A day spent in relative repose brings a couple of questions to mind. Perhaps this engaging forum — which, you will notice, is propelled by its readers more than by the blogger his ownself — can tell us: What simple things do you love but seldom bring yourself to do (remember: family values here, sort of).

And, where do you go in the Roanoke Valley when you need to soothe your soul?

You may answer both questions in one response. Once the test begins, nobody will be allowed to leave the room. Pencils ready? Begin!

I’ll try to put something on this blog later, maybe this evening or tonight. Meanwhile, let us all enjoy friends, relatives and so on, and appreciate this beautiful weather.

They’ll hold the score down because my  Tar Heel niece is here for the game. Somebody tell Frank.

Wednesday night in a Blacksburg bar

We hadn’t gotten very far

When she said something that made me laugh

And then commit a trademark gaffe

 

It was ale I was drinking, nice and slow

So that weren’t the problem, no, no,

The problem was this habit in me

Of sometimes behaving carelessly

 

I clutched my sides and smiled and all

Leaned to my right

And conked my head on the wall

 

No big deal, my head has done worse

So we proceeded with our glowing mirth

But on I-81 as I headed home

My shoulder twinged and my muscles groaned

 

Spasms they were, and I knew ‘em well

God’s own punishment, an unseen hell

They burn like tinder, bring tears to grown men

And all because I was stupid again

 

Thursday the M.D. asked what I’d did

And I told ‘em the truth and felt like a kid

He nodded and prescribed some chemistry

He didn’t  laugh, he’d just met me

 

But his colleagues could spin him a tale or two

At the end of the day over a nice cold brew

"That Joe," they’d say, "he’s always achin’

A perpetual train wreck in the makin’"

by the various opinions about Lisa’s cancer and impending death in the "Funky Winkerbean" comic strip. Lots of people feel lots of ways, and yet the exchanges have been respectful and polite. Keep it up.

Meanwhile, when you’re ready for something lighter, I propose a new topic: Stupid Ways I’ve Hurt Myself.

It would do me some good to read about other people’s goofball moments before I share how I recently tweaked — again — my back.

Please: No tragedies, appalling catastrophes or alcohol-fueled disabilities. We’re talking about dumb things we’ve done, inadvertently, to ourselves.

You can be my support group. Unpaid, of course. Like Andrew.

More later. Ouch.

The comic strip carried by the Roanoke Times has created a mini-controversy among folks who write letters to the editor. One dude complained that its current story line has no place in the "comics" pages, but other readers have disagreed with that view.

If you follow it you know that a main character — is it Lisa? I don’t memorize their names — is dying, obviously, of breast cancer.

It’s a simple controversy: Does such a sad tale belong in the so-called "funny" pages, or should they be filled with harmless strips built upon gags, many of them eminently familiar?

"Funky Winkerbean" started as a daily-joke strip set largely in a high school. It was OK.   When it changed to a serial and took on unwed motherhood and other relevant topics, I still read it, often with enjoyment.

This latest thread has interested me the most. Breast cancer certainly is relevant, and educating people not only to its existence but also to the reality of death strikes me as a valuable exercise.

Young readers can benefit from the exposure. Some women might be moved to get that overdue mammogram. And we all can take a deep breath and appreciate the preciousness of life as we see it ebb each time we read Winkerbean.

How do you feel about this? Should comics be comics or, as with Doonesbury, can they be means of bringing the world beyond the comics page, the real world of war, political scandal and urgent health matters, to its readers?

I grew up with "The Flibbertys," "Dondi" and other benign comics. I like a little relevance, education, satire and sadness in my stories.

What about you?

unless, of course, something else arises. Meanwhile, Andrew, you reading your customer feedback? I’m staying out of it. I’m a word guy…

who coaches football at Oklahoma State gets my prize for best Internet angry outburst of 2007 for his tirade against a column by Jenni Carlson of The Daily Oklahoman during his post-game press conference on Saturday.

If you haven’t seen it, go to YouTube and type in some key words like Gundy and Carlson and take a look.

Gundy objected to Carlson’s reporting about the demotion of quarterback Bobby Reid. She suggested that his attitude was more responsible for his benching than his poor play had been.

Gundy said most of the story was fiction, but he later declined Carlson’s request that he state specifically where the fiction lay.

There is no way for most of us to know the validity of either the story or of Gundy’s accusations. I would wager that most of the story was accurate.

