Living Life in 4D

As those who follow generally know by this point, the proposed Annandale Greenway will slice through Annandale, Virginia, touching six (soon seven) separate Fairfax County parks (among other community features). Over the next few weeks, I will highlight all the different sections of the trail and share some of the more interesting details that I have gleaned. We’ll start with Green Spring Gardens – the eastern starting point for the trail.

Strolling in an early morning iciness through Green Spring Gardens park this morning I deviated from my usual path and took a look at the formal garden at the back of the 1784 farmhouse. The flat, grassy area stretches from the rear of the house to a semi-circular bed. Occupying the bed are over 30 boxwoods in an almost complete arc of this traditionally aromatic plant; behind the boxwoods stands a dry-stone wall. The granite and quartz wall separate this formal planting from the sloping area beyond that drops quickly to the reaches of Turkeycock Creek. This landscape is the simple yet elegant design of Beatrix Ferrand, a remarkable woman whose accomplishments are just beginning to be appreciated.

Green Spring Gardens is one of Fairfax’s very special places – an intensely gardened horticultural center that sees around 250,000 visitors a year. The park has dozens of different gardens and planting areas: many beautiful flower gardens, a large native plant display, demonstration gardens, and a children’s garden, among others. It also has a small but visually varied series of paths that wind throughout the park, bringing visitors to every possible corner. The park has a large horticultural center with a hothouse and an extensive library and the beautiful historic mansion, the 1784 farm, at its heart.

The historical marker outside the park locates the significance of the park in the creations of Ferrand and architect Walter Macomber, who added the wings to the original farmhouse. While these both are indeed worthy of historical remembrance, there is something to be said for Michael Straight, the owner of Green Spring during this period of renovation, a man who qualifies as a most interesting personage. He is a very Washington-type person, someone who in a time when the DC area was significantly smaller, was perhaps more common. The fact that he lived far out in the rural outskirts known as Annandale, makes the story more intriguing. In a way, Annandale was the Fauquier horse country of Michael Straight’s time.

So what is so interesting about Michael Straight? What I have discovered (mostly from the web and “Green Spring Farm” written by Ross and Nan Netherton) is an almost unbelievable confluence of American and European culture in our little hamlet. Straight was a gentrified New Englander who did government service in Washington, eventually serving as editor of the New Republic. His wife, Belinda Straight, was surely equal in accomplishment and wealth; her mother joined the couple in Washington at a modern house that was to the east of the farmhouse and is, alas, no longer. (Unbelievably cool, the old swimming pool for the Tobey House still exists (!) deep in the woods in the Turkeycock stream valley; one day, I went off trail at Green Spring Gardens and wandered through the thick brush along the creek and came upon the decayed remnants – tiled poolside, brush-filled basin, and even a ladder or two – of what must have been a wonderful spot for family and friends. It is still there!) Because of who he was, Straight had any number of famous visitors because who wouldn’t want to join a major publisher at his quaint and beautiful farm just down the road from the White House?

Who were these visitors? Imagine that late summer dinner party, with the Straight family entertaining the cognoscenti who drove out on a lark. Julian Huxley, famous British zoologist , head of UNESCO, founding member of the World Wildlife Foundation, brother of Aldous Huxley and son of a friend of Charles Darwin – he was there, probably sipping a gin and watching the bats stream out of the pines near the creek. Maybe Leo Szilard was there as well, a man who conceived the idea of nuclear chain reactions and who worked with Albert Einstein on the Manhattan Project. Maybe they were exchanging rude jokes with Saul Bellow, while enjoying that very American treat of hot dogs and ice tea. Off in the corner was Dylan Thomas, reciting poetry to Ms. Straight’s mother who swooned at his rolling Welsh accent. Surely other literary figures were driven out to partake in this Annandale life; Straight was a leading publisher and many would have made the trek.

The Straights also met with politicians and other Washington-type figures. They must surely have been comfortable hosting these events, proud of their American life and eager to show off their young family. Hubert Humphrey was said to have visited, and even Russian dignitaries were known to the Straights. (This tradition continued after the Straights moved out of the farm, for they rented the property to Leonard Garment, Richard Nixon’s special counsel during the Watergate crisis.)

What I found the most interesting about Michael Straight however (and not to take away from his careful management of the farm, his stream of guests, literary and political, and his apparent friendly approach to his neighbors) is something that doesn’t get mentioned quite enough. Michael Straight was an admitted Soviet spy! And not just any spy in any spy ring. Straight was recruited while studying at Cambridge – and was an acolyte of the Cambridge Five. We are talking about Kim Philby and Anthony Blunt – the classic upper crusty spies that fed information to the USSR for decades after the 1930s. By the 1960s, Straight had confessed his involvement as part of a background check and, curiously, didn’t face any sort of legal or civil penalties. Some spying was considered okay, I guess. It does bring an added tint to his success in bringing famous people out to Annandale.

