit him in the ass on his way out. They loathed 2019, expressing their disgust with him on Facebook and Twitter, hurling virtual tomatoes, rotten eggs, and M-80s as 2019 loped like a battered werewolf toward midnight.
Pardon the language, but some retorts included things like this from Jennifer D – “Good riddance 2019! Thanks for nothing asshole!”
Or this, from Mike P – “Rot in hell 2019 man! This has been a shit year and as far as I’m concerned 2019 can go Fuck itself.”
And lastly, from Francis K – “Bring on 2020. 2019 cannot be over soon enough!”
So now here we are 3 months into 2020 and I wonder what these people would say now?
Our front row seats for this ongoing potential apocalypse have been from here in Winchester, but Episode 1 of our personal East Coast Covid-19 Series began in Philadelphia on the weekend of February 28th, 2020 – my birthday.
We went up to the City of Brotherly Love to see this Irish kid, Dermot Kennedy, sing. I’d never heard of him but a lot of other people sure as hell had because the Philadelphia MET was packed! Crowds also swirled in the surrounding Phili streets that cold Saturday night, the bouncing lights, music, and honks hardly a warning that some invisible flying black Virus of death was lurking about, preparing to shut down one of the toughest cities in the world. I guess it was kind of like everyone was at Elizabeth Kubler Ross’s first step – Denial. The Founding Fathers would’ve kept on working, the Flyers had skated to a win on their home ice the night before, and given the chance, I’m positive Rocky Balboa would’ve stepped into the ring no problem!
But the first hints of the Virus were there – perhaps its scouts or spies – Devious fuckers.
That magical night in Philadelphia feels like years ago now, but I remember thinking to be cautious – You know, wash your hands, don’t touch your face, wear a condom if offered sex by a voluptuous stranger (wife clobbers me over the head with purse). But despite a sense that everyone vaguely knew something was going on, there was also a flamboyance in the air, like, screw it! As if the Virus was a terrorist, and we weren’t going to let the terrorists win.
But the great thing about the Phili MET, once we got there, was that there were dudes right in the entryway of the lobby selling big cans of Irish beer out of iceboxes for $5 bucks – cash only. I felt like Dorothy except it was, We’re not in California anymore, instead of Kansas. You get a beer at most shows in California and it’s $15 bucks for a 12-ounce cup of dog piss, AKA, Bud Light.
Anyway, Sandi had to go to the Ladies’ so, like a mom, I told her not to touch anything and to wash her hands. I downed one tall-boy then got another, glad that I’d brought some cash.
Like most places, the Ladies’ Room had a line which gave me some time to stand around and look at the people and to think. Phili ain’t our stomping grounds, both of us being mostly Southern California beach people, so it was all wonderful novelty to me.
Even inside in the Winter-Time Phili Met lobby, it was colder than a polar bear’s gonads. But given my anxiety issues and being amongst the young where I once confidently roamed, I was still sweating a bit, even with my 1990’s era purple Patagonia jacket shed and hung over my arm. The floating faces of happy young people bobbed around like planets in a great celestial maelstrom of goodness and hope and joy – Forever was theirs. They all wore scarves around their necks, gloves, and cloaks of vibrant youth that no virus could penetrate, and several of them smiled at me as I gave them a Saturday night smile back, suddenly remembering I had Sandi’s purse slung over my shoulder which always gives any guy an interesting look. Cheers to them and I drank my beer.
I finally saw Sandi, smiling, working her way toward me through the jovial crowd. I’d also been able to hit the bar while she was away to get her a cup of red wine, and she was pleased.
The show was fantastic, and there was a bar up in this mezzanine-area just a few rows up behind our seats where I kept getting those beers. The classic opera house venue was gloriously packed, the seats and people seeming to hang over the stage. There were also those neat little side theatre balconies that I Love except they always remind me of the same kind of theatrical box in which Abraham Lincoln was shot. One lady in one of those was so hammered that I thought she was going to dance and pitch herself right over the rail and fall screaming into the crowd below. In fact, in one of those secret horrible ways that I would never reveal to anybody, I kind of hoped she would. Like watching a car race, you don’t want to admit you’d like to see a crash, but she was flailing wildly to the music and came close to going over several times. But an old guy – I’d like to think older than me – prevented the catastrophe by keeping an arm around her waist. There was also a huge chandelier hanging in the theatre which was cool – Reminded me of Superman’s planet Krypton, hundreds of jagged crystal-looking spires shooting out – if only the hammered lady could just leap from her private balcony far enough – WHEEEEEEEE!!!
