Happy Fourth of July 2003!

 

 

 

 

 

 

David developed a new candy bar addiction last week, so on the way to return a video I stopped at the corner store to get him a fix.  

Oh, all right.  I confess, I got one for me, too — Nestle’s Crunch with Caramel.  Don’t try one.  

Most of the convenience stores in rural Powhatan County are owned by people who “ain’t from around here”.  You know that the minute you walk in. You get hit with a whiff of something that takes you right back into a college dorm, circa 1970.  

Incense. Maybe it has some kind of subliminal power to make you spend more money.  I took a deep breath, grabbed the candy and turned around to the counter to pay for the drugs – uh, chocolate.

Two young Indian guys leaned over a foreign-language newspaper spread out on the countertop.  A regular customer peered at the paper from his side of the bar, and the three discussed an article.  The customer, Mr. Fleming Scruggs, is a fixture around Powhatan.  When I taught at PMS (not what you think — that’s the middle school around here), the big-hearted, burly custodian moved risers, set the stage, stacked and unstacked chairs, moved and re-moved all my Orff instruments, and kindly helped me and all my musical paraphernalia into and out of the building when my feet still screamed after surgery.  He was good to me, and I’m always glad to see him.

The young man behind the counter was proud of what he was reading.

“This newspaper is all about American history.  The whole thing.  All of it from the beginning.  In our language.” 

I couldn’t read a word, but mug shots of the presidents filled a whole page, from G Dubya to G Dubya Bush.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that one skinny little paper couldn’t possibly tell it all. 

Well, not being one to ever pass up an opportunity to get vocal, y’all know what happened next. 

I sang. 

The presidents.  All of them.  In order.  To the tune of “Ten Little Indians” which I guess is politically incorrect these days, but it works great for the presidents.  The last verse has gotten kind of crowded — used to be just “Ford and Carter and Reagan” and now you gotta slip in some sixteenth notes for “Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush, Clinton and Bush.” 

The guys grabbed the paper and pointed to each name as I got to it, checking me for accuracy.  To be honest, I was sweatin’ a little in the middle when it came to Garfield, Arthur, Cleveland, Harrison.  I always want to stick Madison in there.  (He’d have liked being an anachronism, don’t you think?) 

Don’t be impressed.  I can only do this to music — same thing with the states and the capitals.  Take the tune away, and chronology goes out the window.  Try as I might, I’ll never match the record of little Johnny Richardson, who in third grade at Lansdowne School put us all to shame by reciting the presidents, backwards AND forwards, WITHOUT music.  Course, there weren’t as many back then.  Kennedy had just been elected. 

The guys behind the counter offered me a challenge.

“You come back NEXT Fourth of July — and WE will say all the presidents to YOU!” 

Now there’s a deal.  Who knows what yet-to-be-concocted candy creations will entice me into Incense Land twelve months from now?

We talked about American history.  They were PROUD to be learning about our country. I felt embarrassed to have considered them foreigners.  And Mr. Scruggs reminded me of his own family pride — the first film of an African-American playing the banjo was made right here in Powhatan, in the 1930’s — the banjo-picker was Fleming Scruggs’ grandfather.  My middle son, Bryan, watched the film in a history class at Mary Washington College, where he majored in historic preservation.

Powhatan County, Virginia. My maternal and paternal ancestors lived here before 1700. Thomas Jefferson once owned the land we live on.  And today, folks from far and near enjoy the blessings of life, liberty and all things chocolate, from Cumberland to Chesterfield, Goochland to Amelia.  A nice place to pursue happiness!

God Bless America. Happy Fourth.