I like to keep all these facts and suppositions in mind while I wander through the park. The Straights had the foresight to fix up the farmhouse, spring house, and grounds of this gem during their tenure. Much of what we have at Green Spring Gardens park today exists only because Michael and Belinda Straight gave the County the parkland; from their original donation of 17 acres, the park has doubled in size. One outcome of that deal was that the Straights were allowed to split the property and sell the portion facing Little River Turnpike to various car dealers. Either way, the residents of our community and visitors from further away get this very special spot to enjoy, redolent of history and a little bit of wry charm.

Stretching from the edge of the Beltway all the way to Alexandria at Shirley Highway, the Annandale area is a rich mix of residential neighborhoods, busy businesses, crowded roads, and green parks. Rather than a sense of a single community, there is strong identification with many little communities. The overall experience of Annandale is somewhat disjointed and, in light of its proximity to so many growth areas, is a bit unanticipated. How can this change?

Remarkably, all the areas that make up Annandale are connected, albeit by happenstance rather than explicit design. There is, however, a way across Annandale, a way that once improved and clearly identified, can lead to a more integrated community. What I call the “Annandale Greenway” is a collection of paths and sidewalks that pulls together much of Annandale. The Annandale Greenway connects all major parks in our area, passes schools, churches, coffee shops, and any number of neighborhoods and, most importantly, creates a streamlined way to access Annandale’s downtown from east and west. Let me show you.

The western end of the Annandale Greenway starts at the Annandale Community Park off of Hummer Road. Leaving from this hub, the Greenway passes the Hidden Oaks Nature Center, exiting on Royce Road along the old rail line. One fascinating advantage of establishing the Annandale Community Park as a starting point is that, without much effort, the user can also access the Cross-County Trail across the Beltway along Accotink Creek. This area also has the Packard Center and a small art gallery.

From here, the Greenway runs along Royce Street, crosses Hummer Road and continues into the small neighborhood across the road, following the sidewalk. About 100 yards along, an asphalt trail heads off a cul-de-sac onto the Manassas Gap Railroad Park, a linear park full of historic significance. The trail passes between small neighborhoods and behind apartment complexes. Connectors to these would give easy access to the parks to the west.

The trail exits the park via a mostly informal path onto Medford Drive, maintaining the linear direction of the now-buried rail line. Medford dead-ends on Annandale Road; Greenway users turn right than almost immediately left onto Poplar Street. This older business area of downtown Annandale is a safe passage off the main roads. At the end of Poplar, the Greenway user crosses around the ACCA building straight onto Columbia Pike.

This part of the Greenway parallels the Pike in an area that most likely will end up as the developed part of downtown Annandale. New work along the Pike will be improving the sidewalks; here there are restaurants, tea shops, and coffee places for a quiet respite. We have already traveled 1.5 miles to get here from the start at the Park. While this area isn’t yet very attractive, there is no doubt that it will be someday.

From Columbia Pike, the Greenway crosses the main roadway and heads down Evergreen towards the library. Before reaching that corner (but notice how close it is to George Mason Regional) the Greenway turns left and head up Alpine Drive, traversing a great collection of Annandale homes for a couple of blocks. At the end of Alpine, the Greenway continues along an asphalt path between homes and along what must surely be the last unpaved road in Annandale. This is a critical connector in the whole Greenway, and the houses here are a very cool collection of homes.

Once the trail reaches Roberts Road, the Greenway turns left for one block for the only real slope of the entire path. Here is Mason District Park – one of the highest points in the Mason District – and a quick right off of Roberts takes the traveler right into the park’s rear section. If the user continued straight ahead, they would soon arrive at the main part of Mason District Park – soccer fields, farmer’s market, and amphitheater. To the right we go, passing close to the Mason District Dog Park and behind Columbia Elementary School. The Greenway continues along the trail until it reaches a place where a trail branches off to the right – the bed of an old farm path. Turning here, we move towards Old Columbia Pike along an underused path that, nonetheless, is one of the back access points to Mason District Park.

Once on Old Columbia we turn left across a small bridge, hugging the road. This is the only area in which the Greenway user has to walk or bike close to traffic. In time, this path will need to be upgraded. But shortly after this stretch, the user turns onto Elmdale Street and enters a large asphalt trail that runs the entire length of that road. The Pinecrest Golf Course is on the right, a beautiful neighborhood is across the street. This long stretch is very popular with locals, of course. At the end of Elmdale, a right on the trail paralleling Braddock leads to a crosswalk at the entrance to Green Spring Gardens.

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Green Spring Gardens, like Annandale Community Park and Mason District Park, are community jewels that can now be connected with the Annandale Greenway. Green Springs is an amazing horticultural center with a historic home anchoring its 35 or so acres. The Annandale Greenway edges the Gardens, exiting along Green Springs Road towards Little River Turnpike. In the future, a trail extension along Turkey Cock Run will take the Greenway further down towards Lincolnia and the the edge of Fairfax County.

Today, the Annandale Greenway is just a collection of relatively linear paths and connected ways through the heart of the community. Many communities throughout the nation have established community trails like the proposed Annandale Greenway – you probably know of a few. In our community, we have the chance to establish a linear path that pulls together the many disparate parts of the area in which we live.

