Since childhood, I’ve been fascinated with the idea of shooting skeet. I must’ve seen it in a Bugs Bunny cartoon or something. My father liked hunting, and to varying degrees, family members enjoyed the venison from his efforts. I grew up around guns and, therefore, grew up with a healthy respect for them.
During grad school, I frequented a gun range, learning to fire just about everything it had. The unfortunate context for my interest at that time was that someone in my life had made threats with a firearm, and my thinking was that if I had to take a gun away from someone, I’d better know how to use it. What I didn’t expect was how much I enjoyed learning about the different weapons and firing them under safe conditions at a gun range using paper targets.
With stationary targets, I’m a decent shot. Still, I longed to try something like skeet, with moving targets. After not shooting for 20 years, I decided to cross skeet off the ol’ bucket list. I called Central Virginia Sporting Clays, and my education began. There are several popular shotgun sports: trap, skeet, and sporting clays. The main difference is how the clays move. With sporting clays, they can go in any direction. I scheduled a group lesson and donned my Elmer Fudd hat.
What
Shooting sporting clays.
Why
Because I’ve always wanted to yell “Pull!” and shoot a moving inanimate target.
How it went
Many clays exploded that day.
From Charlottesville, it’s a bit of a trek to get to Central Virginia Sporting Clays in Palmyra, but IMO it’s well worth the effort. The CVSC site says map apps may not get you there, but friends joining me used their apps with no problem.
Upon arrival, we met up with our instructor who grabbed shotguns before we headed to the five-stand area. Our knowledgeable teacher explained how sporting clay shooting works, shared safety information, and distributed hearing and eye protection. The most Yoda thing he conveyed to us was that shooting sporting clays is more about relying on one’s intuition than aiming.
My friends encouraged me to go first, because they’re kind and I coordinated the outing—but probably more so because the older I get, the less I care about embarrassing myself. The five-stand area has—as you might assume—five wooden shooting stands in a row. After sidling up to a stand, the instructor demonstrated how to load the shotgun properly and coached me on my form. A remote control launched targets from clay throwers in different positions around a clearing in front of the stands. Some clays launched toward the stands while others moved away. Some crossed from the sides, and one thrower skipped clays across the ground to mimic landbound animals (sorry, bunnies!).
My goal was to hit one clay. If I did that, mission accomplished—everything else was gravy. The first clay launched, and I clipped it. I hit three out of four clays in my first round and felt like the queen of the world. But I had just been hitting the edge of clays, making small bits pop off, and I wanted to make a target explode. The instructor repeated the initial training process with each of us, adjusting for our different dominant eyes, body types, stances, and firing quirks. After he finished, we were all breaking clays. I learned that I really enjoy shooting clays—at least trying to—and that I have a proclivity to double tap. Sometimes crossing something off your bucket list results in a new hobby. I know I’ll be back.
Colby’s Crew started with one horse and one decision from the heart.
Colby, a 4-year-old chestnut stallion with white markings, had run out of options. Allison (Ally) Smith, an experienced equestrian studying nursing and training horses on the side, saw an online post about him: “Bound for slaughter. Needs experienced handler.”
“He was flashy and beautiful, and they were only asking $875,” Ally recalls. She bought him, sight unseen.
Ally’s wife Olivia, who is active on social media, posted a video on Facebook of Colby in the kill pen (where animals are held before being shipped to slaughter). “This was July 2020, the middle of the pandemic, when TikTok was just taking off,” she says, “and the video blew up.”
Thirty days later, the shipper arrived at Ally’s family’s Warrenton farm with Colby. The horse was spirited, she had been told; in reality, he was almost feral. The truck driver was afraid to go into the van, so Ally walked in with a lead rope and brought Colby out. “The shipper’s mouth dropped open,” Olivia recalls. “Ally was yelling at her father, ‘Close the gate! Close the gate!’ because she knew if Colby got loose in the field we’d never catch him.”
That’s when Ally turned to Olivia and said, “I’m going to ride him.”
