EDITOR’s JOURNAL ARCHIVES
2017 Spring
Being Polite
For the past several years, my wife and I have been familiar faces at our local farmer’s market in Richmond's Forest Hill Park—one of the most popular, most diverse and interesting markets in River Country. Stop by on a Saturday morning, spring through fall, and a sea of people, kids and dogs flows from end to end, along with live music from a local banjo or guitar player.
We buy fresh, free-range eggs from a particular local farmer there, and in an effort to contribute and recycle, we return the egg cartons when we’ve accumulated four or five. After returning the cartons to the same vendor over the last three years, we’ve never been thanked or shown any appreciation for this simple gesture on our part. We take our time to return the cartons that are of no value to us and give them to the farmer, for whom they do have value, so we figure a simple expression of appreciation is warranted.
Last Saturday, my wife decided it was time: she went alone to drop off the cartons, handed them to the older man, and waited. After a moment without any evidence of gratitude, she asked—“Does it help you when we bring these cartons back?”
“Oh, yes, definitely!” he said.
“Well, I just wondered—because you never say ‘thank you,” she replied.
Now my wife is one of the most polite people you’ll ever meet, and she usually becomes extremely polite if there’s even a hint of a clash—so in an effort to avoid being too confrontational, she didn’t make eye contact and told him in a friendly way that she’d like a dozen eggs. Eggs in hand, she said, “Thank you so much!”
Was there a thank you, then, you ask?
Yes, there was. When she told me what happened, I thought. . .perhaps she taught this older man something his parents apparently never did.
When I think about it—and I’ve been thinking about it a lot for the last year or so since the political campaign has been raging—basic gestures of civility, respect and courtesy seem to be endangered behaviors these days. It prompted me to revisit an essay published in a collection titled, A Better Man: True American Heroes Speak to Young Men On Love, Power, Pride and What It Really Means to Be a Man (2009). The essay, “Civility”, was written by Justice Harry Carrico, former Chief Justice of the Virginia Supreme Court, who recently passed away.
As editor Kelly Johnson wrote in her introduction to him, “According to Justice Carrico, this ‘all but forgotten’ term [civility], as he calls it, is the cornerstone of a good and just society. It is the thing without which we descend into an abyss of vulgarity and self-satisfaction. Civility, which combines both grace and good manners, is an outward manifestation of the notion that, regardless of circumstance, we must continue to treat one another with respect.”
In his essay, Justice Carrico includes a selection from Rules of Civility, which contains 110 precepts that George Washington copied into a notebook while still a teenager and kept with him all his life, guiding him in war and peace. They are as follows--
Every action done in company ought to be done with some sign of respect to those that are present.
Use no reproachful language against any one, neither curse nor revile.
Utter not base and frivolous things among grave and learn’d men, nor very difficult questions or subjects among the ignorant, or things hard to be believed.
Speak not injurious words neither in jest nor earnest; scoff at none although they give occasion.
Be not [obstinate] but friendly and courteous, the first to salute, hear, and answer. Be not pensive when it’s time to converse.
All of us, including farmers and common men, but particularly politicians and statesmen, should take a cue from George Washington’s words and remember that courtesy and good manners are simple concepts. Although sometimes difficult to maintain in challenging situations, we should always dig deep to recognize the humanity in our fellow man, and treat him or her with respect. . .And sometimes all it takes is a simple thank you.
We hope you have a blessed 2017 surrounded by your family and many very respectful people. pl
We buy fresh, free-range eggs from a particular local farmer there, and in an effort to contribute and recycle, we return the egg cartons when we’ve accumulated four or five. After returning the cartons to the same vendor over the last three years, we’ve never been thanked or shown any appreciation for this simple gesture on our part. We take our time to return the cartons that are of no value to us and give them to the farmer, for whom they do have value, so we figure a simple expression of appreciation is warranted.
Last Saturday, my wife decided it was time: she went alone to drop off the cartons, handed them to the older man, and waited. After a moment without any evidence of gratitude, she asked—“Does it help you when we bring these cartons back?”
“Oh, yes, definitely!” he said.
“Well, I just wondered—because you never say ‘thank you,” she replied.
Now my wife is one of the most polite people you’ll ever meet, and she usually becomes extremely polite if there’s even a hint of a clash—so in an effort to avoid being too confrontational, she didn’t make eye contact and told him in a friendly way that she’d like a dozen eggs. Eggs in hand, she said, “Thank you so much!”