A well-conceived Greenway can serve not only to unite what currently exists, but can itself be a stimulus for further growth and integration. If properly marked and signed, it can provide a key transportation ingredient for much of Annandale. Businesses can (and will, as seen elsewhere) take advantage of the opportunities it provides. Even though the Greenway as proposed is linear, it can serve to help focus community activities. Finally, by garnering attention, it can help our community create a unique feature, one that builds on our unique character and geography, and providing a key recreational feature right here in our backyards.

It is my intent to begin a discussion about creating this Greenway, first by publicizing its concept and then working to include it (or a reasonable facsimile) into the upcoming ActiveFairfax plan. As the outline of the Greenway already exists, capital improvements are fairly low and can be developed over time. These would include improved/widened paths, appropriate spot changes to make movement along the Greenway safe and, perhaps easiest to get started with, a signage or wayfinding plan. Over time, as these pieces come to fruition, the Greenway can take its positive shape.

I have crossed the Edmund Pettus bridge – spanning the Alabama River from west to east – at least twice on foot, more than that in a vehicle. I have crossed with family, I have crossed with friends, I have crossed with heroes of the civil rights movement. The bridge looms in the American consciousness and dominates the visitors experience to the Butterfly City like no other physical reminder, All of my crossings are made meaningful to me because of who crossed it in 1965 – King, Williams and, of course, Lewis – the men part of the larger group attacked on Bloody Sunday and in the process consecrating the bridge.

The bridge is most commonly viewed from either end. The name of Edmund Pettus, that Confederate general and leader in the KKK, bedecks either end of the bridge. The walk up and over takes a few minutes – when I crossed in 2018 we held hands and walked two-by-two. We were commemorating, we were silent, we were yelled at (“Fuck you!” from the pickup truck.). I had early that day stood at the mid-point of the bridge and pointed my camera back at Selma, the view over the left shoulder of John Lewis as he marched. The view from where the marchers had come, first turning back and later, moving forward.

Erin and I had visited Selma a decade before. We did the sacred tour – the churches, the museum, the bridge, and the eastern landing spot of the bridge and the site of the confrontation half a century before. That time we parked at the base and found a small memorial, maintained by those who still lived in Selma. A small trail headed back from the bridge base towards the Alabama River. Along the way, memorials to those who had died in the movement. The entire walk, in the shadow of the enormous bridge, moved us like little has. Powerful memories hoping to negate the forgetfulness of time.

The path ended at the shore of the river. There, the city of Selma is seen perched high above the river, like an Italian coastal city. This explained the height of the bridge. There, where the bridge first touched the other shore, was a circular platform studded with columns. Here, it was obvious, were performances, meetings, gatherings, memorials, commemorations – all facing the city, of it and separate from it. It was one of the first places in this country that seemed sacred to me – a place whose meaning exceeded its pure physical nature. Ever since, I have sought the sacred as I found in Selma.

When I returned a decade later with friends on a Civil Rights Tour, the platform and memorials were gone. It wasn’t clear what had happened to them, but gone they were. Now the space felt like an unwanted floodplain in a dark shadow. I wonder what had happened – who was forced to disband it or who was unable to tend it. Did the increasing importance of the city obviate the need for a nome-made memorial.

My lasting impression of Selma is a difficult one. The city is depressed, full of important sites and individuals who still are waiting to tell their story – but not filled with tourists. The main streets are lined with beautiful, decaying buildings, only partially occupied by businesses. The potential is endless – soaring loft apartments, rich history, lovely people – but for all its importance Selma is not yet on the main trail of American history. It should be.

My painting of the scene captures for me all of these mixed feelings about Selma. The bridge is present, but as a dark shadow on the muddy Alabama. The city turns its back to the river, most likely the source of its prosperity. The buildings are unrealized spaces, taking the rich colors of an Italian city or a Southwestern cliff dwelling – reds and yellows. The viewer stands in the midpoint of the bridge, between the banks of the Alabama River and with roughly the same view as I had all those years ago from the sacred platform, now lost.

I will need to go back to Selma, to learn about this city that stands near where my own family had their forced labor camp back in the 1850s. I haven’t been able to shake that place from my mind.

Given how tricky it was to get our first two sons out of Mexico when we adopted them, one could be forgiven to think we wouldn’t look back. The saga of our adoption of Manuel and Alberto was an overwhelming emotional and physical experience, and by early 1994 it was already over a year in our rearview window. We had discovered a lot about ourselves in that brief time. As a family, we had taken trips across the country, gone camping, built a wonderful loving home life. There was a lot we wanted to do – first time parents and all that – and we tried to do it all almost immediately.

Keep in mind that Manuel and Alberto went from a difficult situation in a relatively poor country to one of the richest counties in the United States. Both boys quickly moved past the fish-out-of-water stage and into something much more complicated. Identity matters and they had just had one major component of their identity shattered – were they Mexican? American? Mexi-Merican? Chicano? Amerexican? The United States of the 1990s was not something they had ever really had thoughts about – as we know from the adoption process their thoughts and opinions were generally disregarded. They had a lived experience radically different from ours – they had been overlooked ever since their birth parents had died. Manuel had apparently been put to work at five; he has a pretty strong mechanical instinct and this was useful. Both boys also told us of significant mistreatment. As a family, we were on two different trajectories – they were moving forward into a bright, shiny Tomorrowland world, we were still trying to figure out from whence they had come. They told us what they remembered, but how do you capture ten years of life in a narrative? Really, we were just getting to know each other.