Ally went out to the paddock 10 times a day, working to build Colby’s trust. He was in poor condition and had clearly been mistreated, kicking and biting at any touch. But Ally’s patience and calm won out, as she and Colby developed a deep bond. Within a month he was letting her ride him. Olivia filmed and posted the whole process, and created an internet phenom. By early 2021, Ally and Olivia decided to take on another rescue; then came two more. And then they met Big John.
“We went to an auction in West Virginia one weekend in April 2021,” Ally recalls. “We were just going to look, strolling around, and I went by this stall and said, ‘Oh my God!’ I hadn’t been around draft horses before—this guy didn’t even fit in the stall.” She ran to get her wife, and when they came back a girl was riding Big John around.
“I looked up, and up, and up,” Olivia says. (Big John is a Belgian, the second-largest draft breed, and he’s 20 hands—which is 6’8″ at the shoulder.) “He was so lame, and he was exhausted. His feet were in terrible shape, he had scars, he had sores, but he was trying to do whatever was asked of him.”
This time it was Olivia who said, “I’m going to buy that horse.”
She started posting Big John videos and pleas for donations, and her online followers responded: “We had $5,000 pledged in 15 minutes.” Fortunately, their trailer was large enough for Big John (“I was scared at first, but he was so gentle,” says Ally), and a neighbor had a field available for his quarantine. When he was released into the field, the giant Belgian who had been worked almost to death took a long roll and then a good look around. “Then he kind of collapsed,” recalls Olivia. “He had been drugged to get him through the auction.”
That was when the pair decided they wanted to save horses that had reached the bottom.
“We hadn’t started out thinking of this as a career,” Olivia says. “But the internet was pushing us along, saying, ‘You need to start a 501(c)(3).’” Colby’s Crew Rescue was founded in 2021, and in 2022 the couple moved to Keswick to build the organization, while Ally continues her graduate nursing studies at UVA. This year CCR saved more than 600 animals, buying them before slaughter or through owner surrenders.
The two women began going to kill pens as well. They never knew what they would find there. They once discovered 13 Belgians waiting to be shipped. (Draft horses bring a good price when you’re selling meat by the pound.)
Olivia had had it. “I said, ‘We’re buying all of them.’ I went online and stayed online until we had raised enough to pay for the first four to six months of care for every one of those horses.”
That has become CCR’s methodology. Getting a rescue horse from purchase through quarantine, vet evaluation and routine treatment, rehabilitation, and training costs on average $4,500; CCR’s online ask is calculated to cover both the animal’s purchase price and its maintenance cost through adoption. Clearly, that figure can increase substantially if the animal has serious injuries or illness, is pregnant, or needs extensive training, so CCR also charges an adoption fee. Still, some animals are just not suitable for adoption, and at any one time, CCR has about 50 animals in sanctuary farms, whether for hospice or retirement. And then there are the 10 or so equines that will stay at CCR as “organization ambassadors”—like Colby and Big John.
Equine rescue, while heartwarming, takes an enormous amount of labor and expert help. CCR works closely with vets at Virginia Tech’s Marion duPont Scott Equine Medical Center in Leesburg, Virginia, and the University of Pennsylvania’s New Bolton Center. (One of the largest kill pens is in New Holland, Pennsylvania, close to Lancaster and Amish country, where a large percentage of the rescue animals come.)
CCR arranges for a vet to be on site to triage animals as soon as they are purchased. Unless they need emergency care, the animals are sent to one of five quarantine farms CCR contracts with for 60 to 90 days of quarantine and further evaluation. If humane euthanasia is necessary, it’s done by a licensed vet.
Every animal gets a vet check weekly (more often if needed); a farrier visit every six weeks for hoof care; and a full wellness check including grooming and lots of love every day. Once it’s fit, the animal is brought to the Keswick facility to be evaluated by Ally and Olivia, who assign the horses to one of CCR’s network of trainers for at least 30 days of training to get them ready for adoption.
Every CCR adopter gets vetted, including home photos and veterinarian references. The adoption contract is strict. Every animal has been microchipped, and will be tracked by CCR; monthly photo updates are required; the adopter has to keep CCR informed of any sale or transfer; and there’s a $10,000 penalty for breaking the contract. For its part, CCR will take back any animal for any reason, and if that animal requires surgery or humane euthanasia, CCR will help cover the cost.