Was there a thank you, then, you ask?
Yes, there was. When she told me what happened, I thought. . .perhaps she taught this older man something his parents apparently never did.
When I think about it—and I’ve been thinking about it a lot for the last year or so since the political campaign has been raging—basic gestures of civility, respect and courtesy seem to be endangered behaviors these days. It prompted me to revisit an essay published in a collection titled, A Better Man: True American Heroes Speak to Young Men On Love, Power, Pride and What It Really Means to Be a Man (2009). The essay, “Civility”, was written by Justice Harry Carrico, former Chief Justice of the Virginia Supreme Court, who recently passed away.
As editor Kelly Johnson wrote in her introduction to him, “According to Justice Carrico, this ‘all but forgotten’ term [civility], as he calls it, is the cornerstone of a good and just society. It is the thing without which we descend into an abyss of vulgarity and self-satisfaction. Civility, which combines both grace and good manners, is an outward manifestation of the notion that, regardless of circumstance, we must continue to treat one another with respect.”
In his essay, Justice Carrico includes a selection from Rules of Civility, which contains 110 precepts that George Washington copied into a notebook while still a teenager and kept with him all his life, guiding him in war and peace. They are as follows--
Every action done in company ought to be done with some sign of respect to those that are present.
Use no reproachful language against any one, neither curse nor revile.
Utter not base and frivolous things among grave and learn’d men, nor very difficult questions or subjects among the ignorant, or things hard to be believed.
Speak not injurious words neither in jest nor earnest; scoff at none although they give occasion.
Be not [obstinate] but friendly and courteous, the first to salute, hear, and answer. Be not pensive when it’s time to converse.
All of us, including farmers and common men, but particularly politicians and statesmen, should take a cue from George Washington’s words and remember that courtesy and good manners are simple concepts. Although sometimes difficult to maintain in challenging situations, we should always dig deep to recognize the humanity in our fellow man, and treat him or her with respect. . .And sometimes all it takes is a simple thank you.
We hope you have a blessed 2017 surrounded by your family and many very respectful people. pl
Editor / Publisher
2016 Winter
The Overbooked Country Inn
On occasion I find myself saying or thinking—I believe I just had a senior moment. Proper nouns like actors’ names, movie and book titles or a recent conversation are playing hide and seek, and they're hiding in a 100-room hotel. That name or movie title could be in any one of the rooms, or even in the basement. For example, last week my wife and I ran into an acquaintance who I've known for years, and her name was right on the tip of my tongue. As I stood there pretending to pay attention to what she was saying, I was desperately trying to find the right door, and in this particular hallway there were dozens of doors, and they all had the same word written on them: FORGOT. When I have painful moments like this, it reminds me of my mother’s descent into Alzheimer's disease. She began to forget simple things, searching frantically for an elusive word that was right on the tip of her tongue. Most of the time she didn’t find it, so it wasn’t long before she quit trying.
Getting older brings with it a host of new surprises and even shocks, and I know that for many people memory loss is one of them, but in my case I think it's content overload—that is, I think I have too many new guests flooding into my overbooked country inn. Their names are Editorial Deadline, Thirty Emails, Payroll, Invoice, Exercise, GetEnoughSleep, Appointment and Phone Call, and each one of them wants to be first in the door. I appreciate that my wife gives me little reminders about conversations we’ve had because, too often, I was likely rummaging around in one of those rooms and only heard half of what we were saying.
All of my adult life, I’ve had a this unquenchable thirst to start new projects, and for the last two decades, I’ve been running three businesses—a book publishing company, an online publication and this magazine. Although this little publication certainly isn’t the Washington Post or Esquire, and publishing PL every other month isn’t as overwhelming as a monthly, it’s the collective load of all those demanding guests simultaneously knocking on my door that have prompted a change at Pleasant Living.
Starting this year, with this issue, PL is returning to its roots and becoming a quarterly. Instead of six times a year, you’ll be seeing us four times—in the winter, spring, summer and fall. We’ll continue to bring you the same nostalgic-contemporary perspective, the interesting people, the history and culture of Virginia’s River Country that you’ve come to expect from us over the last twenty-five years. Next time you visit the Land of Pleasant Living, we think you’ll find that PL will be even better than before. That front porch rocker will be even more comfortable and relaxing than it was the last time you were here.