Gundy emphasized with maximum vehemence that college players are kids, that Reid does things right and that nobody should attack a kid when he’s down.

He told Carlson she obviously did not have children, never had a child come home from school disappointed or upset and never had to console a child in those circumstances. And he said that rather than attack a player, she should attack him.

Naturally, various journalistic groups have criticized him for his rant.

Well, the therapists always say, "Feelings are real." Gundy clearly felt he was right and he went a little bonkers for a very good cause. Sports in this country are out of control on every level.

Protecting the kids who play them — for free, basically, while others, including Gundy, profit hugely — is not the worst sin in the world. Plus, it’s exciting to watch a person in the limelight act human. He was ticked off, and he didn’t hide it.

He kept it real, and I applaud him.

You know the one: the one that’s bringing all the electronics that Best Buy has on display but not in stock.

It must be quite a truck. For one thing, it’s always coming "tomorrow." And if it doesn’t come "tomorrow," it probably will arrive "the day after tomorrow."

The items you want — in this case, a digital camera and an iPod with assorted gear — "should be" on the truck, but "may not be."

Of course, you can call and find out if the truck has come and what was on it.

Today, a young salesman assured me that as many as three or four cameras of the type I desire "could be" on the truck that’s due, well, tomorrow. When I asked if he would set one aside for me, he assured me that he would.

When I asked if he needed my name, he said, "No."

"But you’ll set one aside?"

"Sure."

Why do I have doubts?

I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a Best Buy tractor-trailer on a highway. If I haven’t seen one, I definitely know the reason why: I’m early.

It’s coming tomorrow. Always, tomorrow.

This Day of Reflection thing is hard. Calling up your losses and re-experiencing them is not exactly enjoyable, but the dark side of  life needs to be considered as well as the light.

I emerged from Sunday intact, with no news to report other than that I’m headed off to look at cameras for my upcoming trip. I’m psyched about this trip. I’ve reserved two books on CD at the library — Harry Potter books, at the recommendation of a friend, who assures me I will love them. I have three other novels to read and I’m going to wrap up my journey with a Penn State football game.

All by myself, except for the game. On the road. Ready to blog. Expecting some emotions, as my late wife and I went to Cooperstown some 30 years ago, before our kids were born, and we were young, and we’d been to a lake house outside Saratoga Springs, the Newport Jazz Festival at the Saratoga Performing Arts Center’s amphitheater (with Chick Corea, Herbie Hancock, Sonny Rollins, a bunch of big bands and a million people), Toronto and back through C-town, plus a visit to the Corning Museum and Niagara Falls.

I’d been backpacking with some people who invited us up. My impulse was to decline — they were sophisticated and educated, they were Manhattanites and Toronto-ites, they were nothing like us. Sharon didn’t care. So we went, and had experiences we never forgot.

It’ll be interesting to see how this visit makes me feel. Well, it’s days away. Time to hit the list of chores. Enjoy yourselves out there.

Hi, Folks,

Remember our agreement? Sunday is a day of rest, reflection, relaxation, visiting friends, calling or visiting family members, maybe just visiting our own lives and seeing where they need tweaking.

I may have something on here later, but I may not. Let’s just let unimportant things go and aim toward the important. And let’s have fun.

Virginia Tech 34, William and Mary 0

Tribe nips Hokies in post-game spelling bee.

Talked to Bill Wood of Wood’s Ace Hardware at Roanoke’s Southwest Plaza today. He said he will close the store by the end of October after almost 28 years in the business, and it was not his choice.

Rather, he had a buyer who couldn’t agree on a lease with the owners of the shopping center. The deal fell through, and Wood faced the choice of signing two five-year leases and paying twice the current rent on his 13,000 square feet of space or closing up.

At 68, he chose to close.

As Wood showed some metal shelves in his warehouse to a prospective buyer,a woman customer told a sales clerk, "It just breaks my heart."

He has similar feelings.

"I’m very upset and very disappointed," he said.

His father operated Turner Drug Co. on the Roanoke City Market, which closed in 1978. Wood opened the hardware store at Southwest Plaza the next year.

With his busy manner and compact build, he looked made for the job and it looked made for him.

Hardware stores require a vast knowledge of a million things. He and his staff had that knowledge — still do, until the store closes — and have always shared it in a straightforward way.

Seven jobs will be eliminated by the closing. Wood has no idea what the center’s owners plan to put in his space.

He takes pride in having helped people who needed help the most, including many elderly widows who have said they are lost without their husbands to fix things. One woman came in earlier this week and cried.