Ally’s equine expertise and ability to bond with weary, sick, and traumatized animals is at the heart of Colby’s Crew, while Olivia’s impressive social media skills and ability to capture the pathos and triumphs of its work have made CCR famous. The Crew has almost 4 million followers on Facebook, TikTok, and Instagram who donate, share, and devotedly follow the rescued horses. “We raise all our money online, through donations—we don’t do solicitations, we don’t have corporate sponsors,” says Olivia. “Ninety-five percent of the money we take in goes back into buying and caring for our rescues.”
CCR gets some online criticism claiming it is supporting kill pens by buying from them, but the couple doesn’t see it that way. They see their job as saving sentient beings that deserve better than a truck ride to a cruel death. Eliminating the slaughter pipeline will likely take public pressure and political action; last year, the U.S. House of Representatives considered a bill to ban equine slaughter or export for human consumption, and this year animal advocates in Canada are pushing for a ban on the export of live horses for food.
Animal-lovers, of course, know that CCR’s equines are actually rescued. Online scammers post kill-pen photos with pleas for donations to “save this animal” when the horse has already been sold, or killed, or never existed.
Happily, in the last few years CCR has built an enormous community that is invested in Colby, Big John, and all their equine friends. Sure, these fans respond to calls for money—but they also clamor for updates on Sterling, a young mare facing severe medical issues; on Dudley, the newborn donkey who needed emergency care for deformed legs; and Onyx, the big black draft mule whose brother Obsidian was rescued as well. Visitors and adopters who come to the Keswick farm ask to say hello to Big John and his understudy, Big Sam, who is only 18 hands (6′ tall). And they are excited to see each and every animal that will be rescued next.
… It takes a village
Perhaps this area’s best-known equine rescue is Hope’s Legacy, also named for a special horse. “Hope was an off-the-track thoroughbred,” says Maya Proulx, Hope’s Legacy executive director. “She’d been off the track only six months, and I was her fifth owner. She was one of the sweetest mares I ever met.” The organization’s name honors Hope and all the horses that might easily have been written off.
A Nelson County native and lifelong horse person, Proulx founded Hope’s Legacy as a 501(c)(3) nonprofit in 2008. All its rescue animals have been donated. About half are “owner surrenders,” animals at risk of being auctioned off when their owners die, or face serious illness or financial setbacks, while the rest have been seized by law enforcement in cases of neglect or abuse.
“Most animal control offices don’t have facilities for large animals,” Proulx says, “so if there are horses involved, they have to scramble. I wanted to serve as a resource for them.” Hope’s Legacy has taken in neglected animals from the 2015 Peaceable Farm raid in Orange County; a 2016 Nottoway County seizure that included pregnant mares; and a 2023 Shenandoah County case involving 98 neglected thoroughbreds.
The organization also runs twice-yearly training sessions that are open to animal control officers from all over the state. “Virginia has no requirement for equine training for these people, and many don’t know anything about handling horses,” says Proulx.
At the moment, Hope’s Legacy has 74 horses in rescue—35 living on its 172-acre primary farm in Afton, and the rest in foster homes. Proulx credits the organization’s network of vets, fosterers, and trainers, as well as “120 incredibly dedicated volunteers” who do everything from feeding (two shifts every day) and barn care, to working with the horses on being haltered, led, and handled. One of the feeding shift volunteers has fundraising experience, and now works full-time raising money for Hope’s Legacy and its equines.
Hope’s Legacy runs a variety of activities to build community awareness and generate donations, as well as educational programs for kids (including the popular Books at the Barn). “Part of our mission is to end neglect and abuse,” says Proulx, “and that starts with education.”
A few years ago, Abhishek Kulkarni was just a guy getting a business degree who dabbled in comedy. Now, he’s a local open mic mainstay who’s learned to work a crowd.
“Initially, I was writing a lot of new content for the U.S. audience, so I would go like three weeks of telling the same jokes with subtle variation,” Kulkarni says. “Then I got a handle on what they like … and I started riffing on stage.”
