"Up on the Rooftop"

The mothers are coming! The mothers are coming!

Last weekend we drove a bum-busting 18-hour roundtrip to Ohio, collected mother, and hauled her luggage and maternal travel rations (ten cartons of cigarettes, one bag Dove chocolates, half a pound cake, a Ziploc of dry peanut butter cookies, one cupcake and a water bottle full of tap water) safely to Williamsburg. As you can imagine, mother's supplies tortured the dog across three mountain chains. When I turned around in my seat to check the backseat passenger status, one set of whiskers usually sported cookie crumbs, and the other set, a smile.

My mother-in-law will soon arrive to join our Christmas crowd. The thought of simultaneous motherly merry-making is frequently shocking to outsiders. "HOW do you survive?" they demand to know.

Actually, the situation is short one maternal unit, as my spouse also has a stepmother.

We refer to them as "mother, "other mother," and "another other mother." It works quite well.

Although my mom and my betroths' mother have some differences--career woman versus stay at home mom, curly hair instead of straight, globe trotter contrasted with a total isolationist--they do share some traits.

Both reuse teabags with pride and hold an annual competition to see who can brew the most cups from the same, soggy bag.

Both bake excellent desserts, and both are confident that her piecrust is flakiest (I refuse to reveal the true Crust Queen).

And most annoyingly, both can identify every plant, bush and tree within sight (although one uses a Latin title and the other slang: "Oh my!" "A Giganticus Sharpatant Thingajigamus." "Oh yeh," retorts the other. "One'a them big thorn bushes!").

This latter trait is troublesome because their combined botanical knowledge stretches a short stroll for fresh air and exercise into a two hour flora expedition. My mother-in-law also feels it her duty to collect every speck of roadside litter. She once returned home covered in ants.

On the other hand, when their maternalistic natures become too much to endure, a walk is a handy way to occupy them, and if one is truly desperate, loose them in the forest for an hour. Code for this situation is to grit one's teeth and hold up a volume of Hansel and Gretel.

The dog and cat, of course, love the extra attention and treats.

Since the Colonial Newfoundland Club didn't participate in Williamsburg's Christmas parade, we marched with the DoG St. Bernese Mountain Dog Club, instead. We had a grand time, and Bear adored every minute, as did the entire canine contingent.

In fact, we were such a crowd pleaser (even those who couldn't cross four legs and make it to route's end, and instead squatted in the middle of the road, elicited watchers' squeals of delight), that our group has been invited to participate in January's gubernatorial inauguration parade!

Our colonial capital, home to former fascinating governors, will host boring Lt. Gov. Tim Kane's big transition day ceremony.

This peaceful exchange of power and hoopla poses no problem for the dogs (or democrats, since outgoing Gov. Warner is also a donkey rider), but it could become a prickly situation for us human paraders.

Since the DoG St. Bernese Mountain Dog Club is a microcosm of Williamsburg, I'm sure it contains rabid conservatives, lathering liberals, and a smattering of angry libertarians.

Thus, our group must assemble politically nonpartisan parade-wear. What to do!

My significant other hopes top hats will be chosen. I refuse to dress as a confederate soldier. If Santa is reading this, I think he would agree that we should all wear camel-colored Brooks Brothers toggle coats (size 4, please).

As usual, Williamsburg's spectacular Grand Illumination weekend ushered in the Christmas season with a bang. I shopped, attended a party, and ooo-aah'd the fireworks solo, since my better half spent the weekend in Texas at conference, where he learned his company's secret handshake and other corporate tools necessary for the expansion of global capitalism.

Speaking of "big brother," I love my PowerBook's Flight Tracker widget. With a simple click I can learn the status of my spouse's flight, AND see a map with an adorable airplane icon indicating the flying machine's exact geographical position, altitude, and speed!

Why did I not have this capability when my beloved former airman flew in dangerous circumstances? Has Mac made provision to show a small crater or splash if a plane "buys the farm?"

Most importantly, when will there be a widget to show whether my significant other has arrived at the airport, or is still sitting in the more popular hotel cocktail lounge? Perhaps a small glass with ice cubes could indicate the latter.

Prior to my flyboy's departure, we rang in the holiday season by attending the Brain-Busters/Tidewater Model Soaring Society Christmas party (NASA employees "get down"), and two concerts: William & Mary Symphony Orchestra's Winter Concert, and the Williamsburg Symphonia's Holiday Concert.