In the middle of all this, there were still other mysteries to solve.

Getting the boys into the right age group at school, for example, had not been easy. They were 11 and 9 – so 3rd and 5th grades, typically. That also meant U-11 and U-9 soccer teams – there would always be soccer in our lives and here is where we started. The guys were pretty small – speaking to a lifetime of poor nutrition – and never put up a fuss, regardless of what we decided. There was one nagging thing, however. Both boys complained that we were celebrating their birthdays incorrectly. We wondered if maybe they had not celebrated birthdays in their village, or maybe they celebrated names days (Catholic tradition) or maybe they just didn’t know. It was a bit perplexing, and while we were respectful of their concern, their didn’t seem much to do about it unless we could find out from the Mexican government what their actual dates were.

With the boys now firmly in our nest and their transition well underway, we decided that maybe there was a way we could get the information we needed. Why not go directly to the source – the boys’ village, their home town? Surely someone there would know about them there. That would surely be the simplest, most direct path to knowledge. We were now comfortably self-identifying as a family; we could take a few risks. The idea blossomed.

Having grown up in Mexico I am always trying to find ways to go back there. A summer vacation with our kids would give me a chance to see the country again, to have them reconnect with their birthplace, and to show them we respected and embraced the culture down there. On a selfish note, returning to Puebla would mean that I would be able to drive wherever I wanted to go. In particular, I really wanted to drive over the Paso de Cortes – the very high pass between Popocateptl and Ixtaccihuatl – in which Hernan Cortes first espied the Valley of Mexico in 1519. Like the driving temptation it was, this mountain stretch between Puebla and Mexico City is something I had seen from afar for years and always wanted to do. So, if we went to Mexico we could surely accomplish this odd desire of mine as well!

Of course, we would need the proper vehicle to make this drive, one that accommodated our family, our luggage, and our soccer balls. We purchased an Isuzu Trooper – a since-abandoned line that is much-loved in our memory – and prepared to go back the way we had come.

There was at least one significant hurdle – we had no idea where the boys had lived in Mexico. The adoption process back in 1992 had established that they had no living relatives, that they were true orphans. They were from a small town called “Libres” about two hours north of the state capital but there would be no reason to go back there, right? There was no one left of their family – we were told. Further, the boys didn’t know what street they had lived on or what house. Well, we thought, let’s just get down there and see what we can find? At the very least we get a nice summer vacation out of the whole thing and I get to go over the Paso de Cortes in my new SUV with my wife and two new sons. Really, what could be better?

Next Post: It Turns Out to Be Not That Easy

A scene from Roanoke, Virginia, recently visited

The cheap bastard that I am, I hoped to get in to the Roanoke Pinball Museum without paying. Once we were informed that the Museum concept was a thin veneer for people to play pinball for two hours, my enthusiasm waned. While I played lots of games as a child, I reserve my game-playing for mind-games these days. More fun, fewer quarters. Give me a museum any day!

Nestled in the confusing matrix of Roanoke’s museum tower, the Center in the Square, the Pinball Museum was to be our last educational activity for two days of intense exhibits, displays, interactive displays turned off for Covid, and a bewildering array of entrance fees (free, not free, paired with another museum). The Pinball Museum would be the veritable cherry on the top of our visit. But once the ticket-seller told me it was $12.50 and that I could play all I want but there were no panels describing the history of pinballing, I balked. Maybe we would walk by and peek in? She seemed doubtful.

But there we were, thirty minutes later, hanging outside the 2nd floor space, looking plaintively inside the space. Lots of banging and binging, lights flashing. I felt like a child waiting for the candy store to throw out their remnants (did they do that?) Right inside the door was a flashy machine; I asked the masked man at the desk nearby, well, could I just take a picture of this machine? I won’t ask for more, just want to poke my head in. The manager – also the owner – Nic Schell graciously allowed me in to take a picture of the quirky machine (Beach Queens). We were in!

Nic turned out to be an affable sort, and fell prey to our endless questioning strategy. Turns out that he is pretty interesting as well. After initial prodding, he began to share details about pinball – it’s been around since the time of Louis XVI (the French one) as a variant of billiards. It eventually came to these shores in the 19th century and really took off in the first part of the last one. The older machines are truly beautiful, gems of design and lights; the older the more visually interesting to me.

Nic described how pinball had a deep association with crime; it became a standard way to gamble in bars, earning the ire of the police. A close look at the game in question shows that there are two panels, one for the owner to take receipt of coins, the other for the crime bosses to take their cut: some predetermined portion of coins would drop into either till.

How did Nic get involved with these games and end up running a “museum” in Roanoke? He had a Dallas-area celebrity father (radio) who let him take a few tables of his own off his hands. Nic had previously had the earlier 21st century fortune-making career of computer tech and was looking for something else to do. Now he buys and sells, fixes them up, and travels the country in some sort of pinball circuit teaching about them. He says he has a large collection, but he has seen others many times larger in the well-fed hands of other tech entrepeneurs.

