Should Mr. Jefferson resurrect himself as miraculously as his summer retreat at Poplar Forest has risen from the ashes, I suspect he would find this Lynchburg spot as interesting as it was two hundred years ago, but for different reasons -- not the least of which would be the dominating presence of the sprawling religious and educational complex perched to the southeast atop the rechristened Liberty Mountain; while the patriotic appellation would undoubtedly resonate with the Founding Father, reconciling its ubiquitous evangelism with his rationalist deism would be more problematic.In fact, the subtle attractions of this "city unto itself" -- so labeled for its relative isolation, which was confirmed years ago by its loss of an interstate highway, and more recently, of its Delta Connection to Atlanta -- are both timeless and evolving, and reflect a similar juxtaposition of contradictions: a refreshing quality of life that conjoins urban sophistication and rural simplicity; involved citizens, conservative and progressive, who interact with admirable civility and bipartisanship for the benefit of the body politic; a community whose socio-economic stratification is counterbalanced by a populace imbued with generosity and compassion; and the unsurpassed beauty of its topographical, seasonal, and floral variety.
Today the dogwoods are blooming. Like resplendent bridesmaids in their shimmering pink and white regalia, they shadow me along Langhorne Road, Rivermont Avenue, even Main Street, during my brief but bittersweet ten-minute commute to and from work, time enough, alas, to enjoy only three country ballads on XM Channel 16, The Highway.
Actually, these days I try to avoid Rivermont Avenue and its sister bridge, where unsightly orange cones, blinking barricades, jarring potholes, ravenous front-end loaders, and grizzled workmen pockmark the formerly pristine thoroughfare that meanders leisurely through a gauntlet of five majestic churches and skirts the intimidating red-brick wall and shaded facade of Randolph College on its way Downtown.
Fortunately, my alternate route -- past the imposing Pearson Cancer Center, the towering new wing of the Lynchburg General Hospital, stately E. C. Glass High School, and the string of small shops and abandoned buildings lining Twelfth Street -- is equally efficient, and in fact deposits me squarely in the back parking lot of the Downtown YMCA (now being ecumenically marketed as simply the "Y"). There, since a chronic knee injury terminated my thirty-five year running career eighteen months ago, I find solace and invigoration in fifty strenuous minutes on a Precor elliptical machine, or in twenty-five plus some moderate weight lifting, or in a rare (no more than once a week) one-mile swim.
The locker room is like an Old Boys Club, where every morning I see the same eclectic assortment of determined faces and perspiring bodies in various stages of exhaustion and deshabille, all earnestly striving, like me, to stave off the inevitable onset of senility and immobility: Calvin, flossing his teeth; Curt, amazingly spry at ninety years old; John, toting his pressed and spotless attorney's suit in its protective clothes bag; my friend Jimmy giving me a "blog" shout out; Tulane, geriatrics entrepreneur, always cheerful even on the most gloomy of days; and dear Nate, who wanders amiably through the aerobics and weight rooms, calling every one by name and wishing him or her a great day, like a Wal-Mart greeter.
This venerable landmark teetered on the brink of financial ruin twenty-five years ago; a reenergized volunteer board, spearheaded by longtime member RCW, who couldn't stomach the forfeiture of his beloved racquetball courts, stabilized the situation, negotiated a conciliatory workout arrangement with sympathetic banker SJT, and recruited a talented, aggressive CEO. Its spectacular resurgence culminated in the construction of a 50,000 sq. ft. state-of-the-art suburban branch -- funded by a $7.5 million capital campaign, twenty per cent of which was provided by the WEJ family for which it is named. Enough was left over to refurbish the Downtown facility, which is no less refined, more intimate, and still offers free towel service.
From the Y it's only two blocks to my office, or to the charming White Hart Cafe (which has captured the attention of travel writers for both the New York Times and the Washington Post) for a cup of Counter Culture black java. Most days this winter it's been mild enough to walk those two blocks -- I never wear an overcoat -- with hardly more than twelve inches of snow accumulating in toto, vanquishing any concerns that last year's back-to-back blizzards were no more than an aberration, as was the oppressive heat wave that followed in their wake.
While many snowbirds prefer the sultry monotony of the Sunny South -- and flock there at the first chill in the air -- who can deny the cyclical pleasantness of Central Virginia's temperate climate? Seasonal extremes never linger long enough to be any more irritating than one of our infrequent traffic jams, and merely whet the appetite for the next quadrant on the calendar; and even winter's most frigid days, and summer's most sweltering, wax and wane like the phases of the moon, prompting this oft-repeated witticism: If you don't like the weather, just wait thirty minutes.
