Amtrak's Fredericksburg Problem

Armchair Adventures

for June 24, 2012

by Paul Sullivan

Wrong Track with Amtrak

            We all have a tendency to think common sense will prevail; to believe that

things obviously wrong will be righted. But when they endure over years, causing serious problems or at the very least a major inconvenience to many, we think that some mysterious "someone" will do something about them.

            If you travel by Amtrak from Fredericksburg to anyplace else, you will have encountered what I am about to write about. If neither you nor anyone you know ever rides the rails on Amtrak to parts beyond, well, forget about this. Move on to other things.

            Several weeks ago I took my son to Fredericksburg's venerable passenger station to catch a southbound train. It was a Sunday morning. As the time for the scheduled 8:50 a.m. train neared, a familiar guessing game gradually spread through the crowd.

            There were several dozen travelers and wishers-well scattered beside the tracks, bags in hand, awaiting what I soon learned were both southbound and northbound trains.

            As if it were not weird enough that the two tracks are numbered 2 and 3, (rather than 1 and 2), nobody seemed to know which train would arrive on which  track.

            Some more assertive folks assured others that the southbound would be on the side nearest downtown, while northbound would be on the opposite side.

            I asked the gentleman who had said this how he had made that determination. "Well, he said, trains keep to the right like cars do on the road." He hesitated. "I guess," he added.

            Not wanting to sound like a know-it-all, or a railroad oracle, I said, no, that isn't right. Trains, I told him, follow no such rule and I had many times caught northbound trains on either of the two tracks. "I suspect," I told him," that rail traffic managers route the trains according to other trains using those same tracks, in order to maintain separation for safety's sake.

            An older woman arrived with big bags. A younger woman with her said the elderly lady had missed the train the previous day because they had been on the wrong side when the train arrived. "And it didn't wait," she said.

            When the train pulls into the station and you find yourself on the wrong side, you must grab luggage and run as fast as you can, frantically hoping to go down the long angled walkway to a center aisle beneath the tracks, cross over to the other side, then lug your bags back up, huffing and puffing, and hope the conductor has seen you and will signal the engineer to wait for you.

            "I just can not believe that in the 21st century," a young man indignantly announced, "that Amtrak inflicts this upon its paying passengers and cannot do better."

            Couldn't have said it better myself.

            Virginia Railway Express does. This little commuter line has an LED light panel providing train information.

            Often, travelers think that surely they can get this basic information calling Amtrak's toll-free number. Been there; tried that. What you get, calling in, is operators who can tell if your train will be late, but their computer screens to not provide the arrival track.

            Or, you might get the Amtrak app for your phone. I have it. Doesn't help.

            Aha, you might say, but they do make an announcement.

            And yes, you would be right, sort of. Sometimes they make an announcement on the track number; sometimes it is not garbled and you can figure out what they have said, and sometimes it is even far enough ahead of arrival that you have time to switch sides…so to speak.

            The Fredericksburg area, a serious tourist town attracting visitors from across the country and around the world (yes, it is true), has had passenger rail service since before the Civil War-a conflict in which, ironically, railroads played a major role.

            I travel through this historic station a couple of dozen times a year. A retired reporter, I naturally strike up conversations with others awaiting trains every time I visit the station and put up with this ridiculous situation.

            What amazes me is that it has gone on so long. And that solving this problem would be so simple and would cost no more than the price of a simple LED light panel.

            Passengers having to play guessing games with train arrivals in the year 2012, (I've always wanted to write this) is just no way to run a railroad.

           

Richmond's Colorful Ginter Garden

Butterfly colors play off against brilliant blooms.

Armchair

Adventures

for June 17, 2012

by Paul Sullivan

New To Do at Ginter Garden in Richmond

           

            One of these days I may have to get a membership in the Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden in Richmond. I mean, it's just that good, and there is always something new.

            Over the years, I've written about the Garden a number of times, as long-time readers may recall.

            The gardens (it really needs an 's' as there are many distinct ones within) happened to be the place that my friend CG set to meet with Nancy Hugo about her new book, "Seeing Trees-Discover the Extraordinary Secrets of Everyday Trees."

            Over lunch at the Tea House we talked with Hugo about her book (and everything else under the sun). This isn't a restaurant review, but for credit-where-it's-due's sake, the food was exceptional.

            Hugo had to dash off after lunch, leaving my friend and me to explore the gardens on our own. In one of her many earlier lives, she had been education director there, so she knows a lot about the 42-acre property on Richmond's north side.