So it was a great show except for the obnoxious dude in front of us trying to impress his date. Was just one of those dudes – I mean the drunker he got, the lamer, and the patience of his good-looking date drained and drained. They’d made friends with the couple next to them – and actually with us – but that couple next to them knew how to have a good time, drink a few, etc. But this guy – Sorry Philadelphia – this guy must’ve been one of the worst things you’ve ever let – Just loud, goofy, not funny – I kept having to push his arm out of our space. But most of all he annoyed the shit out of his date. Decent looking kid except for the hat on backward and the beers upping his volume.
Toward the beginning of the show I thought he had a shot, but by the end, the girl was like, “Get your damn arm off me.” And he obliged.
There was a girl behind us screaming constantly too, “AHHHHHHHHHHH-WEEEEE-YEAAAAHHH-AHHHH!!!!” Like to blow out your friggin’ eardrums. Have you ever had somebody behind you like that? It’s a concert yet the biggest danger to your ears is the person screaming behind you. Gawd! Shut the (you-know-what) Up! you want to say. But you don’t. You’re at a concert together, having a good time. I turned around and gave her and her friends a few high-fives instead, which helped a little. My Mom probably would’ve turned around and told her to STFU. But that’s why I don’t do that, even though my Mom’s techniques are generally pretty effective. Maybe I’m a coward, maybe I just want everyone to have a good time, but that girl behind me grabbed me playfully by the collar at one point, gave me a potential covid-kiss on the cheek, and one of them bought me another one of those beers.
Anyway, it was a helluva concert and the freezing Philadelphia streets were swarming outside when it was over – ADRIAN! ADRIAN!!
Alright, enough with the Rocky jokes. We’d called for an Uber and could tell that everyone else in the sea of maniacs had as well.
“Let’s walk up that way out of the crowd,” said Sandi, looking at her phone. “Says it’ll be 6 to 9 minutes …”
”69 minutes?!?” I exclaim
I know, old joke, but it really did go something like that. I think of myself as a laid-back kind of cool half surfer bro, half here to help you as a psychologist type wearing a nice sweater, but if I don’t watch it I can be a really uptight ridiculous douche.
”69 minutes?” I repeat. “That’s like almost 2 hours! Jee-Shitz-dog-licker …”
“No,” says Sandi. “We just need to walk up to the Wendy’s up there …”
God, I Love her and Thank You.
It was an amazing ride through the dark back-Phili streets and alleys to our hotel, our driver explaining to us the benefits of filtered water for both us and our dogs. Also, healthy Vitamix smoothies are a positive way to start the day and to count our blessings.
Our hotel bar was blessed with an after-wedding party and we had a good old time. I don’t know how late Phili bars are allowed to stay open, but it sure was later than California’s 1:45 am last call.
Thank you, Philadelphia for a wonderful night.
*****
In the morning we woke up and walked around the old town where the likes of Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson chatted about changing the world and perhaps having a revolution against those tax-happy oppressors across the pond.
We saw Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell, the sunny crisp morning breathing the history of all that had happened on the hundreds of years of mornings previous.
And then we saw the Irish Memorial.
Even with tears in my eyes, I knew there was no way I could grasp the full pain and suffering of what my Irish ancestors had gone through. And shamefully I didn’t ever really know what they had gone through until I started reading the plaques and studying the statues that morning.
Like so many things they teach you in history class, they teach it all in black and white, using books that just gloss over the hideous realities of desperate individuals dropped into circumstances that were usually no fault of their own. I mean they told us about the potato famine and that a bunch of Irish people came to America because of it, but nobody ever told me entire villages of Irish men, women, and children simply wasted away and starved to death. And did so under the watchful eyes of British landowners that apparently couldn’t care less. Evil doesn’t even begin to label the atrocities those limey bastards let befall the people. I mean can you imagine having to watch your children, your babies, spouse, parents, brothers, sisters, everyone, just suffer and starve to death while freezing in dank, wet, disease-ridden, horrible conditions? Your crops a puddled mess of inedible veggie slop, the crying, and suffering surely echoing across the channel to deaf British ears? Gawd. Just so beyond awful and you want to go back and avenge all the wrongdoing.