At this point, Nic relented to our “clever” strategy and encouraged us to walk through the room looking at his machines. A crowd of young people was gathering outside ready for the next round of playtime. In the lull, Erin and I perused the games to our hearts content. Though it wasn’t a museum, see, we made it one for ourselves.

Nic is the subject of a quirky video on Youtube – linked here – that caught him one day when he was dressed as a pirate. One highlight of the video is the host in the Atari shirt and the shorts – this is high-fashion for some tech aficionados.

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Wandering the room I marveled at the variety of games – more that the inventors/artists who came up with these must have come up with thousands of variations. There was a time before, yup, Pong and Pac-Man, when this was the type of game to play. Not that I was any good.

I imagine that there are a hundred thousand of these games out there. The detailed artwork is impressive. Nic told us of a cottage industry of painters who specialized in painting new names on machines to disguise them from crusaders and police seeking to break up gambling operations; the enforcers would check each game against a list of miscreants and seize the offending setup.

Every person, every place, every item, every time has a story. It is up to us to draw out their stories so that they can find their proper home in our culture. I found the Roanoke Pinball Museum to be fascinating; it left me wanting more – you know, a placard, a write-up, some sort of video description. But above all it allows visitors to actually play on the machines, which most museums wouldn’t let happen. For this, hats off to Nic!

We left the “Museum” thoroughly chastened by yet another area of knowledge that had escaped us. At the door, the group of players patiently sat on the floor, eager to get into the place. They weren’t there for the history, just the games. Good for them.

Breakfast buffet! Grab a plate. Throw on some spoon bread, biscuits and gravy, eggs. Delicious looking, unique to this grand old renovated Hotel Roanoke. Wear plastic gloves not to contaminate the spoons. Look up at the mural that stretches across two walls and stop. Look at the wait staff looking at me. Look back at the mural, gasp inside.

Wrapping two sides of the buffet room walls, this emblem of a sordid past stares down on my biscuits and gravy. In a sense I should have been prepared: there is a slightly less obnoxious mural over the front lobby, a weird conflation of fact and fantasy. One could be forgiven for presuming that such an egregious display of artist buffoonery was part of the designation of the hotel as Historic. You see it all the time. It takes a different mindset, one that comes hard to some, to see that the images detract from the historicity of the place, they shame the designation.

But here in the small room adjoining the magnificent Regency restaurant, a space that we argued whether it was at some point a small, private dining area or it always served to hawk bacon and sausage, was this horrific mural. Not horrific in an artistic way (although this could be argued) but in every other way that is meaningful.

At first glance we see a buffet adorned with a bright mural. Oh look! Famous places in Virginia – Mount Vernon, Gunston Hall, the Blue Ridge – Michie Tavern (who goes there anymore?) – Westover…Hmm, well it is some famous places and some no one travels to anymore. We are in a travelers hotel, so there is some argument that this relic served some general purpose.

After I had piled on the eggs I took a longer look. Wow, it is set in colonial times! Look at the wigs, the bustle dresses. But, boy there sure are a lot of White people just gallivanting around and taking bottles of wine high up on improbable rocks and just smiling, smiling, smiling. I am pretty confident of my grasp of colonial Virginia demographics and there were a lot more people of color in the colony/state. And then, there they were! Three of them to be exact. Here, let’s look at this smiling woman, carrying a basketful of flowers. She seems so cheerful.

My inadvertent gasp again escapes. The other two people of color are also serving, one bringing a tray, the other carrying a fowl. That’s their role in this sad montage. Now, I am not naive to think that somehow these obvious forced labor camps did not have enslaved Americans catering to the wealthy landowners. I am not such a fool to think that there was a time in this Commonwealth that someone could have unironically created this mural and placed it in the buffet line. But I am also alive enough to wonder why, in 2020, this mural is still here?

I awkwardly mention to the waiter that it is kind of surprising to see this mural here, kind of disappointing. She smiles in that way that people do when they are really saying in their heads “You have no idea” and says well, she is kind of surprised, too. As our society demands, she goes about her business effectively, carefully, and professionally – a woman humanly but not spiritually degraded by the faces watching her from the wall.

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Back at our table, the waiter says that there was a hullabaloo a bit ago about some of the other paintings in the hotel – she has been there for 15 years and has surely seen this hotel try and contort its image into something palatable. She isn’t clear on the details just that, as a woman of color, she finds the painting not to her liking. But, you know, she has a job, right? So she has to stand there, every meal she works, knowing that there is a hideously inaccurate representation of people like her, everyday, smiling down on the thousands of guests who traipse through her space.

The Intertube of course reveals an even more twisted tale. The hotel went out of business in 1989, murals and all. It was taken over by the Virginia Tech Foundation, renovated and reopened by 1995, and currently a management challenge of Hilton Hotels (“the Curio Collection” – the curious collection?). Renovated? All the murals were left in place – as well as the Robert E Lee portrait! In 2013 there was a “discussion” and General Lee was consigned to the history museum archives, so someone was aware at that time that something was amiss.