The Downtown where I have been a forty-year fixture is experiencing a revival of sorts -- although my own vantage point has been somewhat handicapped by the absence of a window in my office, despite my exalted position as CEO.
Defying occasional protests from self-interested suburbanites, the City Fathers -- whom I define as successive iterations of our seven-member City Council -- have exhibited commendable courage and vision over the past thirty years in investing significant public funds in a variety of projects -- like the Community Market, its earliest and, looking back, perhaps its most essential seed -- and in encouraging and subsidizing a number of private developments, through grants, guarantees, and tax credits -- like the Market's twin anchor, the original Radisson (now the Holiday Inn Select) and the laudable, luxurious, but precariously leveraged, boutique Craddock Terry Hotel.
The latter houses two respectable dining establishments -- Shoemaker's, which recently reduced its prices but not its quality, its upscale aspirations surrendering to the local pocketbook, and Waterstone Pizza, whose microbrewery has made it a preferred bar stop.
Neighborhood competition is daunting -- from the savory recipes of the master chefs at Main Street Eatery and Bull Branch (both of which have been around ten to fifteen years) to the casual but dependable fare at the Depot Grill, Market on Main, Robin Alexander, and Jimmy on the James (all relative upstarts, less then five years old), to a smattering of smaller, mostly-for-lunch, Mexican, Chinese, Indian, salad and sandwich shops.
In the latter category I include the aforementioned White Hart, where the homemade potato soup and four-grilled cheeses on whole wheat bread are a viable alternative to my daily brown-bagged peanut butter and jelly and carrots, and the Starlight Cafe, located on Fifth Street in a former bus station, where spicy huevos rancheros and sugar-sprinkled French toast are the best options for a dress-down Sunday brunch.
Sadly, Lynchburg's six-month experiment in emulating the New York Club Scene, City Views -- complete with a lighted dance floor, low-slung white leather couches, and a breathtaking view from its roost atop the Bank of the James skyscraper -- came to an ignominious end when the firm of curmudgeonly lawyers ensconced on the floor below detected a clause in its lease forbidding such frivolity and ruthlessly padlocked the doors.
Day and night these places are luring fun lovers and dilettantes Downtown. Despite a dearth of bona fide shopping opportunities -- except for furniture, of course -- and the glaring absences of a drug and grocery store, some have chosen to put down roots in any number of loft apartments that have spontaneously sprung to life.
Taking advantage of tax credits and bargain prices, stimulated by the success of Riverviews, which has morphed from an artists' coop into a general residence, ambitious entrepreneurs have transformed the streetscape, restoring many deteriorating properties to their ancient grandeur. The most audacious of these has, from a command post in his corner barber shop, annexed one whole city block, given it an extreme makeover, and is now poised to conquer another.
Beyond the inner city, within ten miles of my home, are enough restaurants -- all independent -- to overcome any single man's culinary ineptitude: four Italian, three Mexican, two Chinese, and one American original (and barely digestible). But the one my Hyundai Genesis hones in on most often -- at least once or twice a week -- is Oakwood Country Club, not just for the grouper, tuna, or veggie quesadillas, which always taste good to me -- although, truthfully, my palate is not the most discriminating -- but also, as my eighty-five-year-old mother astutely observed, for the conviviality.
Once a thriving hub of social and recreational activity, sporting a roster of five hundred plus, and my father's favorite watering hole (a bronze plaque engraved with his name hangs among others in the bar's Memorial Corner), this grande dame of the Avenue fell prey to a proliferation of dining and drinking alternatives (most of which required no dues), to a status (mostly perceived) and golf course (all too real) decidedly inferior to those of its more rural competitor, and, frankly, to poor management. When a redesign of the golf course failed to boost the membership rolls, a crushing debt burden forced the Club into bankruptcy.
Intent on developing the valuable golf property, an investor group bought the assets at auction; ownership and management of the Club devolved on senior dynamo JLA, who, at an age when most of her ilk have settled into a leisurely retirement, has warmed to her task with a graceful determination, revitalizing the operation, restoring its credibility, corralling new members, and manifesting a contagious exuberance. With friends and acquaintances circulating through the bar and grill room, Friday nights have the buzz of a cocktail party; eighty members enjoyed a festive Mardi Gras buffet; over one hundred and fifty turned out for corned beef and cabbage and live Irish ditties on St. Patrick's Day.