See you this spring! pl
Getting older brings with it a host of new surprises and even shocks, and I know that for many people memory loss is one of them, but in my case I think it's content overload—that is, I think I have too many new guests flooding into my overbooked country inn. Their names are Editorial Deadline, Thirty Emails, Payroll, Invoice, Exercise, GetEnoughSleep, Appointment and Phone Call, and each one of them wants to be first in the door. I appreciate that my wife gives me little reminders about conversations we’ve had because, too often, I was likely rummaging around in one of those rooms and only heard half of what we were saying.
All of my adult life, I’ve had a this unquenchable thirst to start new projects, and for the last two decades, I’ve been running three businesses—a book publishing company, an online publication and this magazine. Although this little publication certainly isn’t the Washington Post or Esquire, and publishing PL every other month isn’t as overwhelming as a monthly, it’s the collective load of all those demanding guests simultaneously knocking on my door that have prompted a change at Pleasant Living.
Starting this year, with this issue, PL is returning to its roots and becoming a quarterly. Instead of six times a year, you’ll be seeing us four times—in the winter, spring, summer and fall. We’ll continue to bring you the same nostalgic-contemporary perspective, the interesting people, the history and culture of Virginia’s River Country that you’ve come to expect from us over the last twenty-five years. Next time you visit the Land of Pleasant Living, we think you’ll find that PL will be even better than before. That front porch rocker will be even more comfortable and relaxing than it was the last time you were here.
See you this spring! pl
Editor / Publisher
2016 Summer / Fall
Ninety-Two and Still Laughing
My favorite aunt, Donna Jean Patin, celebrated ninety-two years on August 11th. My wife and I arrived in Atlanta for a visit just sixteen days too late to witness the landmark birthday, but when she met us at the door with that ageless smile, we knew the celebration wasn’t over. Even after open-heart surgery six years ago, she’s still the picture of health, is living on her own, still driving and working one day a week. The wide-eyed curiosity and the infectious, easy laugh that I remember from almost five decades ago are still there.
Donna is my late mother’s younger sister, and I have always thought of her as my second mother, or as my wife refers to a close and very special older friend, as my mother of the heart. She was more hip and spirited than my mother, always tuned in to life, love and people, and curious about the world. She loved to dance, and in her younger days, tap-danced in skates on top of a wooden drum for a school performance. Although her legs aren’t quite as stable as they used to be—and in spite of her age—that same dancing spirit lives in her still. During my days as a sailor stationed at Cheatham Annex, Williamsburg, we got off work at noon on Fridays, and I struck out on the highway, hitchhiking to Atlanta in twelve hours to spend the weekend with her, Uncle Smitty and my cousins. I typically arrived around midnight, called from a pay phone, and she or my uncle would pick me up—and although I was road weary, Donna and I would sit up at the kitchen table talking until the wee hours. Looking back, I’m sure she |
heard more from her twenty-something nephew than any aunt wanted to hear, but she always seemed on the edge of her seat, curious to hear about the military world, my latest girlfriend or my dreams of big city life. Sunday afternoon, the family would put me out on the shoulder of I-85 in my navy uniform and wait in the car until I thumbed a ride, Donna’s teary-eyed face looking through the windshield.
For me, those weekend visits were like a balm to my spirit, one of those steadfast memories that will always be there, and Donna is right at the center. She was and still is the embodiment of a life well lived—independent, wise, good spirited, loved and respected by her family, and graceful in her later years. During the three days of our visit, we were treated to the classic breakfast she cooks for herself every morning—scrambled eggs (with a touch of garlic and sour cream), crispy bacon, grits, the most incredible toast you’ve ever crunched, and strawberries. And then she shared a secret: she always has frozen yogurt after breakfast. And so, to help keep the tradition alive, we sat on her back porch in the morning sun and had butter pecan frozen yogurt in a sugar cone. Happy birthday, Aunt Donna! pl Editor / Publisher
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2016 Spring
Care for a Shine, Ma’am?
You don't see many of them around anymore. Shoeshine men were common in the 50s and 60s when I was growing up, but at least in Richmond, they seem to have disappeared from the street corners, bus stations and airports. Just a week ago, however, I was able to step back in time and shake hands with disappearing history.