Kulkarni, who’s working on a PhD in business ethics and strategy at UVA’s Darden School of Business, started doing stand-up when he was studying in the U.K. He signed up for a random talent show, told a few jokes, and caught people’s attention. He stuck with it and, when he moved back to Mumbai, fell in with a comedy troupe with a large internet following.
Mumbai had just opened its own outpost of the legendary Comedy Store at the time. When five performers approached Kulkarni about joining them in SNG Comedy, he jumped at the opportunity. The experience gave him exposure to multiple formats: podcasts, improv, skits, and stand-up. Kulkarni traveled around India, opened for the more seasoned SNG funnymen, and studied comedy writing.
“Initially, it was very much about getting the joke right,” Kulkarni says. “Usually, when the comedian first writes a joke, it’s not funny.”
Since the early days, Kulkarni’s evolved as a comedy student, dissecting setups and punchlines like business researchers dissect regressions and spreadsheets. It’s no wonder that in 2023 he decided to build on his MBA and find a PhD program where he could dig deep into ethics and strategy research.
What brought him to Darden’s newly relaunched program is laughable. He knew he needed experience to get into a top-flight U.S. university, so he signed on as a research associate at the Indian School of Business. One day he was sitting alone reading Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. A professor walked by and struck up a conversation. The two shared an interest in stoic philosophy and the discussion came around to Kulkarni’s pursuit of a doctorate. The professor told him about Darden restarting its PhD track, and Kulkarni looked into it. The program offered him a chance to pursue all his interests—strategy, ethics, and entrepreneurship—and moved quickly to the top of his list. He applied and was accepted.
“After I got the admissions letter and had the offer in hand, I went to search for this professor,” Kulkarni says. “I could not find this man. I described him to people; I went to the admissions office and told them what he looked like. They said, ‘There is no such person.’”
Since coming to Charlottesville, Kulkarni has scarcely missed a Monday open mic at The Southern Café and Music Hall. He still gets easy laughs for his faux naiveté as an Indian in the United States, but his comedy’s come of age since he started taking on current events and plying the improv chops he learned with SNG. On a recent night, he overheard a young lady in the front row say he was cute and joined the conversation. “You know this is not a TV screen,” he quipped. “But I am very happy you find me cute.”
During the now infamous Biden-Trump debate week, Kulkarni riffed on the candidates’ sophomoric golf dustup: “I was like, ‘First of all, how is this a conversation about vitality? Golf is not a measure of vitality. It’s not even a sport; you use a tiny vehicle to get around.”
Kulkarni finds this kind of humor works well in Charlottesville.
“Honestly, the audience here is just ripe for comedy,” he says. “There have been some cities where I’ve performed where you have to dumb down certain jokes—like, these are the three topics they laugh at. Charlottesville is not one of those places. They enjoy a vulgar joke as much as high-brow comedy.”
As Kulkarni’s comedy has changed, so have his research interests. He’s still fine-tuning his doctoral thesis topic, but it will almost certainly have a humorous edge. One promising avenue? Examining the humor in the show “Shark Tank,” where famous investors decide whether to give an entrepreneur money if they like the pitch. He’s gone through countless episodes of the show, cataloging jokes, how they’re made, and how they’re received. He’s still crunching the numbers, but one takeaway: Jokes are effective in business, but only in the right context.
Kulkarni hopes he’ll be doing comedy for a long time, but not as a professional. There’s too much pressure in entertaining and generating content for a living. He envisions himself as a respected business professor sprinkling lectures with laughs. More than the gratification a performer gets cracking up an audience, lecturers with a human touch are the most likely to reach students—or so Kulkarni finds from his own experience on the other side of the classroom. “I want students to feel like a participating audience in one of my shows rather than [like they’re] being talked at,” he says.
To keep performance a part of his life, Kulkarni thinks he might one day open a comedy club of his own. Who knows? Maybe after he’s well established, he’ll start an open mic for young entertainers, giving them a place to make bad jokes, then make them better, and eventually figure out what the hell they’re doing.
