Friday night in Clifton Forge (part 2)

A couple of days ago, I came across one of Buck Rumpf's columns, from last month, one in which he addressed whether Clifton Forge Main Street should be allowed to host a “beer garden”, as part of its “Fun Friday” festivities. I must have been in one of my “curse and confound Horton P Beirne and all his works” sort of moods and seem to have missed it, when it first ran in his daily. After eleven column inches of helpful advice on how to stop the proposed sale of alcohol at the event, Buck claimed that he would take the “easy way out”, suggesting that if people continued to attend, all well and good, but if people “stay away, you can bet the beer issue will be dead”.

Personally, I think the easy way out would have been to say nothing about the issue at all, but time seems to have proven the shadowy Mr Rumpf at least partially correct and only a month after he wrote the issue really does seem dead. I had reckoned the community was not ready for the idea of alcohol at a public event, so imagine my surprise when, about an hour or so before this month's “Fun Friday”, we ran into Wilma McClung and were told a beer garden was on the program once again.

After a leisurely dinner at Jack Mason's, I was more inclined toward a quiet nap on the back porch, but civic duty called and, collecting our camp chairs from the car, Carolinita and I headed up Ridgeway for our fair share of the beer-soaked debauchery.



Wilma said that Mercer would be playing and, as we approached, there on the stage stood a man I immediately recognized, though until that moment I did not have a name to go with the face. One of the more charming – or perhaps maddening – aspects of small-town life is that everyone knows everyone, at least by sight. You simply cannot go about your business in a place this size without seeing, and being seen, by the same folks, over and over again. There are people here that I have waved-at every few days or so for years, without ever knowing their names.

An excellent case in point is Mercer Johnson, who lives within spitting distance of here. I have known him for years, but unfortunately only as “that carpenter guy”. Little did I know that he was also a drummer in the Silverbacks, the band that entertained us that Friday.



All in all, it was a pleasant evening, despite the constant threat of rain. The crowd was not excessive, but genuinely seemed to enjoy themselves. There were hot dogs and ice cream for sale. We set up our chairs near the top of the bank plaza, with a clear view of both the stage and the beer garden.



That fellow in the purple shirt is our mayor, Mr Don Carter, caught here by our candid photographer in mid-debauch. Originally, C and I were sitting more or less to ourselves, but we were soon joined by the McClungs and other neighbors, at least one of whom had only just moved to our street. I saw Butch Reid there, owner of the Antique Mall, in Lexington. We noted how well our neighborhood was represented at the event and then he proceeded to rap me for missing the 105th-birthday bash for the Masonic Theatre, 4th of July weekend. He had a point.

With all due respect to Buck Rumpf, his concerns do not seem well-founded, at least not in retrospect. The crowd I saw was entirely peaceable and family-friendly. There were children and parents with little ones in strollers everywhere one looked. There were probably more people outside the beer garden than in it, but I am certain that the only thing that might have kept people away was the threat of rain – and rain it did, though thankfully not until nearly 9:00 and the end of the show.

The next “Fun Friday” is August 27th and we are looking forward to it.

Friday night in Clifton Forge (part 1)

We had dinner at Jack Mason's Tavern, last Friday, and as we arrived our friend and neighbor Wilma McClung was just leaving, hurrying home with a “Cobb Wrap” for husband Tom. After we exchanged the usual pleasantries, she asked whether we were staying for “Fun Friday”, but all I could do was stare at her blankly.

Fun Friday?

Carolina came to my rescue, saying she had seen something about it in Horton's daily, and Wilma explained that there would be a band and a beer garden and that Mercer was playing – not all of which made sense to me, particularly that last bit, but by this time I had learned to just smile and nod as details emerged. And when C volunteered that we already had our folding camp chairs with us, stowed away in the trunk of the car, at least one thing seemed all but certain: we would probably be attending the evening's festivities, whatever they might be.

Inside, dinner was delightful and exactly as I have come to expect at Jack Mason's. Once again our waitress was Amber, same as last time, and once again the service was outstanding. Carolina had the “Fish Tacos”, which she had been eying on the menu for some time, and I, having stolen a small bite of hers on a previous visit, could not resist trying the “Fish and Chips” for myself.



Everything was good. The deep-fried cod was tasty, fresh and hot when it reached the table, nicely crisp outside and tender inside. C had the sweet-potato fries again, which she dearly loves, and I had the house salad along with the traditional fries. The total damage, while not necessarily cheap, was certainly reasonable and compared favorably with the price of comparable fare in comparable establishments.

By the time we finished, and I had downed the last of my Bass Ale – draft, no less, still a very pleasant surprise in little old Clifton Forge – there were more than a few folks waiting for a table. Much to the credit of management and staff, though, I did not feel the slightest pressure to hurry along – though, for the sake of courtesy, hurry along we did.