I remember the shoeshine man in my hometown who had his station in a corner of the post office—an old black man with a big toothy smile, who always had a story to tell and knew all the local secrets. He never stopped talking while he worked, but you could tell he was devoted to his craft, popping his rag as he buffed. A skilled shoeshiner could almost play a tune with the snap of his rag, and for fifty cents a man could walk away with a mirror shine. I say man because I don't recall too many women getting shoe shines back in those days, or these days either. I’ve shared before that my wife, Tanya, and I periodically kidnap each other for fun surprise outings, and just last week on Saturday morning at 8:15 I asked her if she was ready to be kidnapped. Her reply: “Can I take a shower?” I said she could brush her teeth and comb her hair and that's it. Now there's only one woman in the world that I know of who would get as excited as a child about getting a shoeshine, and that woman is my wife. I knew it was on her bucket list to get a real bona fide shoeshine from a genuine shoeshine man, and I was committed to making it happen. So she brushes her teeth and combs her hair, and we take off out I-64. I had an impish grin on my face, and she was pumping me with questions. Where are we going? To the airport? And I said, Maybe. You’ll have everything you need. And in a slight variation on Paul Harvey. And here’s the rest of the story (from my wife): pl Editor / Publisher |
2015 Nov / Dec
One, then Many Random Gifts
It's interesting and beautiful how one random act of kindness can reverberate down through the years and affect many people along the way. My wife, Tanya, lived in Ireland as a student in the 1980s, then decided to stay for years after falling desperately in love with the Irish. She took a job at the Anti Room, an upscale seafood restaurant in Dublin, and after one challenging day, exhausted and frustrated, at 1:00am she struck out for home on foot. Knowing the buses had already stopped running because of the late hour, she was counting on the gift of a taxi along the way towards O'Connell St. Out of nowhere, a young man approached, said something that made her look, and tossed her a bouquet of flowers. Holding the flowers she had just caught, surprised and delighted, she burst out laughing, and when she turned to say thanks, he was down the block and gone.
After almost thirty years, she has never forgotten that random act—a simple gift given by a total stranger who asked nothing in return. This spontaneous kindness had turned a weary disagreeable night completely around and inspired a life-long passion to pay it forward. On one of our first Christmases together as a couple in 2007, Tanya invited me to our living room where she sat under the tree, smiling. Next to her was a vase exploding with beautiful red roses. I was totally surprised and told her that no one had ever given me roses. I soon discovered these roses were not intended for me to keep. She was inviting me to have an experience that I had never had before. They were an opportunity for me to bless twelve other people with a spontaneous and random gift of kindness by giving them each a rose. |
I believe it was Christmas Eve that year that we drove around the city and found those twelve. They were a mix of young and old, poor and middle class, some already joyful, others perhaps struggling and who needed their day brightened. I remember the Hispanic woman in a Laundromat who smiled, laughed and said, “Gracias!”; an old man waiting at a bus stop who got rather teary; an exhausted nurse leaving a hospital; and an older couple entering a restaurant. All twelve of them were surprised, most of them astonished, and some bewildered by this complete stranger who handed them a rose, wished them happy holidays, and then walked away. I can’t fully express the joy and delight of witnessing the faces of these people who were handed a simple gift—an experience and blessing that we continue to share and enjoy at the holidays. After Tanya returned from Ireland in the late 80s, she began giving the roses alone, then later passed the tradition on to her mother, to friends and others. This act, among other random gifts and even her involvement in a movement to spread kindness across the nation, is a story that needs more telling than this journal allows. In a future issue, I intend to share the complete delightful history of how a late night spontaneous gift from an Irish stranger has resonated for thirty years and changed the lives of perhaps thousands (maybe even millions?) of people—if only for that special moment when they catch a rose and the kindness sinks in. pl Editor / Publisher |
2015 Sept / Oct
Learning to Listen
When I was a child, I would lie in bed or look up at the sky and listen to the stars twinkling. It wasn’t until much later that I learned that that twinkling sound was actually crickets making their nightly calls. Even now, at night when I’m in that place between waking and sleeping and I hear crickets singing, a part of me still thinks that maybe it’s the stars.