Come poke around at the Albemarle County Fair where animals, agriculture, crafts, and live music provide entertainment over three days. Get in a country mood with a performance by Tommy Wood, and line up for eats at one of the many food trucks or stands (because what’s a fair without funnel cake?)! Flaunt the best pick from your summer garden at a giant sunflower competition and make new friends among bunnies, goats, pigs, and more in the barn. Other events include demonstrations that highlight the history and culture of rural central Virginia.
Thursday 8/1- Saturday 8/3. Prices and times vary. James Monroe’s Highland, 2050 James Monroe Pkwy. albemarlecountyfair.com
Straight out of the gate, I must acknowledge this wasn’t a fair test. Almost a decade ago (where has the time gone?), I worked at Monticello for roughly seven years. My last few roles were Martha-of-many-trades jobs, doing everything from loading buses and giving tours to helping with events and addressing guest feedback. Not surprisingly, I went full nerd (or as my guide would say, I professionally nerded) when I heard that Monticello began offering a seasonal Women at Monticello Tour.
I did worry that even a new tour might not offer much new information for me, because for years it felt like I was in every nook and cranny (literally and figuratively) of that famous historical home. My concern couldn’t have been more misplaced. Our guide and the information she shared blew ye olde wig off. Seriously, every expectation was exceeded. I need to find a perruquier now.
—Kristie Smeltzer
What
The Women at Monticello Tour.
Why
To learn more about historical women.
How it went
I cried, I laughed, and I learned new things.
As directed, I arrived at the David M. Rubenstein Visitor Center with plenty of time before my tour. After meandering through the exhibition gallery, I rode the shuttle up to the mountaintop. Our guide collected us when the tour time rolled around, and our education in the women of Monticello began.
We started on the South Terrace and heard about Jane Randolph Jefferson, Thomas Jefferson’s mother, and Elizabeth Hemings and her daughter Betty Brown, women brought to Monticello while enslaved. In the South Pavilion, which I’d never been in before, we visited the bedroom that Martha Wayles Skelton Jefferson, TJ’s wife, shared with him while the main portion of the house was still under construction.
We toured a few rooms in the dependencies, Monticello’s attached working, living, and storage spaces. In the Granger/Hemings Kitchen, a recently excavated and restored area, our guide shared stories about Ursula Granger’s life experiences, which brought me to tears, and her culinary expertise. I won’t offer any spoilers, but know this tour will be emotional. Many of these women had hard, hard lives. Our guide also spoke about Sally Hemings and her relationship with Jefferson. Despite the extreme imbalance of power between them, Sally Hemings made a deal with Jefferson that resulted in her adult children escaping slavery. Though not part of the tour, an exhibit about Sally Hemings has been added in the room they believe she lived in later in her life. I missed seeing it this time, but I plan to go back to check that out (though maybe in the cooler autumn weather).
Just as our sweat became distracting, we entered the house proper and basked in the glory of historically inaccurate—but delightfully refreshing—air conditioning. We moved through spaces that are familiar to those who have been to Monticello before, but we were prompted to view them through a different lens. Our guide shared moving stories about Jefferson’s daughters, Martha Jefferson Randolph, Maria Jefferson Epps, and Harriet Hemings, as well as prominent female visitors and granddaughters.
While history doesn’t change, our interpretation of it evolves. We learn more. We unearth untold stories and honor the many lives left off the pages of previous texts. The Women at Monticello Tour offers one way to do just that.
Here are some practical tidbits for your own visit. Keep an eye on the temperature. If you typically go from zero-to-melting in 60 seconds, you’ll want to pick a cool-weather day to do the Women at Monticello Tour (and be sure to hydrate!). The tour is available now through September 1, Fridays through Sundays at 2:05pm daily, and will resume for part of October.
As our country celebrates its collective independence, Charlottesville has the additional honor of welcoming new citizens into the nation at July 4th at Monticello. The historic home’s West Portico transforms into an open-air Naturalization Ceremony where the Oath of Citizenship to become an American is issued to dozens of deserving individuals. This year’s keynote address will be delivered by author, philanthropist, and American Ballet Theatre Principal Dancer Misty Copeland. Shuttles to the mountaintop will run from PVCC starting at 7:30am for a full morning of music, family activities, root beer floats, and more!