And then it struck me that it’s still going on today – right now – people, children, starving (not to mention beaten, tortured, and killed). And then even when an effort is made to get food and medicine to them, there are usually politics, warlords, and other shameless bastards that get in the way. It makes me want to puke while realizing that being able to puke is kind of a luxury, a temporary setback but at least a sign you’d had something to eat.
“You ready?” says Sandi.
“Yeah,” I say, holding her hand as we walk back toward our hotel to check out. I realize I’m hungry, much to my shame.
***
It was a lovely drive out of Pennsylvania, through Maryland, and on into the pastoral country of sweet Virginia. We knew there was some kind of invisible sickness about, but even if the Sweet Lord Jesus himself came down and told me about the surreal craziness to come, I probably wouldn’t have believed him.
The weather can shift here like a violent mood, and the seasons explode like a sunrise into Spring, dogwood blossoms, birds and humming green life dance across the sky toward sunset, echoing over the horizon through the silent bare branches of Winter.
A cloud that looks like a Timber Rattler slithers through the orange dusk fading out my window over the dark Appalachian Alleghenies in the West. It’s Friday night and the icy trees outside seem to watch it along with me, peering over neighborhood chimneys as the stormy viper welcomes the night.
The Timber Rattler cloud reminds me there are two other poisonous snakes in these parts – The Eastern Cottonmouth and the Northern Copperhead, all collectively known as Pit Vipers which is a pretty cool name.
While I haven’t seen any of them yet, and they’re probably hibernating right now, I have seen another resident snake in our backyard – A big black rat snake. It looked like it had just eaten a squirrel when I saw it. I say squirrel instead of rat or mouse or cat because we have tons of squirrels all over our little Shangri La, skipping jolly and hanging upside down from our bird feeders. But in the weeks after the picture below was taken, squirrels became mighty scarce.
This snake ain’t poisonous, but just as lethal since she bites critters then squeezes the F out of them until they suffocate and die. Then she eats them.
Anyway, all these snakes reflect a part of this North Virginia countryside – Along with the country living, pastoral beauty, farms, woods, wineries, mountains and streams, a history of violence, death, pain, and suffering are also baked into the pie – – –
* * * * *
It’s a new day and I’ve decided to finish this here at a bar in Old Town where I can enjoy the afternoon and have a beer – Much better than a Starbucks, even though Starbucks has started serving beer. Which I think is weird and unnecessary. Who the F would get a beer at Starbucks? If you would, my apologies, but it strikes me as being like if Taco Bell suddenly started offering Chinese food and sushi.
Anyway, I’m writing this in a bar which I’ve never done before, but last time I was here I saw others doing it, so when in Rome –
When we first got here to Winchester, Virginia, last Fall, I was talking to one of my next-door neighbors and her friend as they worked the front yard. The friend was a tough, longtime Virginia Woman whose spiked amber eyes would send a cottonmouth skittering for cover.
“Oh yeah, this ground is soaked in blood,” she said with a wave of her hand, addressing the entire surrounding Shenandoah Valley. “A lot of people died here – right where you stand – And many of those who didn’t probably wished they did – Amputations, piles of limbs, faces blown off. I tell you, it was awful.”
Things had gotten dark quick, but she wasn’t kidding:
Winchester was a major crossroads during the Civil War, with all kinds of turnpikes, railroads and other avenues leading both the North and the South to converge here with violent results.
Winchester is said to have traded hands between the Union and Confederate armies over 70 times during its brutally bloody war years – Some say that’s an exaggeration, but if it is, it’s not much of one. As the North and South got more and more pissed off at each other and puffed their chests toward war in the early 1860s, Winchester was like a rope in a kind of tug-of-war between the two.
Before the war, no need nor desire to secede from the Union was embraced by many of Northwestern Virginia’s hard-working farmers, tradesmen, artisans, and (surprise) free African Americans. In fact, that’s how West Virginia came to be – Those folks breaking off from Virginia with a Hail no! We ain’t gon’ go!
But many others in the region, including the relative few that relied on slave labor, leaned toward joining the states to the south that were melding into the Confederacy.
