Brick’s Blog

      That’s Jerry Butler, the Iceman. If you went to a Southern prep school in the 60′s or early 70′s, you knew every song ever crooned by the Iceman. Now that I am on a fitness kick and walk every morning for an hour; I have been loading my iPod up with music from my past along with a few present favorites.  I’ve got a pretty good collection of country from Hank Williams (that’s Sr. although Jr. has a couple I like) to Miranda Lambert.  But I digress ….

     When I was at Woodberry I was tagged by one of the seniors my new boy year as being “the Groover.”  Being that naive, over confident kid from backwater Warsaw, I took this as a compliment and was soon believing my own press clippings, so much so that by my senior year I was head of the Hop Committee. Now being head of the Hop Committee was almost like being blessed by the Pope as the coolest guy on campus. The Hop Head obviously knew more about music and chicks than anybody else; or why would you put him in charge of arranging the 3 big dance weekends for the year when the all male population at Woodberry got to invite “their best girls” to the Forest for a weekend.  Yeah, you had to be one hip cat to pull this off, especially when Woodberry was about 50% Carolina happy boys who even then were young shag daddies in the making. 

Anyway, I thought it would be fun to load the old iPod up with some of the music that was so much of my life at Woodberry. So off I go to YouTube where I grab a video and convert it to mp3 format for the iPod. (Yeah, I am still cheap). And while these songs were downloading, I found myself remembering the words to these songs from 40 years ago. But it wasn’t until the next morning when I ventured out for my walk that the full impact of these songs hit me. All of them were about unrequited love or heartbreak. Did I really sit around for most of my teen years mooning over some little hottie  from Chatty Cathy or Saint Margaret’s singing the words to Jerry Butler? I must have because I can still sing along. Sure proves that youth is wasted on the young.

     Just before my son, Stuart, returned to UMW for his 3rd year, he broke up with a girl he had been seeing for about 8 months. I think this was his first serious girlfriend. We had lunch a couple of days after the break up and he was still mooning over her. So what advice did the Groover have for his son? Maybe a c.d. with a few select songs from the Iceman to ease the pain?  On no, the Groover told him to buck up. Get over it. That he was an upperclassman, living a 1/2 block off campus in a great house, was 22 years old and can buy liquor/beer legally, and goes to a school where women make up 60% of the student body. There will be another one.

     One of the things I like most about Virginia Capital Realty is our support staff is loaded with cute 20 somethings. Every Friday around 4:45 p.m., if I am in the office, I circulate through and remind the girls that at 5 p.m. I’d be glad to hold a quick seminar about men before they head out for the weekend. So far, I’ve had no takers, but sooner or later they’ll find out what a valuable resource the Groover is now that he knows the Iceman was all hooey!

    I’ve got to admit that I find a Chick-fil-a sandwich one tasty item. Chick-fil-a is definitely in my pantheon of fast food suppliers, but not solely because of the food. It’s their business practices that I admire as much as anything. Having their service folk tell me “it was their pleasure” to serve me is just the start of what I find so right about Chick-fil-a. Well, they did it again today, 9-11-09.

     As I was proceeding east on Broad Street west of Parham, I noticed that the flag at Chick-fil-a was at half mast. Momentarily, the rolodex in my mind starting flipping pages wondering who had died; and then with a huge “duh” it struck me. A quick glance at the surrounding businesses that also fly Old Glory found no one else at half mast. And although it was only slightly past 11 a.m., I had to stop at Chick-fil-a not only for lunch but mostly to commend them for remembering. When I expressed my appreciation to the clerk for his company’s reverence of the day, he proudly told me that he had arrived early at work today for the sole purpose to insure Old Glory flew at her appropriate spot.

     Too often, we hear of the menial nature of fast food service jobs. To my way of thinking, this early rising Chick-fil-a employee may well have performed one of the most important task accomplished today in America. Thanks, Chick-fil-a.