Wm. & Mary's successful event, entitled, "Prague, St. Petersburg, and the Big Apple," included Bernstein's Overture to Candide, Smetana's Moldau from Ma Vlast, and Tchaikovsky's Symphone No. 5, Op. 64.

To help the audience better understand the motivations and emotions that inspired Tchaikovsky, conductor Bohuslav Rattay read from a letter the composer wrote to his dear friend Nadejda von Meck.

I enjoyed the letter (regarding the topic of love) so much that I located Tchaikovsky's thought-provoking correspondence, found in a book titled Beloved Friend, and provide it for you (while apologizing for its length). Tchaikovsky writes:

"I disagree with you absolutely that music cannot fully express the feelings of love. On the contrary--only music can do so. You say that words are needed. No, words alone are not enough, and where they are powerless, comes full-armed a more eloquent language--music. That form of expressing love to which the poets have recourse, is a usurpation of a function belonging wholly to music. Words in the form of poetry cease to be simply words: they become music. The best proof that the poetry tries to express love is more music than words...is that when such poetry is read attentively as words and not music, the words have almost no meaning. Yet in reality they possess not only meaning but deep thought--not literary but purely musical."

Interesting.

Unfortunately, I must report that the Symphonia's sold-out performance was horrible, unprofessional, and riddled with mistakes.

At one point, my love leaned over and compared the event to an episode of the Lawrence Welk Show. Let me assure you, magic bubbles and a one-legged, tap dancing accordion player couldn't have salvaged that debacle.

Still, Williamsburg continues to bustle with Christmas-time cheer. Colonial-attired musicians roam the streets, entertaining locals and vacationers with traditional favorites. Drivers jockey for parking spots. Shoppers rush home with their treasures, and dogs eye tiny fists full of sticky, half-eaten candy canes.

As for me, I believe it's time to lace up my walking shoes, bite the roof off a gingerbread house, and launch a search for a much-needed fairy tale book.

"Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night."

"Who Killed John Galt?" (Rand)

In Williamsburg, eccentrics are a dime a dozen. Just when I think I've made the hallowed list of neighborhood "characters," someone comes along and rains on my parade.

Case in point, a Port Anne Walking Club member, who last week pounded the pavements while wearing a huge, feathered headdress. Since Thanksgiving is over, she's returned to her everyday set of silver alien antennas.

DoG St. is also daily entertained by the musical stylings of a twentyish Russian lad who strolls along accompanying his MP3 Player with tone deaf Slavic zeal.

The real Williamsburg question is "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?"

In 1770, one of our downtown's most prominent sights was the Eastern Lunatic Asylum (America's first public hospital for the mentally ill). From 1841-62, the extremely progressive Dr. John Minson Galt, II (no relation, in case you're wondering, to the fictional John Galt found in Atlas Shrugged), headed the institution.

Although Dr. Galt held sexist ideas common during his day regarding the treatment of women, his colleagues considered him avant-garde because he chose to integrate African American and white male patients, and because he encouraged healthier men to mingle with polite society, and to stroll the city streets.

I can't think of another colonial-era town that would've freely associated with members of a psychiatric hospital without making a fuss, but apparently, this was the case.

Is modern Williamsburg open-minded and quick to embrace eccentrics because of Dr. Galt's work, and due to townspeople's healing dealings with the mentally ill, or was Colonial Williamsburg already open-minded, thus allowing Dr. Galt's "moral management" theories to be implemented? One wonders.

Unfortunately, speaking of treatments, I find myself once again in the cold, clinical clutches of "Dr. Seismic."

A routine EKG revealed tremors along my fault line, thus precipitating the need for a 24 hour charting. The lengthy test was accomplished by taping electrodes to my chest, and miles of tubing to my torso (a one-size-fits-all deal not friendly to the small or exceedingly hairy). The electrodes, quivering with important information, transmitted their data to a blackberry-like device attached to my clothing. Trust me, I attended to no banking, nor did I step into any airport, since I looked like a bomb-wielding maniac.

I've yet to receive any report regarding my test, although someone else may know what's afoot: "Dr. Seismic's" receptionist reported my last results to a wrong number's answering machine.

