True Grits

March 22-23

The pizza was OK at Rivermont, and the beer was fantastic. They serve half pints, so I was able to try several taps before I left.

One was Kind Ryed IPA from Otter Creek Brewing in Vermont. It was bitter both from the rye and the hops. So bitter, in fact, that I enjoyed the half but may not have been able to love a full pint of it.

I had a couple of different local IPAs, including Eight Point, from a brewer called Devil’s Backbone. I learned later that the brewery is in Lexington, Va. That’s where the Stonewall Jackson House is. It’s also where Robert E. Lee died.

Even better than the Eight Point was Cran Gose from the same brewer. It’s a wild ale, so a little sour, with cranberry in the mix.

The Rivermont has a package goods store where I bought several cans to go. One was the Eight Point and the other a Cran Gose. I’ll see if they are as good packaged as they are on draught.

March 23

Today turned out to be Confederate food day. It started at a place called Biscuitville where I was able to get grits and gravy and a biscuit with my fried eggs. 

I took off a little after 10. I noticed that Appomattox Court House was just a short jaunt east of Lynchburg, so I headed there.

The National Park lies just off U.S. 460, so after a couple of false starts, I took that route. In the Lynchburg area, it is known as the Jerry Falwell Parkway. It passes right by Falwell Airport, which is home to Falwell Aviation, which was founded by two of Jerry Falwell Sr.’s cousins. You can read something about it in the local paper.

On the way to Appomattox, there was what I consider a mandatory detour. A sign with an arrow pointing to my left read “Stonewall.” So I made a quick left onto Stonewall Road. There’s no way I can’t do that.

Stonewall Road meanders through lovely country: trees (some of them in bloom), green fields, some dotted with occasional houses.

One house had two “Trump” signs in front. Another a short way along had a “For Sale” on the lawn. I wonder if they were connected or entirely coincidental.

I passed a County Road 666, but didn’t turn onto it. I had more important matters at hand than the number of the beast. I was in Virginia. I was in search of Stonewall memorabilia.

I still don’t know where that Stonewall is, or even what it is.  Maybe it’s a health spa or a gay bar on County Road 666. Stonewall Road ends anticlimactically at a town called Oakville.

Appomattox Court House is a reconstructed village. According to signs in the park, after the original court house burned down late in the 19th century, the village fell on hard times and was largely abandoned. A new village sprang up not far away.

A building that looks like the original court house is now the visitors’ center.

The McLean House, where the surrender was signed, had been dismantled in the 1890s with a plan to move it to Washington, where it would be a tourist attraction. There were detailed records of dimensions and materials.

The finances for the scheme crashed, and the pieces of the house sat for 50 years, during which time most of the building materials perished or were looted by souvenir hunters.

When reconstruction—of the house, that is—began after World War II, the builders had the plans, if not the original materials, to work with. 

A park ranger told me the current house contains a few hundred of the original bricks that were left. The original kitchen hearth was uncovered during excavations and that is on display in the cellar of the house.

The parlor, where Lee and Grant met, seems to be furnished according to contemporary drawings.

As the ranger put it, “It’s a reproduction, but a faithful reproduction.”

Outside a small Confederate cemetery (which also includes the grave of one unknown Union soldier) near the court house village, there is a small monument conveying a Daughters of the Confederacy sentiment:

“Here on April 9, 1865, after four years of heroic struggle in defense of principles believed fundamental to the existence of our government, Lee surrendered 9,000 men, the remnant of an army still unconquered in spirit.”

I was back on 460 driving east again when a State Police car with lights flashing made U-turn in front of me. He drove down the middle stripe and slowed down to block traffic. I didn’t think I was doing anything that bad.

But this wasn’t about me. A power line had fallen across the highway, and the police had to halt traffic while the power company secured it. There was already a lift truck in place on my side of the road.

The power guys worked fast securing the fallen cable to a heavier one. They had my side of the road open again in perhaps 15 minutes. 

The rest of the ride back to I-95 was largely uneventful. U.S. 460 offers a bypass of built-up areas and a “business” route that follows the old road. I took the old road several times and found interesting small towns, but nothing that made me want to stop and look around.

I checked into Days Inn in Weldon around 4:30. When I drove out to go to Ralph’s Barbecue for an early dinner, I saw the sign immediately. It’s so close, I could have walked. If, that is, I could have found a way to get across the highway.

Some of you may remember Ralph’s. I always stop there for pulled pork and Brunswick stew when I’m in this area.

I couldn’t stop eating at Ralph’s. I really enjoy this food whenever I can get it, which isn’t often. 

The only thing I had eaten since Biscuitville was a single biscotto.

Yeah, I know; biscotti are not exactly Confederate food, but this one was made by the Calandras who hail from southern Italy. Joanna gave me a bunch of them in a plastic box when I left for this trip, and they have come in very handy.

I started with a bowl of Brunswick stew. I think it is made with chicken. It has lima beans, yellow corn, bits of potato, and a savory-sweet broth made with I’m not sure what.

Then I had a plate with two kinds of pulled pork, one red and one white. There were also cooked-soft string beans (the only way I like them), and mashed potatoes.

Ralph’s puts a basket of hush puppies on the table when you order.

I was eating from the buffet, so after a brief rest I had another plate much like the first. I asked the waitress if there were any collard greens. I couldn’t find them. They weren’t on the buffet, but she brought me a bowl of them from the kitchen.

I count that as three meals. I skipped dessert so I’d have room for beer.

So far, I have finished a can of Highway 128, “the holy gose ale,” from Anderson Valley Brewing in Boonville, Calif. That’s another sour, or wild, ale, and I have developed a taste for them. Besides, who’s going to turn down a holy gose?

I’m working on a pint of Great Return, billed as a West Coast style India pale ale, which is made by Hardywood Park Craft Brewery in Richmond, Va. Dry and gently bitter. What’s more, according to the rim of the can, proceeds benefit the James River Association.

I will spend most of tomorrow on Interstate 95 on my way to Lees Motel. With a name like that, you might never guess that it’s in Edison, N.J.

I have to see my tax accountant Friday morning. Then, I just learned, I have to have my registration renewed and my car inspected before the month ends. The renewal notice must have been lost in the mail.

Gosh, there is so much to do when you’re retired.

God bless us every one.

Harry