But it is 2020! The hotel has been recently renovated, cleaned up, hoping for business. A landmark in the community, its restaurant on the list of the best places to eat in town. How can it be, today, that these murals are still there? They are more than just reminders, they are a statement of pride by the hotel – even more so since they have survived the last six months of racial justice-seeking.

I will make a successful wager that the hotel, the Virginia Tech Foundation, the local historic society, are all on the public record decrying or at least distancing themselves from this imagery. Too much money to remove, an image to show how far we have come, and so forth. But as we have all learned this year, good intentions without action are actually racist. Is that what is going on here? (Don’t answer.)

Victory is ours! I threw the switch two days ago, severing our families connection with the oligarchs at Dominion Power. They who have charged me for keeping warm, who force me to pay for running video games, yes, these the corporate fiends who control the very means with which we light our house on Christmas holidays – we have thrown off our chains and . . .

Perhaps I am being a tad hyperbolic here, although that never hurt anyone, right? (I am looking at you soon-to-be-former President DJT!). On Tuesday, I threw the switch that turned on our solar power system. No bolt of lighting emanated from the box, nothing actually occurred. Just the sweet sweet feeling that we could now tap the sun to generate some of our own energy.

The honor for throwing the switch does belong to Erin. She has wanted solar power on our house as soon as we learned that there was a sun and we could cut out the middleman power company. Unfortunately, she wasn’t here so I did it. Over eager, I know. But as I was throwing the switch I WAS thinking of her, so it counts.

By the time I raced upstairs, I had already loaded the software fr0m Enphase that allowed me to monitor our energy generation and consumption moment by moment. In 15 minute increments, I can monitor how much was produced by our 24 panels, how much we actually used, how much we undershot our usage (imported energy) or how much we overshot (exported energy).

One can see from the image that we have a steady use 0f energy with some peaks throughout the day. The sun rose at 7 or so and started nicking the panels, eventually providing a full day’s worth of power. Since we are nearing winter, the days are short and getting shorter; by summer we should stretch the blue area by several hours on each end.

See how at the start of the morning (12am) there was a big consumption bump? After some detective work, I determined that my grandson was doing his laundry before bed. Immediately after I shared this with the assembled family, Erin made it clear that my Big Brother Power Broker shtick was not going to work and I should not hassle the children with my obsessiveness. Comments about individual use: not good. Comments about reducing energy demand overall? Good.

The whole thing could not have been easier. We have struggled with making the decision for years – there are a lot of vendors and it is hard to sort them out. This spring, our county announced a program in which they had partnered with one particular vendor, Solar Energy World, and all we had to do was contact them. We had previously used another approach that identified a set of vendors with whom we could work, but I ended up getting calls and emails for weeks from eager salespeople. When I did the evaluations, they were all pretty similar and I couldn’t discern a reason for choosing one over the other. Just not that interested. Solar Energy World proved to be a great option, and we set up the meeting.

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They reviewed the Google Earth image of our roof and made an estimate on what we would get from our roof. They made a couple of suggestions about trees and panels. We eventually agreed to trim a couple of trees back; they agreed to increase the conversion power of the panels. This upgrade did cost a lot more, so I appreciated that they were trying to set me up properly on the first bid. They sent us an estimate, we reviewed and made a couple of changes, and then signed off. They said they would be here in about 14 weeks and that would be that.

True to their word, their team showed up and quickly mounted the panels. It took a couple of days, not too much tromping around. An inspection, arranged by Solar Energy World, took place the following week. A few days later, the power company came in and switched out the electricity meter, and the rest, as they say, is the end of power dominion by Dominion Power!

Truth be told, it costs money but not an unreasonable amount of money. I estimate that we can make back our investment in 3 – 25 years. We do love that we are getting something between 25 – 60 percent of our annual power use from the sun. This goes a tiny way to reducing global warming. Since we have connected the solar to our electric car and our geothermal heat pump, we are a lot closer to some form of independence than we were 10 years ago.

When the company called me to tell me that we could go ahead and flip the switch (I already had) they said that if I recruited someone they would give me $500. I said I didn’t want it, I felt fine recommending them. So, if you DO decide to go solar and you connect with Solar Energy World, tell them I sent you. I will send the money to a responsible charity of your choice.

I am pleased to report that, for one of the first times in a long time, I paused at a work of art and then, paused some more. I sat down, put on some headphones, got up and looked closer, then sat down again.

In a life spent walking through art galleries and local art centers my feet have shuffled past a large body of forgettable work. Not that the work is good or bad or really who am I to decide this? But in trying to figure out my own aesthetic, I look look look at work and think: do I like it? Is it good? Am I supposed to like it? Unless it is priced, I can’t tell what the artist (or gallery?) thinks is an Important Piece and what is just show filler. And in the deep recesses of my ego sits the question: if I ever make a show, will others go through the same valuations?

So imagine my deep surprise when I found a work that I wanted to just watch. It was a film, in a basement, and I was mesmerized.

I found myself recently on the grounds of the Arlington Arts Center, which is a delightfully empty spot on this Covid-infected day. ArtDay3 we called the day and we (my friend Anas and I) were determined to get in some viewing before the nation shut its eyes for all of us. There was a new show in place – Solos – which highlighted the work of 6 artists. Each was given a room in this old schoolhouse – formerly named for a Civil War guy, Maury, but now not so – and filled it full of their work.