Not to be outdone by her staff's professionalism, "Dr. Seismic" handed me my initial EKG printout as she exited the exam room, and in her warm, monosyllable tone, encouraged me to get "Petunia" to make me a copy of the chart.

Surprised, I asked why, and with a flap of her lab coat, the harried, frosty physician (more rushed than Santa on Christmas Eve) said "People like to carry their EKGs around with them, everywhere they go."

They do?

This news caused me to experience the writerly, out of body scene, wherein I saw myself lying spread-eagle on DoG St., in my running gear, while well-meaning alien-antenna-wearing walkers stomped my EKG to shreds as they tried to render me assistance before professional EMT, wise to the knowledge that people are walking around with EKGs in their socks (my sweatpants are pocketless), could retrieve the vital information, decipher it, and declare, "Hoooeee! Your old ticker was a tockin' and a rockin' couple weeks ago, wadn't it? Did ya eat lunch at Pierce's BBQ? Kin ya fart for muh?"

One action I will take to maintain good health will be to avoid any future concerts featuring the sackbut, an historical instrument more torturous than being drawn and quartered.

We encountered the instrument during a candlelight concert--Music by and for Thomas Tallis (1505-85)--given by Wm. & Mary's Early Music Ensemble, in honor of Tallis's birthday.

The lutes, harpsichord, recorders, Renaissance flutes, cornettis, viols, and Botetourt Chamber vocals were beautiful, but were overshadowed by the string orchestra's dominance during the program's second half. Joanna's violin solo during one of my favorite pieces, Vaughan Williams's Fantasia on a Theme of Thomas Tallis, elicited a glowing Gazette review.

The sold-out show was part of Bruton's weekly Candlelight Concert Series, that draws locals and tourists to the historic district for evening entertainment.

Speaking of the historic district, CW Foundation announced that they'll be restricting non ticket-holder access to part of DoG St. for a limited number of hours, daily. Everyone knows that their grand plan is to close the entire area to anyone devoid of a pass, thus weeding out immigrants, minorities, the finacially disadvantaged, students, dog walkers, joggers, pram-pushing mothers, snotty-nosed tots and, if possible, stray cats.

Because, you see, certain CW Foundation executives want to turn Williamsburg into a spa/resort destination for wealthy, massage-addicted golfers. Visitors who do not want to have their construction of reality challenged by denim-wearing "Goobers."

Has CW Foundation not heard of the already established Greenbrier Hotel and Resort? Let them chopper into WV, I say.

The Greenbrier has its historic doomsday shelter. Let the affluent stuff themselves below ground with a few martinis while the Greenbrier staff assures Biff and Honoria that in case of disaster, they've a safe haven where they can continue their good breeding, and (to quote Hyacinth Bucket), since there's probably "room enough for a pony," their love of the equestrian life.

I don't know about you, but when I visit museum-heavy places, I always feel like something's missing. "I desire a rollicking good colon cleanse!" I think to myself, "Followed by 18 holes of golf, a massage, and a quick splurge at Williams & Sonoma."

If the folks who manage Egypt's pyramids really want to attract me back for a second visit, they'll construct a Restoration Hardware in case I feel the need to purchase some upscale ratchety--might want to start my own dig.

In response to CW's announcement, the Last Word is full of the sort of angry revolt not uncommon in the former colonial capital.

Money, money, money--more specifically, the lack of it--is always the official reason given for CW's actions.

My forward thinking spouse came up with a fantastic financial idea that could keep the historic district afloat:

"Many celebrities, like Madonna, pay top dollar for Kabala water. Why don't we sell Colonial water?"

"Hmmm..."

"Okay, maybe George Washington and his wooden teeth are not quite as sexy or trendy as Madonna."

"True, but if our town characters find your product refreshing, you'll have an insanely loyal, not to mention large, clientele."

Tony Perrottet's amusing book, Route 66 On The Trail of Ancient Roman Tourists, contains an introduction that aptly describes Williamsburg:

"'Don't you swelter all day in the sun? Aren't you all jammed in with the crowds? Isn't it hard to get a bath? Aren't you soaked to the bone whenever it rains? Don't the din and the shouting and the other petty annoyances drive you completely mad? But of course you put up with it all because it's an unforgettable spectacle. (Epictetus, describing travel to Olympia).'"

Huzzah!