Thursday 7/4. Free, reservations required. The ceremony begins at 9am. Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello, 931 Thomas Jefferson Pkwy. monticello.org
Independence Celebration Jam to live music by Lord Nelson with opener Cake Fight. There will be an open grill serving up burgers, hotdogs, and snacks as well as food trucks. Fireworks at dusk. Boar’s Head Resort, 200 Ednam Dr. boarsheadresort.com
Red, White, and Blue in Greene A big Independence Day celebration in the small town of Stanardsville. Enjoy live country music and food vendors leading up to fireworks at 9:45pm. Morris Field, 13510 Spotswood Trl., Ruckersville. rwbng.org
Fourth of July Parade in Scottsville Parade at 9am hosted by the Scottsville Fire Department. Fireworks over the James River at dusk. 141 Irish Rd., Scottsville. scottsville.org
Grave’s Mountain Farm and Lodge Afternoon picnic, evening lodge dinner, music by The Unsuitables, pony rides, and craft vendors. Fireworks at 9pm. 205 Graves Mountain Ln., Old Blue Ridge Tpk., Syria. gravesmountain.com
Wintergreen’s July Jubilee Pool party, live music, racquet sports competitions, artisan market, chairlift rides, children’s block party, and a magic show at Wintergreen Resort. Fireworks at 9:30pm on July 6. Wintergreen Resort, 39 Mountain Inn Loop, Nellysford. wintergreenresort.com (Through July 8)
To commemorate the ending of slavery in the United States, Charlottesville’s Juneteenth Celebration kicks off with an early-morning parade followed by a welcome address that includes the Negro National Anthem. The afternoon features an Emancipation Concert with the soulful sounds of singer Ezra Hamilton and the trumpet-heavy tunes of the Ellis Williams Band, plus performances by Chris Redd, Raymond Brooks, and other talented musicians. The 8th annual Charlottesville-Albemarle Black Business Expo will also take place during the celebration, with dozens of booths from local Black-owned businesses, panel discussions aimed at entrepreneurs, and a business pitch competition with cash prizes.
Saturday 6/15. Free, 9am–3pm. Jefferson School African American Heritage Center, 233 Fourth St. NW. jeffschoolheritagecenter.org
Celebrate Pride at The Fruit Market, presented by Some C’ville Queers at Visible Records. The market highlights local queer artists and provides an engaging opportunity to support their small businesses. Baker No Bakery, a Latina- and woman-run popup panadería, will be selling baked goods homemade with love and local ingredients. Other area artists, including Critter Butts and Deep Holler Leather Works, will share crafts along with a DIY Pride shirt printing station by Infinite Repeats.
Sunday 6/16. Free, noon-4pm. Visible Records, 1740 Broadway St. visible-records.com
Dad’s words stung like a leather belt across my backside. “You know what you are?” he asked. “You’re quick, certain, and wrong!”
It was more than half a century ago, and I was less than 10, but the sting still lingers.
I grew up in the crowded middle of seven children, where it seemed all of us were competing to get a word in edgewise, so how was I the only one who nicked that raw nerve with Dad, the nerve that screamed, “Only a fool would fail to take the time to get it right”?
I tried to do better, but I still struck that nerve with enough regularity that when Dad began (“You know what you are?”), I cringed, because I knew what was coming next. Eventually—I think I was in my late teens—Dad’s harsh critique of my decision-making ability fell into disuse. Maybe I’d grown wiser, or maybe Dad had just grown tired of trying to correct me. Probably a little of both.
It’s been nearly 30 years since Dad died, but I’ve continued to hear “quick, certain, and wrong,” not in his voice, but in my head. Almost every time things haven’t gone as planned, I have, without forgiveness, blamed my own impatience, my own poor judgment, my own damned foolishness.
* * *
My brothers and I were clearing out my parents’ house last summer, a few weeks after our mother died, and I volunteered to clear my parents’ bedroom. Dad’s dresser had sat largely untouched since 1996, so sliding open the top drawer was like cracking open a crypt to reveal a trove of treasures buried with the deceased for his use in the afterlife.