            At the north end of scenic Sydnor Lake, we found artist Patrick Dougherty's incredible "Diamonds in the Rough," a sculpture that has transformed countless tree saplings and sticks into a fantasy castle. At least that's my take on it.

            Setting aside the remarkable details of how Doughtery crafted his unusual structure, the end creation is something to stare and wonder at. But don't just wonder at the way it looks. Walk right up to this sculpture; walk on into it. Walk from room-to-room; peek out and through and around it. Don't forget to peer straight up at the sky through the dozens of interwoven pieces.

            Let imagination be your guide. And if possible, check it out when you are by yourself; no one else around. Nighttime, when the moon is low, would be ideal, but unfortunately the grounds are closed then, except Thursdays in summer months. Check the website for details on this.

            Ever thought that right-brain, left-brain stuff was hooey? Really? Do as I say, reach back to find that inner 5-year-old, and try for a glimpse into the mind of someone who held onto that view into adulthood. It's a real trick. But be warned: if you aren't used to doing this, it could be frightening. The human mind-unleashed-is far and away the most potent narcotic of all.

            Details about the construction are provided on nearby panels. Dougherty, internationally renwoned for his tree sculptures, has built something at Ginter Garden that any child could understand and appreciate. Adults, notably less imaginative, may have to work at it a bit more. And that is not a criticism-not of kids,' anyway.

            It was a warm afternoon that day at Ginter Garden. There were a fair number of visitors, for a Monday. In the lobby at the entrance there was a handbill for Butterflies Live, an exhibit in the north wing of the Garden's Conservatory.

            I had to see it. But before you grab that camera and head for the butterflies, I'd best offer a few tips. First, these are free-flying, exotic creatures. Entrance is through an air-lock room where non-essential items must be left. The butterflies are more active at certain times than others. It is quite possible to accidentally stomp on one or-on the other hand-to unknowingly let one piggyback out the door on your way out.

            It's steamy within the butterfly conservatory-purposely so, for these tropical creatures. They may be anywhere in the large enclosure, not just at eye level waiting for you to see and photograph them. Look around. Be patient. Remember that five-year-old I mentioned? Bring him or her along-the real one or the one buried deep within.

            Oh, and not to fret if you can't immediately identify a particular butterfly. There are IDs for each variety on the Garden website, lewisginter.org.

           

           

           

           

           

Trees: A Closer Look

Nancy Hugo at Richmond's Ginter Garden

Armchair Adventures

for June 10, 2012

by Paul Sullivan

Tree Secrets

            There seem to be two sorts of people who love nature. I call them the listers and the learners.

            Nancy Hugo graduated long ago from being a lister-checking off this kind of tree and that. The author and outdoor educator turned her love for trees into a passion to show others what a world of wonder grows in every single one of them.

            Hugo and photographer Robert Llewellyn have doubled down from their beautiful book, "Remarkable Trees of Virginia," which she co-authored with Jeff Kirwan, to produce "Seeing Trees: Discover the Extraordinary Secrets of Everyday Trees."

            I met Hugo this week at-appropriately enough-Lewis Ginter Botanical Garden in Richmond. Her knowledge and love of trees and of the broader natural world is contagious.

            Whether it is trees, birds, wildflowers, reptiles or mammals, geology or any of a dozen or more popular natural realms that attracts us, curiosity eventually leads many of us beyond mere taxonomy-the naming of species or types seen. We simply want to learn more about what we are looking at.

            And as she so convincingly shows, the deeper we look into the world of these outsize plants called trees, the more we see.

            And so it was with Nancy Ross Hugo, a Richmond native who divides her time between Ashland and Buckingham County-the latter where she and husband John operate a nature education program and retreat center.

            In "Seeing Trees," she not only describes what to look for upon closer examination, but all about the intricate elements that allow trees to grow, reproduce, survive assorted trials and the stages of life that they pass through. It is an incredible story, differing for each species.

            The core of this story is the detailed look that she and Llewellyn take of 10 trees, nine of them well-known to any outdoor Virginian, and one introduced variety, the wonderfully strange Ginkgo.

            I perused these probing accounts of the inner lives of the American Beech, American Sycamore, Black Walnut, Eastern Red Cedar, Red Maple, Southern Magnolia, Tulip Poplar, White Oak and White Pine and the gingko, continually amazed that there could be so much to discover about each.