And then Johnny Reb put an end to any more debate by cracking off a few shots at Fort Sumter, whereby Abraham Lincoln called Bullshit, opened up a Costco-sized can of military whoop-ass, and it was game on! Sweet Virginia was not only in a war, but she was the frontline and home to the Confederate capital, Richmond, which is about 2 hours Southeast of here, on the other side of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
SIDE NOTE: If you’re ever in Richmond, Virginia, along with the rest of its history, there is a really cool Edgar Allan Poe Museum –
“But Edgar Allan Poe lived in Baltimore – Everybody knows that!” The man sitting next to me here at the bar has apparently been reading over my shoulder. “Why in Sam Hill is there an Edgar Allan Poe Museum in Richmond?”
“Well, Sir,” I reply, “I always thought Baltimore was Poe’s hometown too – I mean even Baltimore’s football team is the Ravens for crying out loud, and he did live in Baltimore a bit. But Mr. Poe actually spent much of his tragic and often miserable life in Richmond. That said, he did end up in Baltimore on the way to a writing assignment and that’s what sent him spiraling through all kinds of crazy, mysterious shit which led to his early and horrible demise on the side of a road there.”
“What? What happened? How old was he? What did he die of?”
(These are always the questions people ask about someone who has died, the macabre gears spinning behind their eye-balls, wondering if the same could happen to them!)
“Well, historians, scholars, some English professors, and other Poe-enthusiasts are still trying to figure that out. But if you’ll buy me a beer, I’ll tell you what I know after I finish writing this.”
“Bartender!” he says, slapping the bar.
Anyway, after the Rebs fired on Fort Sumter, Winchester found herself a key component in the South’s fight for independence, though many pro-Union folks remained in the town. These Unionists …
“Would you get to the damn point?” the man next to me pipes up again. “What the hell does this have to do with the mystery of Edgar Allan Poe’s death?”
“My apologies, sir, but I told you I needed to finish writing this first, then I’ll tell you what I know about Mr. Poe.”
“Very well – I’ll just order a pitcher then.”
“Thank you.”
So, Winchester being such a strategically important town for both sides, the Union by and by came on in and occupied it, much to the chagrin of the Winchester Women, who were notorious for telling Union soldiers to, literally, go F themselves. The Winchester Women would also reportedly shoot at the Union boys from the Old Town Winchester windows as they retreated when Rebel Yells began echoing down the streets.
Which is what happened in the First Battle of Winchester.
The Confederate boys marched up the Shenandoah Valley this way and, judging by the battle maps I’ve been able to find, must’ve camped in my backyard and all around where my house now sits. I can picture their tents in the field beyond our little woods too, tough people gearing up for a fight.
Their battle lines were just up the pike from our place, stretching across where the small airport now is, around the present-day Costco and onto the bluff overlooking Old Town Winchester.
Suffice to say, Stonewall Jackson and his boys proceeded to overwhelm the Yankees in that first Battle of Winchester and occupied the town for a time before their services were required elsewhere. I often think of them at their fires, telling stories, singing, smoking, dreaming of the ones they loved, likely hoping they’d get to see them again.
Anyway, those soldiers were all right on our property and it’s a strange feeling to behold, especially when you can feel their presence, consider their joys, sorrows, and pains. And sometimes they – or someone else – make their presence known. Whether it’s someone that lived in our lovely house previously or ghosts that are still finding their way, footsteps walking around upstairs making the floor creak are an eerie and clear sign that some folks, so far unseen, still wander around over our heads at night up in the room we call “the office.” I always hope it’s our dogs making the racket, but sure enough, I’ll peak into the living room and they’re in their usual spots, snoozing on the new leather reclining couch I got up at the Costco.
I haven’t heard the inexplicable and tell-tale sound of those steps yet tonight, but when I get home I likely will. It always gives me chills and scared as I am, I’ll sometimes go up there to recreate the creaking floor for my wife.
“Yep,” she always says. “That’s it.”
“You about done there, son?” says my new friend next to me.
“Yes, I say,” wondering if I’ll hear the ghosts walking around tonight.
“Well, I’ve almost finished this pitcher of beer, so can you finish telling me about what all happened to Edgar Allan Poe?”
And I do.
Folks used to head West, risking their lives and all they held dear to seek new fortunes and pursue mythical dreams. Or maybe they were just sick of the East Coast weather, were ready for a change, or, like my Great Grampa James Peck, run out of town and sent fleeing for their lives, leaving everything except the shirts on their backs behind.