     Since getting the sad news of Marshall Coggin’s death on Sunday, my mind has been awhirl in memories of a man who in many ways was my father. You see Marshall Coggin was my godfather; and in all duties Marshall undertook or assumed, there was true dedication beyond the call. Just part of that Flyboy Semper Fi credo that exemplified his life.

    Thursdays in the Northern Neck meant the publication of The Northern Neck News which in many ways was like a party line telephone as it shared the tidbits of various communities faithfully reported by its correspondents strewn across the area.  Anchoring the News most Thursdays was a column, Tale Spinning, penned by the Editor himself, which offered an anecdotal glimpse into the very heart of the Northern Neck and small town America. This morning I unearthed my own time capsule and retrieved a scrapbook compiled by my mother which contained several of these columns. Those Thursday lessons learned so long ago still reverberate today.

     Yesterday, as I drove to the Northern Neck, I was reminded that Thursdays also meant Marshall’s work week was over. As his godchild that often meant there was a weekend lesson awaiting you, too; as Marshall would whisk you away on some day trip adventure. And adventures they always were, because Marshall Coggin was just a big kid himself who loved life, adventure, and the people who were a part of it. I don’t think I have ever known anyone as self-effacing as Marshall Coggin, and that may be the greatest lesson he ever taught me. Rest in peace, good and faithful servant.

    I’ve been thinking lately about what NASCAR will be like now that the government owns GM. Since they are racing at Daytona tonight, I was wondering what next year’s 500 might be like. Maybe we’ll have a new “3″ car, even though to any self respectin’ good old boy that would be pure sacrilege. But why would our
government care, it isn’t listening to us anyway; and those who would be most offended by a new “3″ car are just considered cretins to them anyway.

     Now let’s just suppose the government did decide to sponsor a NASCAR ride next year. It would have to be a Chevrolet so that it would appeal to the masses. It would have to meet CAFE standards. And since I am hoping for a new “3″ car, its sponsor would have to be Nancy Pelosi. After all, Speaker Pelosi is third in line in our federal system. Anyway, the picture above is my mock up of what the new “3″ car might look like. Gentlepersons, start your engines!

     Just like Michael Corleone in Godfather 3, "Every time I think I’m out, they pull me back in."  Yep, there I was out for dinner last night and the restaurant had its TV’s tuned to the "Great American Race." I confess, I watched, I rooted, and like Fredo in G2, I said a Hail Mary when a Toyota didn’t take the checkered for the Daytona 500. Take that, Joe Gibbs, you traitor.

     How can I guy who has won the Super Bowl three times, won 3 Winston Cups with Chevrolets (yeah, I know one was a Nextel, but I can’t bring myself to calling the Cup – Nextel), now be fielding an all TO’YO’TA team? And if it hadn’t been for Mercedes Benz, which owns Chrysler/Dodge, a damn TOY’OTA (how do you say this brand?) would have gone to Victory Lane in the 50th running of the 500. Shame on you, Joe! Kicking Chevrolet, when it’s down. GM only lost 39 billion last year. 

     Although I have said many times that I am done with NASCAR, it’s official this time. NASCAR now calls their redesigned big boxy safety first prototype the "Car of Tomorrow". Funny to me, it looks like a Prius.   

     With Valentine’s Day in the rear view mirror, it is fitting for me to make this post. See, I use to love NASCAR. While I don’t care about NASCAR anymore due many reasons (Nextel Cup, Toyota, The Challenge, Viagra sponsorship, Theresa Earnhardt & Junior, etc. - visit my Let Me Explain the South to You category for previous posts and clarification), NASCAR is still like that old flame who I am glad I didn’t marry, but I still like to hear good things about. So what stirred these buried feelings for me to make this post?

     Yesterday morning I was out early; and is my custom, my car radio was tuned to the AM dial. Reporting on the Daytona 500 at this 5:30 a.m. time was the sports reporter for the Wall Street Journal. Excuse me. WSJ reporting on NASCAR. Fella, you need to be reporting on the squash match at the Downtown Athletic Club. Or maybe croquet out on the Hamptons. Leave NASCAR to good ole boys who actually know about it and would know the first Junior was Johnson not Earnhardt. 