When I first moved to the Northern Neck in the 1980s, I quickly learned that sounds in the country are quite different from the city, and that they are sometimes disconcerting. One night, I woke to a strange and unsettling clatter coming from the backyard near the garden. It was windy and a storm was brewing, and looking out the window, I saw nothing but the dark silhouettes of trees bending with the wind. The clatter continued, and it was very near. After a few nervous minutes, I woke my wife to let her know we might have a burglar outside. Having grown up in the house, perhaps she might recognize the sound, or at least know where her father kept the shotgun. In fact, she did recognize the noise. Her dad had wrapped a tin pie plate around the birdhouse post to keep the snakes from going up the post after the hatchlings, and the wind was blowing the plate. She laughed and chalked it up to my city ignorance. I mean, what does a city boy know about country ingenuity to prevent snakes from climbing up posts after birds. |
After we moved to our own place outside Lively, Virginia, I quickly learned a lot about the sounds of the country night. Living with the hum of urban life for so many years, I discovered how loud quiet can be when your neighbors are wheat and cornfields instead of row houses—when all you can hear is the creak of the stair treads or an occasional car passing on Route 600. After a while, after I settled into the quieter life and learned to listen, I could hear the rich symphony of sounds that play every day in the country. I heard the paper sound that wind makes when it blows through the corn in the late summer when it’s ready for harvest. I became accustomed to the repeated thumps of black walnuts falling from the trees at night, the very quick slice of sound bats make when chasing mosquitoes in the dark, and the distinct voice of the big owl that lived in the back woods. I knew the occasional labored mooing of a cow giving birth in the far field, and the difference between a combine and a tractor when the engine starts.
I continued having the occasional stirring of fear in the dark over the almost twenty years I lived on our small farm in Alfonso, but it was most often the unexpected human sounds that triggered that feeling. It wasn’t long before I became a bit of a connoisseur of country sounds. I began to feel at home in what had been a foreign land and came to know the rich audible beauty of nature. pl Editor / Publisher |
2015 July / August
Love in the Kitchen
I’ve always admired the skill of an accomplished cook who has the intuition, palate and imagination to prepare a great lunch, dinner or breakfast with ease and a smile. But I’ve learned that it’s more than skill that creates a great dinner—and more than what’s served on the plate. It’s also the love that drifts through the kitchen, along with the fragrance of basil and garlic. My wife Tanya and I spend many pleasant hours in the kitchen, listening to great music, enjoying a glass of wine and great conversation. For us, preparing and sharing delicious food is a very special and intimate time, and we love how it wraps the end of the day in a pleasant cocoon.
Perhaps you’ve known the cook whose stress level rises with the bread dough, and who measures every teaspoon with a tablespoon of fretful intensity. To my mind, this is the opposite of what cooking should be. Food should be prepared and served with love, patience and good company, and for us, fresh and healthy are key elements. We haven’t created a garden yet at our new home, but this is coming. In the meantime, we frequent one of the largest and most diverse farmer’s markets in Richmond where we can find the finest local produce, eggs, seafood, honey and other goods from nearby farms. The food revolution is truly alive in the River Country. More people are paying closer attention to where their food comes from, how it’s grown and how that food reflects the grower. Does buying that particular head of lettuce support a local farmer who keeps his crop free from chemicals, or is it the product of an impersonal super-corporation whose main concern is the bottom line? When was that salmon really caught? Who planted, nurtured and harvested that tomato you’re eating? It’s nice when it comes from your own backyard.
In our own backyard at PL, we celebrate fresh and healthy food and local businesses, where you can know the craftsmen and the growers. We also celebrate pleasant summer days, when the tomatoes, cucumbers and melons are colorful, fresh, and juicy, when there’s dancing in the kitchen and plenty of hard crabs and love to go around.
Here’s to the pleasant life in River Country! pl
Editor / Publisher
Perhaps you’ve known the cook whose stress level rises with the bread dough, and who measures every teaspoon with a tablespoon of fretful intensity. To my mind, this is the opposite of what cooking should be. Food should be prepared and served with love, patience and good company, and for us, fresh and healthy are key elements. We haven’t created a garden yet at our new home, but this is coming. In the meantime, we frequent one of the largest and most diverse farmer’s markets in Richmond where we can find the finest local produce, eggs, seafood, honey and other goods from nearby farms. The food revolution is truly alive in the River Country. More people are paying closer attention to where their food comes from, how it’s grown and how that food reflects the grower. Does buying that particular head of lettuce support a local farmer who keeps his crop free from chemicals, or is it the product of an impersonal super-corporation whose main concern is the bottom line? When was that salmon really caught? Who planted, nurtured and harvested that tomato you’re eating? It’s nice when it comes from your own backyard.
In our own backyard at PL, we celebrate fresh and healthy food and local businesses, where you can know the craftsmen and the growers. We also celebrate pleasant summer days, when the tomatoes, cucumbers and melons are colorful, fresh, and juicy, when there’s dancing in the kitchen and plenty of hard crabs and love to go around.
Here’s to the pleasant life in River Country! pl
Editor / Publisher