I found the spring-top box where Dad had kept bus fare for his morning commute. I found the Swiss Army knife that was a virtual prosthetic for Dad: One minute he’d be using it to pop open a can of beer as we floated down the Shenandoah in a boat, while the next minute he’d use it to pry a hook from a trout’s mouth. I found tie clasps and cuff links that I’d seen Dad put on before Sunday Mass. I found the medals he’d earned in the service, years before he met my mom and started a family. I recognized—and left—those familiar treasures in the crypt of that top drawer.
The treasure that drew my attention was one that I didn’t recognize, though I immediately knew what it was. I was 8 years old when Dad returned home from Vietnam in 1969, sporting a battery-powered Seiko wristwatch, and here in Dad’s dresser was the wind-up Timex that came before the Seiko. It hadn’t ticked in more than half a century, and despite my winding, it produced not one tock.
The wristband was indented where Dad had buckled it every morning. He’d been a barrel-chested, physically imposing man, so I was surprised to discover that the band fit my thin wrist exactly as it had his.
I took the watch to Tuel Jewelers, where the jeweler’s eyes twinkled at the challenge of bringing the old Timex back to life.
It was during the weeks that the jeweler worked to restore Dad’s wristwatch that I began to wonder if my father’s sensitivity to my quick decisions might have been grounded as much in his own experience as it was in my own actions. I thought of instances when time had been taken from him, about moments in Dad’s life when he’d been rushed to decisions he hadn’t wanted, to conclusions that ranged from unfair to cruel.
I thought first of Dad as a skinny 13-year-old, when his father—larger than life in my dad’s telling—died of a heart attack in 1938. When the Birmingham News reported the death, the story omitted Dad’s name from among the surviving family members. Maybe the reporter was in a hurry, but the slight left a scar that Dad carried for some 50 years until I uncovered the Mobile Advertiser story of the event that included his name. Still, the strongest man in Dad’s life was gone forever, reduced to an unattainable aspiration. I thought of Dad in 1943, a flight cadet in officer training, having enlisted immediately after his 18th birthday in the hopes of catching up with his older brothers, one commanding an air squadron in Burma and the other skippering a Navy ship. But, as Dad explained it to us later, leadership concluded they “hadn’t killed off as many pilots as anticipated,” so he was shipped to Saipan with the humble rank of Private, a laborer in an ammunition ordnance company responsible for loading bombs into B-29’s piloted by young men who’d earned their wings just a bit sooner. Glory, Dad found, went to other, slightly older men of his generation.
I thought about the 1950s, after Dad left the service, married, and tried to make a go of it with his own business. Dad designed and created figurines that he sold at shops and local events, until piracy of his best products (as well as a third child on the way) compelled him to exchange that dream for a steady government paycheck. As responsibilities took precedence over dreams, Dad boxed up the last of his figurines and stashed them under a bed in the nursery, where I discovered them last summer, caked in dust.
I thought about the Friday after Thanksgiving, 1964. My parents were in the dining room that Dad had only recently finished building onto the back of our house. My mom was holding in her arms my three-week-old sister when Dad spied water streaming through the kitchen light fixture. He dashed upstairs and found me, along with my diapered little brother, turning the bathroom into a water park. Dad quickly lifted me and “put” me down on the slippery floor outside the bathroom, where I slammed into the wall—and snapped my femur. I don’t remember that it hurt, only that when Dad tried to stand me up, my leg kept sliding to the side like a puppet’s.
A few days in traction, followed by a few weeks’ recuperation in that new dining room, and I was as good as new. My mom told me later that Dad had felt terrible, but I don’t remember that he ever told me he was sorry for having been, well, quick, certain, and wrong.
I thought about that years later when it occurred to me that in 1938 Dad had not only lost a father he admired, but he’d also lost the chance to slowly learn and accept that fathers sometimes make mistakes with their sons (and vice versa); that sometimes disagreement and fault do not preclude, but instead engender, respect and even admiration.