Long known as a tennis club, Oakwood's spacious back terrace overlooks its ten outdoor and two indoor courts -- the perfect setting for the Pro-Am Tournament the Club has hosted every June since the mid-sixties. As for me, I gave up the game -- and all competitive sports -- years ago after an opponent launched an eighty-mile-per-hour projectile at my most sensitive body parts during a friendly mixed doubles contest. I have since restricted myself to more solitary pursuits, like swallowing (before compelled to quit) full or half doses of the ten mile course that traverses the hilly terrain from E. C. Glass High School to Riverside Park and back, and passes one block from the house I now live in.
About forty years ago, when a running frenzy swept the nation, a local guru convinced insurance mogul GTS -- whom, legend has it, had been, two hundred pounds ago, a youthful track star himself -- to underwrite a road race, and felicitously chose this glorious, if not challenging, route. It became another Lynchburg signature event, capturing the imagination of the community and drawing upwards of 5000 devotees, including some of championship caliber, before competition and economics threw up roadblocks almost as insuperable as Farm Basket Hill. In recent years new leadership has nurtured a modest comeback, securing sponsorship dollars, trumpeting its one-mile and four-mile co-races, and importing celebrity spokespersons, like Andre Agassi and Steffi Graf.
If one prefers cycling -- or must resort to it -- or is persuaded by a female friend that it is a mode of conditioning both effective and companionable, the entrance to the Blackwater Creek Bikeway -- which follows the creek 6.5 miles along an abandoned railroad bed to Downtown and across the James River to Percival's Isle -- is a scant five minutes away -- by bike. If veterans tout the incomparable joys of nature viewed from the seat of a bicycle and the wind in one's face, this novice prefers to keep his attention firmly fixed on the path before him, as objects become larger much faster than anticipated.
After a heart-pumping diversion, an honest (or not) day's work, an oxymoronic pleasant afternoon of golf, or a sumptuous meal, a plethora of cultural opportunities beckons the curious and the adventurous -- besides, of course, the tedious fare of raunchy comedy, simpering romanticism, fatuous melodrama, and cartoon violence regularly on display at the three local multiplex cinemas. (I've seen four movies in two years: The Blind Side, It's Complicated, Tangled, and The King's Speech.)
Three weekends ago, if one were so inclined, he could have been enraptured by the harmonious hymns of the American Boychoir at the First Presbyterian Church on Friday, awed by the E. C. Glass Theater performing Phantom of the Opera on Saturday, and enchanted by a touring production of The Barber of Seville on Sunday -- provided he could get tickets, which we couldn't for the denouement, thus foiling a potential hat trick. on Saturday, and enchanted by a touring production of The Barber of Seville on Sunday -- provided he could get tickets, which we couldn't for the denouement, thus foiling a potential hat trick.
Actually, E. C. Glass -- where director JAA has fashioned a mini-Broadway empire of world-class proportions -- preempted its crosstown rival, unveiling its Phantom three weeks before Liberty University's mirror image will make its own ghostly debut. Arriving thirty minutes prior to the notorious crash of the chandelier, JSG and I are dumfounded at being banished to the balcony -- this in an auditorium that seats 2000, for a show for which there are six performances. Unfortunately, from this distance, while the special effects and costumes are stunning, and the adolescent voices powerful and intense, to a first-time viewer like me, the storyline is confusing, the words mostly unintelligible, and the atmosphere -- well -- a little too operatic.
Thus, indeed, The Barber of Seville may have worn out my weekend. More palatable are these classical musical dramas in small servings, as was the case at the Opera on the James Cabaret gala, where Italian festivity, fine wine, authentic cuisine, and Puccini selections drew four hundred patrons, validating founder DBN's intuition that there is more to the Lynchburg music scene than Country and Western and Gospel.
A week earlier, another cultural phenomenon, The Ellington, celebrated its twenty-eighth anniversary, with dinner, dancing, and the usual live auction of donated vacation giveaways, art works, and catered dinner parties. The Ellington is a former Little Theater playhouse rescued from oblivion by a group of jazz, blues, and rock and roll aficionados, headed by HRL, "the Duke," and now a small showcase for local, regional, and national acts. It's a "home-built exercise in civic excellence," in the exquisite diction of the exuberant auctioneer, who is none other than JFD, the proprietor of -- and nightly entertainment at -- Jimmy on the James. JSG and I go alone, but, as is often the case, run into some folks we know.