            Everyone has a favorite tree, I suppose. I have two, actually, the American Elm and the beech. At one point I had a single example of each in my tree-covered yard-at least until Dutch Elm disease took my beloved elm.

            My beech remains, though, and after rediscovering its inner beauties, thanks to Hugo and Llewellyn, I will revisit it for a closer look. I had no idea, for instance, that this tree produces a delicate seedling with two tiny fan-shaped leaves; that I will have to search closely for them in the woods at just about this time of year. It will be done-this day.

            I cannot lay claim to a black walnut, unfortunately, but this handsome tree and its appetizing nuts have always fascinated. I know where there is a grand old walnut, and each fall when the thick-hulled nuts fall, I grab a few handfuls to take home. According to Hugo, most commercial walnuts are collected from wild trees, chiefly from Missouri. And I won't give it away, but if you're wondering, she gives some pretty good clues how to get at that nut, which nature has gone overboard to protect.

            Despite her voluminous store of the lore of trees, Hugo insists she is not a tree scientist. She sees herself, instead, as a translator, in that world between science and the curious layman, bridging the gap from the former to the latter.

            With the crucial assistance of the most beautiful and instructive photos of the inner workings of trees that I have ever laid eyes on, she has done a masterful job in, "Seeing Trees."

            Spend a few hours in this book and you will never again view a tree in quite the same way.

             

           

           

Kids' Books Have Changed

Birds haven't changed; people have. 

Armchair Adventures

for June 3, 2012

by Paul Sullivan

 

Old Book Opens Window to a Past Long Gone

            I closed my laptop and struggled to tie together what I had seen.

            The last thing on the screen had been a satellite view of St. Petersburg, Fla., where Edna H. Evans had been a newspaper reporter, before World War II.

            At the time her first book rolled off the presses, March, 1940, she would not have recognized my view of that city.

            It was a boys' book, beautifully illustrated with her husband, Bill's photographs. She was a reporter for the St. Petersburg Times; he took pictures for the paper.

            Her story was a fictionalized account based on Bill's summer trips to Florida as a boy. An ornithologist rents the house next door; the elder mentors the junior as they work together on field research of Gulf Coast Florida's teeming birdlife.

            Not only did the couple share an interest in their journalism, but also in birds, which they had studied extensively along Gulf Coast and island keys.

            Last week, when I wrote this column about bird banding, I had mentioned my own early interest in birds and how it had been stoked by Edna Evans' book, "Bill and the Bird Bander."

            As much as it meant to me when I had read it-probably about age 6-8, this was not classic childrens' fare, destined to last for generations. (Although I've been surprised to see there are plenty of copies for sale online.)

            I was sure that my own copy of the book, which helped spark a lifelong interest in birds (together with my mother's keen interest in all things natural) had long since disappeared, in the 72 years' since it came out, and I wrote as much last week.

            But I had a shock in store the day after I turned in last week's column. Imagine the surprise when my son, Patrick, called to say he had found that old volume, and that it was in pretty good condition!

            (To understand this, you have to know that in our family, books are a passion. We never throw away books, storing them, instead, in places where we never more will find them and they might as well have been thrown away. But once in awhile, mind you, one of these old books returns from the shadowy cubbyholes of our past.)

            I sat down to reacquaint myself with Edna Evans book, the first of at least four she apparently wrote, by the way.

            It was, and yet was not the same as I remembered it. Remember, she did her research and wrote that book in the 1930s. Not only was it during the Great Depression, it was long before a number of major cultural earthquakes shook this country.

            Birds, and the study of them, were the subject of Edna Evans first book, but, I found that the basics of bird banding have not changed as much as I would have thought. Sure, computers have replaced 3x5 file cards and other technologies have made the work faster and easier, but the primary tasks are pretty much the same.

            The big surprise was cultural. Casually, without realizing it, Evans makes references to black people that are quite racist-no other word for it. When she mentions a black man helping the Bill's ornithologist-mentor, for instance, his reply is quoted in dialect.

            This kind of thing just doesn't go in books anymore, thank goodness, especially not in a book from a major publishing house.

            There wasn't much material like that in "Bill and the Bird Bander," but it was there, and it stopped me in its tracks.

            As my own, Buena Vista, Virginia, born mom, speaking of race relations in her childhood, told me in the 1970s: "We didn't know any better. It was the way we were raised. And it was wrong."