“Dark and dusty, painted on the sky
Misty taste of moonshine, teardrop in my eye …”
– John Denver, Take Me Home, Country Roads –
Apparently Great Grampa James had quite the way with the ladies, including good-looking married dames, so he had to hop a ship out of Maryland in the middle of the night, post-haste, escaping around Cape Horn and up to California before a pissed-off husband could stick a different kind of horn up his you-know-what. For all I know, he may not even have had his shirt – or his pants for that matter, given the compromising circumstances – But apparently he made it to sweet California. He was a showman and a professional roller skater so he did pretty well there, eventually going on to receive the first DUI ever bestowed in the great Golden State – Love You, Great Grampa James!
Anyway, back in the East Coast old country – long before Great Grampa James – others would pile all their stuff and provisions into a wagon for the trip from the East Coast to the West, crack the whip and head out, leaving behind friends and family they’d likely never see again.
A ways back up my wife’s family tree, some of her Great-great-greats traveled with the Donner Party. They decided to split off from the Donners when confronted by the Sierras, however, and hung back from trying to get over those mountains so late in the season. Which turned out to be a pretty tactful decision, and I’m grateful to them all these years later because, well – I love my wife.
Sappy stuff aside, my wife’s long-ago-relatives breaking off from the Donner Party are part of why my wife and I ended up together. Her gritty ancestors apparently made it over the Sierras in the Spring, headed for the California coast, and Abracadabra! A few generations later, we ended up building our lives in California too, skipping through the alpine sunshine of the mountains, digging our toes into the warm sandy beaches and deserts, working our asses off toward dreams of our own, never taking the breezy sun on our faces or a swim in the cool blue Pacific for granted.
But fast-forward to 2019 – With the highest taxes and gas prices in the country, brutal traffic, insane housing costs – Sandi got a great opportunity elsewhere, and with Disneyland also evolving into the most ridiculous place on earth (try Knott’s Berry Farm instead), we sat up like beach prairie dogs and looked around:
With our youngest kid off to the University of Washington, and California having seen better days, we decided to take on a new adventure of our own, and moved back East to Winchester, Virginia.
Founded in 1754 or so, Winchester is both blessed and haunted by its history. Cloaked in beauty that echoes through the Shenandoah Valley, which is formed by the Blue Ridge Mountains on one side and the Appalachians on the other, Winchester hosted several pivotal and bloody battles during the Civil War. The town has also been home to some notable folks, such as a young George Washington and Patsy Cline. Both left their footprints here, and now we will too while we make this place our little oasis for awhile –
The moving truck out front of our house was almost finished being loaded and that’s about when I realized things were getting serious. We were leaving our home in Huntington Beach, Southern California’s Surf City, the road ahead an open book, the road behind sweet memories.
It was the home where my wife Sandra and I built our lives, got out of bed every morning, stayed up all night with babies, fought for their future, laughed, cried, played, partied, and ultimately kissed our girls goodnight at the end of each day, tucking them in beneath the smiling moon.
But our youngest was off to the University of Washington, so we decided to adventure away from the empty nest too – to Winchester, Virginia, where my wife had a great work opportunity, and our commutes would go from hours to minutes.
Tucked away in the Shenandoah Valley, we were moving to the woods, over the Blue ridge Mountains far West of Washington DC near West Virginia and the surrounding Appalachian mountains. When I first visited Winchester, the surrounding rolling hills still seemed to echo thundering cannons, rifles cracking fire, and men shouting from the pits of a desperate fight. Surrounded by Civil War battlefields that were once soaked in blood, it was haunting, humbling, and a reminder of those who’ve sacrificed all, and the grit that is sometimes required to make it in this world.
Leaving all of our family and friends behind in California was the hardest part, and continues to be, but the world is a big place and getting to experience this little corner of it – its history, seasons, nature, people, and culture – has been a blessing and wonderful opportunity to add a magical chapter to our lives.
And even though I call it “the woods,” and say that we live out in the “Virginia countryside,” Costco is just up the road, and Home Depot, Pet Smart, Michael’s, and Books-a-Million are well within striking distance. I’m sure the tough folks that built and fought for this place would scoff at how soft we’ve become. But it seems like they’d also have to have some envy. And the fact that we can travel back to California in an afternoon would likely totally blow their minds.