"I grew up here," said Wood’s daughter, Christi Nicely, an occupational therapist for Carilion Health System. She bounced her son, Noah, 11 months old, on her knee and said the store had been a constant in her life. Losing it, she said, is like losing a family member..

Monika Wood, Bill’s wife, has mixed emotions. Closing will enable them to do other things, but leaving after all these years makes her sad.

Bill Wood plans to continue working, possibly in South Carolina, where they have a residence. A son, Bill Jr., and his family live in the Roanoke  Valley.

The sudden change in plans prompts prompts Wood to tell young people not to depend on the sale of their businesses to provide for their retirement.

Since he opened in 1979, individually owned hardware outlets in the area have dropped from 15 to five or six, he said. Small drug stores are outnumbered by chain pharmacies and full service gas stations have dwindled, as well.

Change comes. We adapt. But Wood believes that whether we’ve meant to or not, we have become a society where neighborliness and caring for one another have disappeared. We’re separating into the ultra-rich and the ultra-poor, he says. And without personal friendships and caring, we have nothing.

He thanked all the customers he won’t see again.

He excused himself, said he had to get some lunch and then see his doctor.

He has lost 16 pounds since August.

I found out today that Wood’s Ace Hardware in Southwest Plaza in the Oak Grove area is closing in the next month or six weeks. Haven’t talked to Mr. Wood yet, but I’m told that a rent increase is among the reasons he’s calling it quits.

I love his store and I appreciate the knowledge of the people who have worked there. Admittedly, I’m closer to his place than to Lowe’s, but even if Lowe’s prices were much, much lower, I wouldn’t go there unless it were absolutely necessary. I guess it’s about to become absolutely necessary.

Why Wood’s? SW County is a mobile society, but Wood’s Ace is an example of the individually-owned businesses that can give it a neighborhood feeling. Mr. Wood and his crew are folks who’ll actually have a conversation when they have the time.

Next door, T. Fulk at TF Alterations and Cleaners and her assistant, Connie, are the same way.

They not only take care of your business, they also add cheer (or outrage, depending on the topic under discussion) to your day.

Tomorrow, if I have time, I’ll try to ask Mr. Wood what the deal is. Meanwhile, things presumably are on sale. Give him a good sendoff. He provided good service, as did his wife, daughter and staff. Dang.

Long story. It’s enough to say that I’ve been crushed to realize that I apparently am not lazy, shiftless, aimless and worthless — that I like to work, like to be with people and do not use an abundance of open hours well.

More to come later, ideally, not on this subject. Anybody have anything they want to discuss?

The opening page to msn.com today featured 15 places in America where the changing leaves are glorious.

The recommendations ranged from the predictable, like Vermont and New Hampshire, to the unexpected, like Wisconsin and Ohio. Other places, like Oregon and South Lake Tahoe, also got the nod, as did the Smokey Mountains, found in Tennessee and North Carolina.

The only Virginia choice was Shenandoah National Park, where pollution has obscured the scenic views for years, and its major roadway, the Skyline Drive.

There was not a mention of the Roanoke Valley, the Blue Ridge Parkway, the Appalachian Trail, the New River Valley or, dare we suggest, remote yet beautiful counties like Tazewell, Highland and others.

You can make the case that the Smokies are more beautiful than the Blue Ridge. You can make the case that even Wisconsin has pretty leaves. Any place with oaks, maples, poplars and other trees is bound to have pretty leaves.

But you can easily make the case that Roanoke offers not only access to autumn views — both on and off the Blue Ridge Parkway — but also has cultural amenities galore. We have indigenous music in Floyd and other spots on the Crooked Road Music Trail. We have Chateau Morrisette and other wineries for lovers of the grape. We have Smith Mountain Lake, which is glorious in its own right in the fall.

We have our rivers and our hiking trails and beautiful little towns and downtown Roanoke, which seldom fails to charm. The same goes for Roanoke’s Grandin Village.

All of these things are reasonably close to each other. Again last weekend, my friend from Greensboro remarked on the easy ride between Roanoke and Blacksburg for the Tech game, and the mere minutes it took to travel from her lodgings in Salem to the Rockfish restaurant on Grandin Road.

Earlier this year, when I did a story about area tourism for the Roanoke Times, I  reported that the Roanoke Valley’s tourism promotion needs more money — a lot more money — to compete with other areas.