Who hasn’t walked into a room, scanned the walls with just minimal interpretation, and decided that it wasn’t worth the time? I know this is harsh, painfully and revealingly so. But not everything that is presented clicks with the observer and maybe that’s just on this observer. The benefit of going with a friend is to be able to calibrate one’s judgment – what did you think? You liked that piece? What do you think about the whole body of work? She lives in Maryland (after reading a bio)? We walked into each room, made an immediate comment about the scope of effort and creativity, and then dove in to each and talked and judged and yes, even touched the work (we were literally two of the three people there so who’s to tell? (Oops, I just did)).

Eventually we found our way down to the classic basement dweller – the dark room where the videos are showing. A room lit only by four different films, each in their corner. Watching these short films is always an exercise in patience – you are sure it is supposed to be good, but really, how can I tell? Did I watch enough of it, or can I just slide over to the next one. In this case, we had to actually put on headphones to hear any associated music or sounds – can you get Covid through the ears?

I looked over and there Anas sat watching a screen with little maquettes in stop-motion and the face of a familiar 2020 bogeyman. I put on the headset, one ear than the other. A percussive, repetitive beat wormed through me and I sat down. It was good, very good.

Dear Mr. Zuckerberg is a series of Instagram posts from the artist, Jeremy Hutchison to the founder and über-tech, Mark Zuckerberg.

The film is about 5 minutes long and enjoyable all the way through. I warn you that this a series ear-worm moment, as music, image, and message seriously intertwine in a mesmerizing fashion. Anas and I gave big smiles and sat and watched it all. Afterwards, we wandered the last part of the exhibition quietly singing the chorus (the greeting) and even did so to the bemused staff. (Here is a direct line to the artist’s own page: Jeremy Hutchison)

What is additionally special is that the new Executive Director, Blair Murphy, led the effort for the commission of the work. The Arlington Arts Center commissioned the most compelling work in the building! That says a lot, because it was surely a financial risk for a small center to spend hard-earned funds on a single piece – and a video piece at that. Kind of a bold but, in his case, savvy move. Well done!

In my definition of compelling is art that makes me stop and look, listen, or I suppose smell – and I can’t tear myself away. That makes my experience highly subjective and perhaps denigrates the hard work of the artist, but how else can an uninformed appreciator determine if a piece is for him? Emotional connection is everything – the frisson I get when I see Van Gogh’s art in person is kinetic, physical, I can even feel my eyes cones and rods twirling in anticipation. So, it works for me.

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There were a couple of other artists that I liked at the exhibit. Tara Gupta was the most intriguing, as her work was kind of crazy, inspired, super colorful and full of mysterious “meaning.” She has a LOT of work here and is kind of all over the place, but since I think she really started going forward in the last two years I find a kindred artistic spirit full of energy and vim. Looking at her highly differentiated work, I can see that if she were to focus in a certain direction, her willingness to experiment and to be self-expressive will certainly carry her a long way. Wacky, but provocative and worth a closer look. Rebeccas Rivas-Rogers full room installation, The Drawing Room, mesmerized Anas, who wandered through it several times. Much more could be said here about the work – like any good installation it is hard to separate the viewer’s space from the artistic zone.

A good arts center is only as good as the people behind it, and the Arlington Arts Center was beautifully appointed and staffed by friendly, knowledgeable folks. Working in a building that is sure to close because of an impending health emergency – a building with three people in it at 3 pm – seems needlessly cruel, but understandable. This building, this center, deserves a bit more love from the public, so I hope you will run over there soon and tell them I sent you. And an especial shout-out to Amanda Jirón-Murphy, the interim exhibitions director, whose very warmth radiated throughout the building.

(PS – Yes, we wore masks, we used sterilizer, we washed our hands, and we maintained social distance, and there were three people inside.)

Now that we are moving into a post-Trump era, I want to visit an issue that stirs me like no other. Maybe the best way to talk about it is from the perspective (in this case, imagined) of one of its victims. It is a twisted feature of our society that those with the least means to defend themselves are culturally, politically, and physically the weakest. I am talking about children.

Somewhere in Texas or Arizona or New Mexico or California, there is a small 4-year-old wondering what happened to his mother. This little boy only speaks a bit of English, some of which he has picked up from the other kids he plays with, some from the friendly woman who sits with him once or twice a week. His own language he speaks haltingly, because he was just a toddler when he left on the journey that ended him up here. Wherever here is.

He remembers his mother pretty well, although since it has been almost a year after she left him, her face is starting to fade a bit. He does remember how she smelled and that she always fed him first from their plate. She was very sweet to him. He remembers that she was really scared a lot. She called him Besito, but he knows that wasn’t his name, he gets called Anthony by the adults he sees around him now. He sometimes remembers that he used to get called Antonio, but he isn’t sure why.

Antonio remembers being frightened that night when they left where they used to live. He doesn’t remember his house much. There were other people there, maybe older brothers and sisters. He does remember Chillito, the little dog that used to follow him around all day, barking. He and Chillito would play outside almost everyday, except when his mother would close him up in the house, and act like it was dangerous outside.

