|12-23-2012, 12:00 PM||#11|
Joined: Jul 2007
We set sail to Scotland Neck, crossing the historic James in a thin cold mist, sun higher, something to squawk about regardless.
My photo quest took me along the rail, thankfully both sides, and I encountered a thirtyish woman standing near her SLK350, halfway through an early morning cig, didn’t want the smoke in her car, or maybe on her clothes either. I don’t think smoking is permitted, but nobody was rushing over to throw the cuffs on her. Speaking of smoking, five inch heels on short black suede boots, fitted black skinny leg slacks, red blazer with gold crest, and where you might expect something like a nice silk blouse, wasn’t none, just the very top edge of some lacy black thing, hate to speculate. If she thought the buttoned blazer might tone down the impact, it wasn’t workin’, I already had a crick in my neck by the time I was close enough to say hello. She was slim, but not where it counted.
Blond hair pulled back guitar string tight to a gold pinned bun, minimal makeup, the statement clear, “This is who I am, take it or leave it”, and when I said hello, I wasn’t surprised by the eye contact, it was part of the package. A brief conversation, sunrise, weather, destination, and she was one of those people who can smile widely and carry on a conversation at the same time, try it, ain’t easy, takes practice.
I’m not all that easily embarrassed, so I popped the question.
“I’m looking for a place that sells fried pie, do ya know any?”
That brought out a shriek of laughter, and a head shake “Nooooo, I don’t know of any fried pie places, never heard of fried pie either.”
Damn, I felt bad about the fried pie quest, but good about my status in this world of gamesmanship, heck, I was one up on this sweet thing, at least I’d heard of it. She was feelin’ the chill, could have something to do with having near nothing on under the blazer, and jumped back in the Mercedes. Oh well, that perfume was starting to jump over to my riding jacket anyway, take a hundred miles or more to get rid of it, but the last molecule better be gone by the time I get home.
Like all the Virginia rivers, the James has over 400 years of modern history, and this morning the river was about as flat as you’re ever going to find it.
Navigation aids and the Southside riverbank nearly lost in the mist.
The ferry had just about docked when a young unwashed guy ran over to one of the cars in front of me and jumped in. He must have made the whole trip locked in the restroom, any thoughts of going in there, don’t. His ball hat read “Take this job and shove it”, hadn’t seen one of those for a long long time, fit him perfectly.
(to be continued…)
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