Thursday, July 12th, 2007
I remember Norfolk, Virginia like I lived there my whole life. (Instead, it was a year. A short one.) So, Norfolk … its pace: slow, easy, languid. Breezes good and balmy and sunlight that makes some streets look Caribbean and others just Southern and warm and golden.
In the winter it changes and you see how northeast it really is; the bareness of the place, stark light, icy bridges, the tree skeletons, raccoons in trash cans, grey ships in dark harbor water, big open white skies—not grey skies like Portland or Seattle, just dingy white, like a sheet of recycled paper.
Depending on who you ask, Virginia is either the most northern Southern state, or the most southern Northern state. In the winter it feels like the latter, Atlantic Seaboard more so than Dirty South.
By May it’s almost tropical and you can drive with your windows rolled down in a T-shirt and jeans and shoes with no socks and feel pretty okay about things. Late summer in Norfolk makes you feel ragged, sweaty, slow-moving, like a refugee—like Huck Finn must’ve felt on his Lincoln Log raft with Jim. And there is cicada sound, fireflies flashing phosphorescent in the grass, flares of sun glare off new cop cars, rap songs thumping from inside parked Impalas, lines of SUVs at the car wash, kids and old men fishing off the bridges, schooners and cabin cruisers lazing up the Lafayette River from the Norfolk Yacht and Country Club, Spanish moss in the trees and vines turning tree trunks into writhing sculptures like idols for snake gods.
Look to the left over the cranes near the harbor, past the Navy and America flags snapping in the breeze and see thunderheads, grey and heavy with rain, and they’re coming your way, rolling and booming in the sky above the Virginia/North Carolina state-line. Flash flood warnings on WHRO radio. Ninety degrees and humid, then hailing shooter marbles.
If you happened to be flying over the city en route to the ORF Airport on a clear day, you’d see Norfolk as a patch of green between the cities of Portsmouth and Virginia Beach. It’s also a city of water and from the air you can see its shape crisscrossed and bisected by rivers, canals, bay waters, ponds, wetlands, and, down past VA Beach, the big beautiful Atlantic Ocean.
Virginia is a treasure for anyone with the patience to seek out her light and charms. Norfolk, a beat up little Navy town, takes even more patience. But you’ll find it—if you look hard enough. Ignore downtown (besides Relative Theory Records.) Ignore the VA Beach Strip. Instead, find the beaches off the beaten path, the ones with sand dunes and weeds and low fences made from wood slats and sit for a while and stare out into the tousle of sea. The best of those are on the Chesapeake, the big ancient bay Michener wrote about, his four centuries of struggling life in the murk amongst all the soft-shell crabs and herons lifting from the trees and tiny, racing marsh birds.
I moved to Norfolk (and moved away) a few years ago following a wandering girl, but I also have family history here. It’s the place my dad grew up, where he caught a 35-inch baby alligator with his best friend Igor (back when they still named people honest ethnic names like Igor.) They were 12 years old and made the front page of the Virginia Pilot. My grandpa was a gunner’s mate on base before he was shipped over to Korea. After the war, he brought his family west to San Diego, where I was eventually born, and where he died, right before I came into the world.
I’ve been thinking a lot about Norfolk lately because I’m writing something long and time-consuming about it. When you give a city a whole book you’ve got to know her well, her geography and smells, the names of her trees, and the colors of flowers and houses and brick facades and sunsets. I also have to know—more so remember—a lot of people I haven’t seen in years. Some of them you can call any time. Their stories are easier to tell. Besides a couple die-hards, none of them live in Norfolk anymore. They’ve gone to Iraq or to Gauntanamo Bay, or they’ve left the service to work computer jobs or play music.
So without them here I drive the city with the windows down and say aloud the names of places as I pass them. Colley Avenue. The Taphouse. The Elizabeth River. KB’s Custard. Rajput Indian Cuisine (best Singapore Sling on the planet.) Little Creek. Military Highway. The Get ‘er Done Pub. A.J. Gator’s. Clancy’s A-Go-Go.
With a week out here and nothing on the agenda, there will be a lot of time to drive around and a lot of time to think and to remember. So Norfolk if you’re listening, I’m back for a while. Please treat me well and I’ll write your story as best I can. You deserve nothing but the truth.
BIO: Adam Gnade's (guh nah dee) work is released as a series of books and records that share characters and themes; the fiction writing continuing plot-lines left open by the self-described "talking songs" in an attempt to compile a vast, detailed, interconnected, personal history of contemporary American life. Check out recent writing here and songs here. Contact: adam@asthmatickitty.comFiled under: city