Backing up another week, we discover two professional comedians posing as amateurs and playing to a packed house (granted, admission is free and seating is limited) at another Downtown reclamation project, the Renaissance Theater. The cast is well-known to us: CJC, gastroenterologist, real estate developer, and free-wheeling master of ceremonies, who is exercising unusual restraint tonight by adhering to a script, and WJB, versatile musician, actor, humorist, and director, who recently made his operatic debut in The Barber of Seville. It's "Saturday Night Live," as the dynamic duo rolls out its rollicking repertoire, part original, part borrowed, with the raucous insolence of George Carlin (a schoolmate of CJC) and the fluent repartee of Abbott and Costello; in their grand finale, they render the absurd frenzy of "Who's on First" without a misstep, according to one spectator, who has apparently memorized it himself.
Three blocks away, another Downtown prize is celebrating its tenth anniversary -- the Amazement Square Children's Museum, doubly deserving of its name, first for the delight it engenders in the youthful patrons who wander through its magical hallways, and secondly for the disbelief their elders harbor that it ever came to pass. But it did -- thanks to some extraordinary fundraising by its founding board, especially DMW and JKC, the latter a genuine hero whose gentle demeanor cloaks a resolute persuasiveness, and to the genius and vision of Director MAS, whose imagination permeates every nook and cranny of this rehabilitated warehouse and every novel event he devises to keep its budget balanced.
Sadly, Lynchburg's Historic Academy Theater has not been so fortunate and remains in a perilous state of limbo -- despite the tireless efforts of a dedicated corps of volunteers, including YMCA notable RCW. While angels abound in Central Virginia, and indeed have showered over $10 million on this tarnished jewel, almost as much is still needed, and the clock is ticking. Restoration of this architectural treasure and establishing it once again as an elite center for the performing arts and a tourist destination would solidify Lynchburg's cultural Renaissance and be a boon to the local economy.
This morning at the Holiday Inn Select, under the sobering gaze of the Academy shell, which sits idly across the street, about four hundred supporters turn out for a United Way Awards breakfast. While the recession and a fluid corporate landscape -- where the loss of a major player can be devastating -- have taken their toll, leaving the 2010 campaign five per cent shy of its $3.4 million goal, the enthusiasm of resourceful CEO MOM never falters. Alabama transplants with the accents to prove it, she and her husband moved here years ago to peddle Buicks and Pontiacs and wisely bailed out just before the crash. Having enmeshed herself in the non-profit network, she leaped to the helm of the United Way ship when it became vacant and is steering it deftly through turbulent waters. Needless to say, many lives -- 58,000 served through thirty-eight agencies -- depend on its safe passage.
I am particularly aware of the good work of two of these agencies, having sat on their Boards for ten years: The Family Alliance and The Salvation Army. The first counsels, assists, and educates families and individuals in the areas of financial management, interpersonal relationships, pregnancy, parenting, and substance abuse, and has thrived under the inspired leadership of CEO TMP. Ever alert to the needs of the community and to opportunities for growth, he has brought professionalism and entrepreneurship to the social service mission. I applaud him for espousing and embracing a merger with The Presbyterian Home and Family Services; this bold action, an admirable model for the nonprofit industry, demonstrates how a perceived common purpose and potential administrative efficiencies can overcome egos and territoriality.
In fact, today I transition smoothly from the United Way Breakfast to lunch at the Presbyterian Home, to hear a presentation on Ways to Work, an Alliance program which makes car loans available to low-income persons who otherwise could not obtain them.
The Salvation Army is recognized worldwide for efficiently delivering a variety of services: emergency shelter for men, women, and children; food and clothing, and rent and utility subsidies; breakfast and dinner 365 days a year; and child care for infants and special needs children. If I have been less than diligent in attending Advisory Board meetings (except when I was Chairman), I did follow the legacies of my father and grandfather in helping raise $5 million to build a new Center of Hope. That dream would never have come to fruition without the gifted oversight of Major DCC (who has since received a well-deserved promotion and moved on to another assignment) -- a man who exuded joy in every encounter, whose faith in his Creator and love for his fellowman were uncompromising and infectious, and whose confidence, empathy, and charm were irresistible to prospective donors.