     Anyway, this twit starts droning on about the 500 being the Superbowl of NASCAR; and how ironically, it is the first race of the season. I knew any other true Southerner up and about at this hour; and probably on their way to Hardee’s for a biscuit, hearing this would go just as ballast as I did. WSJ, that’s the problem with NASCAR these days – too much Wall Street money. Just look what Wall Street did to Krispy Kreme. Damnit, I can’t even go get a dozen "hot" this morning (you bubbas, know what I mean) and consume 3/4 of them before I get home without feeling guilty. LBO’s, IPO’S….hey Wall Street how about a LSA……Leave South Alone.

     But enough of this rant. Junior, git it done! And Joe Gibbs, I’ve got a few words for you, too. Stay tuned.

     Call me, Scrooge. Wait a minute. Wrong Story. No, it’s not the wrong story just the wrong start to the story, so let’s begin again. The picture left is the "power pose" of my friends, Bob and Peggy Smolko. As you can guess by the pose, they are real estate agents. This is their old picture, their new "power pose" has the Colonial Capitol at Williamsburg in the background, which is where they live.

     I met Bob and Peggy 13 years ago when they relocated to Williamsburg from Brookline, MA, a suburb of Boston. I was doing some consulting work in Williamsburg at the time; and Bob and I became quick friends. We were quite the pair. Me, with my slow speech and Southern drawl. Bob, with his long "a" – ca-ah (car), ga-ah’den (garden), you know the accent.

     Well, Bob and Peg have become "Southernized" over the years. Now I am not claiming Bob’ s speech resembles mine now, but it is much softer these days. Peg still occasionally cannot understand me, but Bob can translate for her when that happens.

     Every year, Bob and Peg host a " client appreciation" party at their home in Ford’s Colony in late December. Peg must cook all month, because it is always a spectacular event. I guess it was 5 years ago that I realized just how "Southernize" my buddy, Bob, had become. We were standing in a group of people and Bob was talking with one of his new neighbors who was at the party. His neighbor was a northern transplant and had just moved into their "new" home in early November.

    Ever so tactfully, Bob complimented his new neighbor on their Christmas decorations. The neighbor accepted Bob’s compliment and began to wax on about his wife’s love for decorating at Christmas. Bob, then, steered the conversation into a discussion about Williamsburg’s Grand Illumination. Had the neighbor attended? Did he know the history? Bob was so masterful and then Bob ever so casually dropped the line, "you know, most folks wait until the Grand Illumination before decorating their homes." Oh, my brash buddy from Boston was now a Southern gentleman! Steeped in Virginia Tradition. I was so proud!

     A few days ago I noticed Christmas trees had been delivered to the grocery stores. I saw a Salvation Army kettle last night in front of a Ukrop’s. One of our neighbors already has placed wreaths and garlands on the exterior of their home. (They own Westbury Pharmacy so I can only assume it is ploy to guilt us into decorating our homes earlier and buying what we need from them!) Com’ on, we’re a week before Thanksgiving. Don’t make me have Bob talk to you.

     And if you didn’t know, The Grand Illumination will be on Sunday, December 2, 2007.

     The older I get the less interest I have in sports. One by one the sports that I loved and followed slowly and eventually lose all interest for me. It’s as if they lose their innocence and become tainted. Pro football was one of the first to go. Not sure if it was when Jack Kent Cooke didn’t pick up Sonny’s contract for that last year that sealed it for me, but probably close to then that I slowly and surely lost all interest in pro football.

      College basketball was next. I use to love ACC basketball, especially when Jefferson Pilot aired the games. I’d watch them all. Again, I can’t recall the exact event or reason I lost interest. Not sure, don’t remember, don’t care, but was probably when when Len Bias died of a cocaine overdose right after signing with the Boston Celtics. 