He remembers his mother sweeping him up with a plastic bag of clothes, taking him with her late at night. He mostly slept, but it seemed noisy and crowded. He thinks they were on a bus and he remembers waking up and all the trees were gone outside the window, it was just rocks and mountains and bright sun. He slept a lot and didn’t really eat much. After a long time (was it two days?) he remembers his mother swinging him up on her hip and darting off the bus.

The next two days were just a blur. Antonio remembers his mother talking to lots of people. He thought he recognized on of his mother’s friends, but after she hugged his mother and him for a long time, she left and he never saw her again. His mother cried a lot. They had no food and he was constantly hungry. He cried a lot, too, but his mother just held his hand harder and pushed on.

He remembers night came on and he and his mother were in the back of a truck. It was very bumpy and cold. Very very cold. There were other mothers and fathers and children jammed in the truck. It seemed to drive fast and took a lot of turns. Antonio remembers how quiet everyone was – the small man in the front of the truck kept turning around and shushing everyone. One person was so scared that they wouldn’t stop talking or singing, and then the truck stopped and she was kicked off and then no one said anything after that.

The truck started going real slow and turned off its lights. Antonio felt his mother’s hand gripping him hard, hard and her other hand was over his mouth. He remembers that his mother reached in her pocket and gave him some crackers and though he didn’t want to eat them, he forced them down. They were horrible and made him more thirsty.

All of a sudden, the truck stopped and everyone started jumping off the back. There were people looking very scared and going off in different directions. His mother started following one man, a tall man who walked fast, and they left the truck and, using a small light in his hand, they traveled down a path. There were a few other people with Antonio and his mother, but he doesn’t remember how many.

The man stopped and pointed into the ground. There was a small hole under a board. Antonio remembers squirming up against his mother because he didn’t like going into holes. He could tell by her shaking legs that neither did she. But she grabbed his hand, put a finger to her lips, and pulled him in with her.

He remembers it was hot in the tunnel, it smelled bad. After a while there was a small string of lights and he could see that it was a long tunnel. His mother had to bend her head down not because she was tall but because the roof was low. They walked for a long long time. Antonio isn’t really sure how long “time” is but it seemed like as long as a movie or maybe two.

All of a sudden, everyone stopped and Antonio ran into the back of his mother’s legs He felt cold air and then the lights went out. Slowly they started shuffling again forward and then, whoosh! they were out in the night air again. Some people fell to the ground, some went to the bushes to go to the bathroom, some started crying. An old woman who was behind them started praying aloud but the tall man came up and made her stop. Antonio could hear her crying after that.

All Antonio wanted to do was stop moving, just sit down. He could see that his mother could not raise her feet more than just a shuffle. But the man at the front started talking to another man in low tones, someone who Antonio had not seen before. That man in the front counted all the people there by pointing at each one. They talked some more and then Antonio saw the tall man talk to his mother and the other people and then he turned and left, went back into the tunnel.

Antonio’s memory of this part of the trip is a blur. He cried and cried until he was completely dry and then he just gasped and made sad noises. His mother never let go of his hand. He had no idea where they were or why they were there. He missed Chillito waking him up that morning and he looked over his shoulder to maybe see if he could see the little dog. Far off a long string of lights, from left to right, made a line in the darkness.

Before he could turn back, Antonio’s mother stopped moving; everyone froze. Bright lights came up over the hill they were climbing and everyone scattered. Antonio turned with his mother and let go of her hand for just a second. He found it again and then was pulled off his feet by her as she started to run back in the direction from which they came. Loud noises, scary voices surrounded them.

His mother stopped running as she came up on a group of men. They looked very scary to Antonio, but he was tired and had to go to the bathroom and was so hungry. Maybe the men would feed him? He felt hands on him, saw his mother being pulled toward a truck, heard her crying. Then they were in a truck, together. Someone passed around a bottle of water and he spilled most as he tried to get it down his throat. Then he was handed a small sandwich and although it was dry it was good and he ate it down.

He remembers being so tired he couldn’t keep his eyes open. The doors opening up made him wake, and he saw hands reaching in to take people out of the truck. His mother started being pulled and she started screaming, trying to grab Antonio. He started screaming too and he thinks someone pulled him away from her. They were out of the truck in a big room. It was sunny outside the big door. He saw two men and a woman take his mother and put her hands behind her back. She seemed to be pushing against them, trying to get back to Antonio.

He looked up and remembers that there was a small woman holding his hands and keeping him from running to his mother. He saw his mother pushed through an open door and she fought back. She turned to look at Antonio and her face made a silent sob. Then she was through the door. The woman’s hands on his shoulders held Antonio firm. He saw his mother’s face one more time, and then, like that, she was gone. That was a year ago; he hasn’t seen her since. He tries to remember what she looked like, but he isn’t sure anymore.

Who’s to blame? The mother who brought him here? The CBP officers who arrested them? The coyote who helped smuggle him? An economic system? A political system? Racism? Poverty? At this point, who cares – it matters not unless it helps put mother and child back together again before his identity is repackaged and resold.