A few blocks away another hidden gem illuminates an old Fort Hill neighborhood. While Lynchburg boasts a highly-regarded public school system and a number of first-rate private schools, thirty years ago educator LGR recognized that a more specialized curriculum might be necessary for some children for whom traditional methods of instruction were ineffective and with a few friends and benefactors founded New Vistas School. It flourishes to this day, a lifeline to those who might otherwise slip through the academic cracks, enabling their success.
Beyond the classroom, the school is well-known for its fundraising Feast, hosted in May by Lynchburg legend and retired construction magnate, ACC, on his gorgeous cattle farm in Bedford County at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains. There, about a dozen Cookin' Fools purchase, cook, serve, and early the next morning clean up the scraps of all the slow-roasted beef, pork, chicken, mixed vegetables, and homemade chili beans two hundred eatin' fools can consume.
Across town, in a small office building in the city's ten-year-old mixed use planned neighborhood -- where an abundance of vacant commercial space is a depressing testament to its poor design -- retired banker SCF administers The Greater Lynchburg Community Trust, a $25 million aggregate of restricted, designated, and unrestricted funds, from which grants are made twice a year to support regional nonprofits. From my seat on the Distribution Committee, buried under reams of financial data and persuasive case statements, baffled by requests from $3000 to $30,000, I make the unconventional decision to apply a modicum of logic to an irrational process and award our limited funds in equal amounts, which, once the predictability becomes apparent, elicits inquisitive looks and a few chuckles from my colleagues.
On the fourth Monday of every month (except for brief respites in August and December, unless a special meeting is called, which it usually is), Lynchburg's Best and Brightest gather either in the Craddock Auditorium at the Virginia Baptist Hospital (VBH) or the Dolan Conference Center at the Lynchburg General Hospital (LGH), enjoy the finest catered meal the resident chefs can concoct -- in other words, not your usual hospital fare -- and deliberate the present and future of the $600 million business known as Centra Health -- although the preferred public designation now omits the surname, probably to align better with its bold new circular emblem, whose muted blue-green-mauve colors and flowing lines are not so subtly suggestive of the region's hills and rivers.
In the front of the room, orchestrating the presentations and power points like a symphony conductor, from his opening prayer to his profuse apology for exceeding his two-and-a-half hour time limit, is the architect -- to quote the search consultant charged with the unenviable task of finding a successor -- of this vast enterprise, its twenty-five-year tenured CEO, the indefatigable GWD. From his presence at the creation, the merger of VBH and LGH, he has never accepted less than its current status as a nationally-respected model of quality and efficiency -- assembling an executive team and physician network equally committed to excellence (every time), expertly navigating his Titanic through the treacherous shoals of regulatory compliance and relentless change, and setting an example to aspiring leaders everywhere by acting consistently with integrity, transparency, sensitivity, and good humor.
Around the elongated rectangular table, other local luminaries light up the night: KSW, Board Chair, whose distinguished career as corporate attorney lends both weight and wisdom to his gavel; RWF, retired banker, former Chair, always a voice of common sense and optimism, and a faithful and grateful celebrant of the good work of others; CWP, whose thorough comprehension and penetrating analysis of every issue leaves no doubt as to his credentials as a highly-sought executive and consultant in the field of nuclear energy; WPS, insurance executive, who invariably elucidates the implications of an action or decision with a perfectly-pitched observation or question; and cardiologist TWN, who courageously and impartially balances physician interests against those of the hospital and the general community, often sacrificing the former for the latter.
Central Virginia's health is in good hands.
And these are only a handful of the hundreds who have made this special spot interesting enough for me to have found contentment and fulfillment here for sixty years. The list of remarkable individuals, selfless volunteers, quiet philanthropists, active humanitarians, concerned citizens, and loyal friends is endless.
Because Lynchburg is a place large enough to offer a multitude of opportunities -- to play, to work, to serve -- yet small enough for almost anyone to be accessible, it has been my good fortune to have made contact with a few of these champions. Being a prominent businessman hasn't hurt; yet I wouldn't say it's a prerequisite. Witness our current mayor -- a relative newcomer and an executive in a nonprofit.
Although I didn't see or hear it, I'm sure that her recent State of the City Address was buoyant and hopeful, predicting a bright and promising future to all who reside here. Even if it's an attitude politicians are compelled to assume, it's also her nature. Contrary to my own habitual view that the glass is half empty, in this case I might have to agree with her. Because in a place with so many heroes and heroines, which is the real reason we love it so much -- far surpassing the climate, the scenery, the entertainment, the flora and fauna -- how could it be otherwise?