     Baseball? I have commented on this before, I use to love baseball, October 26, 2006. So maybe it wasn’t really when Fay Vincent resigned, but I do know the 1994 strike was definitely a final deathknell for me. Well, I did go to Fenway once after that, but I was in Boston and it was opening day. Clemens pitched. It was ’95 or so.

     All week, I have been thinking I needed to write something about NASCAR, since we’ve got a race here Saturday night. Coming home last night, I heard an ad on the radio for Dale on CMT. Watched it, loved it, and since it is rerunning again tonight, count me in. Earlier this year, I commented on the state of NASCAR right before the Daytona 500, Goodbye, NASCAR, February 14, 2007.  So tonight while I am watching Dale, (CMT, Comcast Channel 69 at 8 p.m.), I am going to bide my final farewell to NASCAR. When Dale Earnhardt, Jr. won’t even be driving for DEI (i.e., Dale Earnhardt, Inc.) and won’t have the 8 car next year (you know Dale Jr’s grandpappy, Ralph, drove the 8 car first), it is definitely time to move on. Hell, some guy with a name like Montoya driving a Toyota will probably win the 50th Daytona next year. 

    Step-mothers, I got one, too, Jr., so I know how he feels.  

     What is it about Hardee’s that makes you ever return? It must be the forgiveness factor inherent in Southerners. Or maybe a little bit of regional pride. After all, Hardee’s was the the South’s first fast food chain. Hardee’s has good fried chicken, honest to God southern elixir, sweet tea, and according to their commercials (and my taste buds), homemade biscuits. Just writing about those biscuits makes me want to head to Hardee’s. And don’t forget, it was a long time NASCAR sponsor with a car and a race long before corporate America and Wall Street discovered NASCAR. 

     The other thing Hardee’s has is Southern service. I’m not talking about that "yes ma’am" "y’all come back" service, but that "we’ll get to it when we’re ready" Southern service. Com’ on, you Southerners, you know what I am talking about it. We all have those special service suppliers who we tolerate despite constantly being disappointed by them. They’re like our eccentric uncle or aunt, who says anything that crosses their mind and typically does at the worst possible time, but we still love them. If you ever eat at Hardee’s, you know the service ain’t lightning quick, but they do have good food and it’s usually worth the wait.

     Yesterday, I was headed to the 55 + neighborhood near Virginia Center Commons where I am the site agent. I normally like to arrive there a little before noon so that I can put out my "open" flags and also do a little stage setting on the model. This morning, I was low on gas so I got off at the Parham exit of I-95 to fill up. Knowing there was a Hardee’s around the corner on Route 1, I decided I’d go through their drive through. Besides it was only 11:40 and even with Hardee’s notoriously slow service I figured I had plenty of time. 

      As I pulled into the drive through there was already a car at the order box, whose order was quickly taken. I pulled up and also got my order taken promptly, too. It was then that I saw there were 3 cars in front of me, but since it was only 11:42, even if I waited 10 minutes I figured I could still be at my post by noon. The first indication that today might be a little different was at 11:45 when the driver of  car # 2 (and I ain’t talking about Rusty Wallace) got out of this car and jumped up and down a little. I figured he was just stretching his legs. At 11:48 when he got out of his car again and asked car # 3 (and this wasn’t Dale Earnhardt) to back up and let him out, I just figured we must have some impatient Yank who’d never experienced the Hardee’s wait. Anyway, didn’t his departure just insure I’d be taken care of sooner? I was # 3 now.

     At 11:52 I thought "Boy, that must be some order car # 1 is getting." Since it was a pick’em up truck, I guessed he was getting lunch for his whole crew. Surely it couldn’t be much longer, because there were hardly any cars in the parking lot. It was then that I had a flashback to a month earlier when I had ordered in at this same Hardee’s and had experienced a wait of about 10 minutes. 