Like most people, Dad was complex, sometimes even self-contradictory, and that’s what often made pleasing him difficult. He could tell a joke with impeccable timing. He was committed to making to-do lists and getting things done—on time. He had no patience for dithering. When it came to me, my quickness in winning races at our local swim club earned his admiration, but quick answers on more sensitive matters such as race or politics earned his admonition.
As I grew older, I made plenty of mistakes—undoubtedly many of the “quick, certain, and wrong” variety. I’ve thought about one more than all the others. My sister, the one who’d been a mere three weeks old when I suffered my broken leg, had singled me out as her “hero” since we were little. Three weeks into the second semester of her junior year in college, she made a surprise visit home. Something was troubling Molly, so on the day she was to return to school, I spent the afternoon with her. Two weeks later my mother called and said “something terrible has happened to Molly,” and I realized that her hero had been quick (to dismiss the warning signs of her depression), certain (that she would grow out of whatever was bothering her), and unforgivably wrong.
It is said that the older we get, the less we know. And so it was that on that day in February 1985, I aged decades. As horrible as the loss was for my sister’s hero, though, I knew even then that it was worse for her daddy. The loss upended Dad’s world, robbed him of precious time with his only daughter, and left him (if we had this much in common) with all the time in the world to consider the unanswerable questions that a suicide bequeaths its survivors. Life, it seemed, had pushed and shoved Dad again, this time with unspeakable cruelty.
Retirement a few months after Molly’s death brought Dad relief from the “need it an hour ago” routine that characterized his 25-year career at the Pentagon, and he finally had time for the travel with my mom that the two of them had denied themselves during their child-rearing years; both relished the timeless promise brought by four grandchildren.
Life, though, would be quick, certain, and wrong with Dad one last time. A few months after his 70th birthday, Dad contracted a virus that did its damage in a furious hurry: In the space of just days, what seemed a mere cold progressed to a terrific fever and then a seizure, which left Dad in what the doctors coldly characterized as a “permanent vegetative state.” Brain dead.
Hoping for a miracle, I was, a few days later, standing next to Dad’s bed in the ICU, holding his hand, when the nearby radio began to play Rachmaninov’s Symphony No. 2, one of the most beautiful pieces of music you could ever hear—and undoubtedly one that Dad, whose own father had taken him to concerts and instilled in him a deep appreciation of classical music, had enjoyed many times. For the first time since Dad had gone under, his eyes moved (behind closed lids) and his grip on my hand tightened. I think that what was left of his brain that night still appreciated Rachmaninov, though heaven only knows if he was aware of whose hand he gripped as he listened.
About four weeks later, Dad lay in a hospital bed in that dining room that he’d built some 30 years earlier, and again I was standing next to him, stroking his limp, withered arm, when he left this world to the strains of “Solveig’s Song,” one of Edvard Grieg’s Peer Gynt suites, which I had queued up on his stereo moments earlier. I don’t know if his battered mind and departing spirit detected either the music or the touch of my hand, but I’d like to think he took with him warm memories of both.
Just before I was to pick up Dad’s watch from Tuel, one of my brothers uncovered from my parents’ things a wrinkled old photograph that I’d never seen before: It was my dad, 18 years old and rail-thin, standing hands on hips, squinting into the midday sun on Saipan, 1943. The photo is grainy, but on his left wrist is, unmistakably, the wind-up Timex.
I have a smart watch and a couple battery-powered watches that keep perfect time, but now I like to wear Dad’s old wind-up. It is beautiful, probably almost 90 years old. Sometimes it runs a little slow, other times a little fast. It is, in other words, like both fathers and sons: loved but also flawed, imperfect. Every morning when I take a minute to wind that watch, I remind myself to be a little more patient, a little less certain and, honestly, a little more forgiving. And when I place the watch on my wrist and buckle its cracked wristband, exactly as my dad used to do, I think of Solveig’s lament to Peer Gynt: “And if you wait above, we’ll meet there again, my friend.”
Michael Moriarty lives in Charlottesville and retired in 2023, following a career as a legal editor and project manager. He has been published in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, SwimSwam, and Medium.