I also learned that much of the money it has is put toward the north and the midwest, to places like Washington, Maryland and Ohio.

I think more money is needed, and  more of it has to be aimed south. Greensboro residents are closer to Roanoke than they are to Asheville, and a lot closer than they are to far western North Carolina.

But Asheville spends much more money than we do, and has much more to spend, owing to the way its tourism taxes are distributed.

I like Southwest Virginia’s beauty and the Roanoke Valley’s size and ease of getting around. I don’t want those things to change.

But I also don’t want a possible source of clean revenue to be overlooked.

It’s time the listmakers thought about Southwest Virginia when they’re telling the world about pretty places.

That’s my opinion and I’m sticking to it.

a friend and I took off for Lewisburg, WV, intending to have dinner at a place called Julian’s.

We had no other plans, but afterwards, we made a fabulous discovery.

We came upon it while strolling the dark, chilly streets, tagging along with a ghost tour and eyeballing women in hoop skirts who were part of a Civil War Re-enactment.

Walking back toward the Great Oak Bed and Breakfast, we spotted a sign outside a Washington Street store front that said "Irish Pub."

We looked in — the long narrow room was brightly lit. Seats were available at tables and the bar. Irish music — live Irish music — blared onto the street.

We went in and sat down.

This is where I discovered Harp lager on draft. But neither that nor the old-time barroom nor the Irish touches on the walls proved to be the biggest attraction.

That was Patrick O’Flaherty, an Irish native whose first language was Gaelic until he traveled from his home in County Galway to England in his teens.

O’Flaherty, 58, is a widely known Irish musician who, among other things, has run pubs in Washington and New Orleans and performed with such Irish bands as The Celtic Folk and the Poor Clares (a name taken from an order of Catholic nuns).

He plays six instruments, sings a good folk tenor and seems to know a song for every breath he has ever taken.

Some of the songs were in  Gaelic, some in English. Some were timeless tunes of yore, and some were his compositions.

All I know for sure, other than that I drank two pints of Harp, stayed out late and kept my eyes on the sidewalk as we headed back to the B&B, is that there was no cover charge and the music was, under the circumstances, unbelievable.

This was no American knock-off of an Irish pub trying to get by with some shamrocks, shillelaghs and a couple of kegs of Guinness.

This was the real deal. O’Flaherty performs five nights per week and brings in outside talent. On Sundays from 2 to 5 p.m., there is a sort of brunch with blues, Irish jazz and other music.

Sunday nights at 6, an Irish "session" takes place. Anybody who wants to can play an instrument, recite poetry, do an Irish dance — whatever.

"You don’t have to be good," O’Flaherty says. "It’s just like you’re in Ireland."

He, his wife Andrea and her parents, Willa and Pat Izzo, are equal partners in the operation. The Izzos, both physical therapists (Willia is retired and also is a Master Gardener), have lived in Lewisburg for 11 years.

Andrea O’Flaherty taught literacy at Gallaudet University in Washington prior to taking on the pub’s business side, while her husband plays music and supervises the cooking.

Clearly they work themselves hard — the pub is closed only on Mondays, and O’Flaherty and others were there today, getting the place ready for the rest of the week.

Asked to talk about pub’s success, O’Flaherty points not to himself but to two other things: "No smoking and no televisions."

You know he’s Irish by his accent and by his simple philosophy: "We encourage conversation."

In their 10 months of operation he has seen people who merely nodded to each other on the street begin to banter from to table to table  as they eat and/or drink.

"People look through the windows," O’Flaherty says, "and start doing an Irish jig outside. I think everybody’s flabbergasted."

All I know is that I had more fun watching people, talking and listening to the music than I’ve had a long time.

"We get lot of compliments from everybody," O’Flaherty says. "People I’ve never seen in my life tell me how beautiful the bathrooms are."

In truth, they are plain but clean — but that, too, is a bit of a rarity in many establishments, and just another bonus at Lewisburg’s Irish Pub on Washington Street.

For more information, go to irishpubonwashingtonstreet.com or call (304) 645-7386

And therefore, not in Roanoke.

Andrew has provided us with a Website about Harp beer, which originated in Ireland. I would be remiss if I did not also mention Magic Hat #9, an ale, on draft at the Rockfish restaurant near the Grandin Theatre. Don’t know a thing about it, other than that I once had two at one sitting. This, for me, was a binge.

Andrew, anything to add?

Oh, and if I think of it, I’ll tell you about the night I discovered Harp, in a most unlikely place.