     Okay, there goes car # 1 with his one bag and one drink. A few minutes pass and car # 2 departs. Also a small order. I’ll be headed north soon I thought, as I pulled up to the window with my exact change ready. When I handed the cashier my money, I glanced at the clock and it was now 11:56. So what, I’ll be 5 minutes late and this experience will make just make for more fodder when I joke about Hardee’s service with some good ole boys. 

     Now that I’ve got a clear view inside through the drive in window, I can see there’s only 1 cashier at the counter plus the cashier handling the drive through window. Typical Hardee’s with only 1 counter cashier I mused, since I was sure if I went across the street to the McDonald’s I would have found at least 3 counter cashiers at their post since at least 11:30 for the lunch rush. 11:58 there goes a different employee who looks like she’s on bathroom duty, since she was carrying a roll of paper towels. You just know there’s no Hamburger College for Hardee’s like at McDonald’s!

    Since the radio is tuned to WRVA a sole bell begins to toll for the VA Tech Victims. Boy, that makes you think as the bell tolls on and on. Soon a different employee appears from the back and takes a position beside the chicken and biscuit station. He’s not doing anything, he’s just standing there. Must be on break. The drive through cashier assists the counter cashier distributing a few orders. Of course, I am ready to explode. For even Hardee’s this is unbelievable.

     I mutter a few goosefahbahs (you know, from Adam Sandler’s movie, Anger Management) and actually begin to entertain the thought that I’ll walk inside and confront the manager. What I’ll need for this confrontation will be some validation of my actual wait as I watch the drive through cashier post a few order slips above the food distribution area. Ah hah, there’s my proof. Hopefully, she’ll place my slip inside my bag with the order. Surely that slips must be time dated from when I placed my order some 20 minutes early.

     From the radio, the Rush Limbaugh theme begins as the drive through cashier finally hands me my order. If you’re a Rush listener then you know it is 7 minutes past the hour. I quickly glance in my bag, but don’t see my desired proof to go confront the manager. Besides I’m really late now and I need to wolf this food down so that I arrive at my new home site running. As I maneuver my way up Route 1, cursing each traffic light, I reach the bottom of my food bag and feel a piece of paper. There it is my VALIDATION – actual proof of the time warp that Hardees has held me in. I rip it from the bag only to discover the time date reads 11:56.

     Now, wait a minute. Hardee’s couldn’t time stamp things by when you paid for them, could they? You’d never get anyone through the drive through, if the order wasn’t started until your reached the window. And this really wasn’t a receipt since it didn’t show any prices just items. Maybe this is a Hardee’s corporate strategy to postdate everything so it looks like you didn’t really wait. Or maybe those 2 stoners who are featured in Hardee’s current radio commercials are really part of the management team. I need to do some further investigation on this. I think I’ll hit Hardee’s tomorrow for their 2 egg bacon and cheese biscuit special for $2.22. You know they only charge me a 25 ¢ for my senior coffee! 

     One of the great aspects of my profession is that you get to interact and know families. I have a special affinity for mothers of all boy families. You see I am one of 4 boys and there is no question that my mother deserved sainthood. Let me give you an example why.

     Mother’s birthday would be tomorrow, April 9th. Mother grew up in Chicago and was extremely proud of her New England ancestry. And like so many Northerners, not afraid to express her opinion. On the other hand, all of her sons are die hard Southerners. For a true Southerner, April 9th is the day Ole Dixie died. The day of RE Lee’s General Order 9. The striking and furling of the battle flag. Appomattox.

     For so many years, we, boys, would spend April 9th regaling the virtues of the South. Of course, we knew it was Mother’s birthday, but being true Southern men we could not be caught dead expressing any unmanly sentiments to our mother. Mother would endure this for most of the day until her glint of Irish heritage could take no more. We boys would then be treated to a complete dissertation on the superiority of our Northern heritage. Maybe this is really why we did this every April 9th.

     Anyway, Mom, Happy Birthday. I am still working on that sainthood.