Randy Fitzgerald

 I’ve been writing a column here and there in various publications around the city for about 25 years now, including 18 years in the Times-Dispatch and the old Richmond News Leader.  When I met somebody new and they asked me what I wrote about, I was always a little stumped.

I generally wrote about whatever was on my mind each week at the point I sat down to write. When the kids were small, it was often about the funny things they were doing; once they were teenagers, I knew better than to write about them. Besides, teenagers aren’t often all that funny.

I’ve often said that I’d never have trouble finding a story or something to write about as long as I’m married to Barb, to whom and with whom every day is an adventure. Over the years I’ve written about her chasing a burglar down the alley in her bare feet, about her following the cat around one morning to see where the heck he was going every day, about her getting engrossed in a conversation during a funeral procession and starting to pass all the other cars, nearly overtaking the hearse. I write about how she takes me away each year to a surprise location each Valentine’s Day (stay tuned—it’s drawing nigh) and how she sets the Christmas tree out in the front yard in its stand each January and leaves it there, watering it until it dies (you can see it now on the front porch if you drive by).

There have been not just dozens but hundreds of Barb stories, and she’s not slowing down much in recent years either.

I have kept copies of most of my columns over the years, and they make a record of sorts of my life and my family’s life—maybe my kids will appreciate them some day.

But there is definitely a more immediate benefit to me from all these years of writing, and that comes from the readers who write to me or call and share their lives just as I have tried to share mine in print.

Three weeks ago I dilly-dallied and failed to get a column in by the deadline of this publication, with the result that my usual space was filled with something else, to my chagrin.  My only excuse is that I have several jobs, give a lot of speeches, do a lot of writing, and am pretty bad sometimes about getting things done on time. (This one is actually a few hours late, too.) Anyway, I wasn’t here three weeks ago—but something nice happened as a result.

I had three phone calls at home, inquiring as to where my column was, if I had stopped writing it, whether I might be sick, and the like. Two of the callers left no name, but one, whom I’ll call Mrs. C., left a nice long message with her name and the information that she lived in Powhatan. Barb tracked her down in the phone book, called her back, and the two had a long conversation one evening about family matters.

Mrs. C. told Barb about her five children, whose names all start with J, and their interesting jobs all over the country. Barb told Mrs. C. a little about our lives, and by the time she passed the phone to me to say hello, we were all old friends.

That’s the great thing about writing a column. I can’t tell you how many friends we’ve made over the years, people we’ve never met but from whom we hear every now and then, like clockwork.  I’m thinking about these folks today partially because of the three nice phone calls from Powhatan but also because of the Christmas cards we get every year, often from people we’ve never met, never seen, but whom we consider friends because we came together through a column at some point. They come from all over Richmond, but at least one other we heard from this year is a Powhatan resident—Georgia Hening.

Mrs. Hening goes back to the early 90s with us after our paths crossed at a Cancer Support Group at Johnston-Willis Hospital, back to a time before her husband died and other worries entered her life. Her card this Christmas read, “Since that time, I’ve followed your … stories from the paper and now the Community Weekly… thanks for bringing me smiles.”

My pleasure, Mrs. Hening, and thank you for bringing me a smile in return.