Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, February 23, 1992 TAG: 9202240193
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: D-3 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: MARGIE FISHER
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
THE PASSING OF A LEGEND
NOBODY, but nobody, could have gotten by with calling Mills E. Godwin Jr. "baby." Or unceremoniously walking up to the dignified, somber governor, wagging a finger and and bossing him around. ("Honey, you got to do this.") Or, in festive mood, jostling him to dance. ("Truck it on down, baby.")Nobody except Louise Olliff.
It's true: Godwin, tall and urbane lord of Chuckatuck, who spoke with an eloquent cadence that often made music in Virginia's political salons. Louise Olliff, short and often irascible proprietress of Chez Poulet, who spoke with a stuck-pig cacophony that often startled young children. There was a thing between those two - not, mind you, the kind of thing that gets politicians into tabloid headlines, but a rather charming relationship that lasted many years.
So the former governor was the person I called Tuesday, to express condolences, upon hearing that Louise Olliff had died. She didn't have much family, but Godwin and his wife Katherine loved her. And my, how Louise Olliff loved the Godwins.
Few people knew Louise Olliff. But everybody who's ever spent any time at the state Capitol knew "Chicken," this feisty little woman who for 50 years ran the Capitol's snack shop - with an iron hand and an egalitarian outlook.
For the 15 years I worked for this newspaper in its Richmond bureau, Chicken's was the nerve center of state government and the General Assembly.
It was where "the honorables" - delegates, senators and sometimes the governor - waited their turn alongside lobbyists and visiting schoolchildren to press to the counter for a limeade and a pack of Nabs. It was a place where reporters, their press room next door, might nab lawmakers for a quick interview or eavesdrop on legislative deals being made over Popsicles.
Chicken's was one of the few establishments left in the world where you could get a cup of coffee for 25 cents - and still can. It is the only place I ever knew where wieners cooked in a rotisserie with bits of paper pinned to them. (You see, you had to "reserve" them. If your name wasn't on one, forget it and order a ham sandwich.)
And, significantly, Chicken's was the major source of ice for the Capitol. In halcyon days, before the news media blew the whistle on such night-session revelry, some lawmakers liked to have a few nips at their desks in the House and Senate. Not surprisingly, this led to extended debates and extended night sessions.
But only as long as Chicken agreed to keep the snack shop open and to supply cups of ice. More than one reporter has won the press corps' sine die lottery by getting a tip from Chicken as to what time she planned to close shop on an assembly's final day.
"Nah! Umnutgonabeherepasten! Ibenersinsicks! Iduntcere, themdeligotsunsinterscunstay! Umgoingome!"
Chicken's repartee sometimes sounded like rap lyrics rendered by a mynah bird with a nasal infection. It was worse before she stopped smoking, because a cigarette was often dangling from one corner of her mouth. It was worst when she was really mad - at a supplier who was raising a price on her, or over a perceived slight by a smart-alecky Capitol newcomer.
It was said that she sometimes cussed a blue streak - but since verbal communication was not her strong suit, who's to know?
Anyway, I liked Chicken. Beneath the crusty exterior was a kind, soft heart. A few times, she'd call me aside to give me a piece of cake with her special caramel icing that she'd made at home - not for sale at any price on the counter. And if I was broke, she'd let me run a tab until payday.
I considered these acts to be compliments. Chicken was a shrewd businesswoman. I suspect, though I don't know for sure, that she made a fortune off that snack shop - the state paid all her overhead! - and she surely didn't make it by trafficking with freeloaders or giving away the goods.
Though I never heard her talk politics (at least, not so I understood it), I also suspect Chicken was a savvy politician. The General Assembly passed a law some years ago that gave preference to the handicapped for the operation of concessions in state-owned buildings. But no politician dared try to evict Chicken.
Chicken would never say anything critical about the chief executives who came and went during her tenure in the snack shop. She might confide that she liked some more than others, but she always dutifully hung a photograph of each new governor in her establishment, up by the Wrigleys and Rolaids rack.
But Godwin's picture never came down. In the time I was there, it stayed on the wall, dear and near to the cash register, no matter who occupied the gov's office on the third floor.
On the day after Chicken died, Godwin recalled that she was one of the first people he met when he first went to Richmond as a legislator in 1948. Long after he left, Chicken would call him regularly to report on Capitol doings and frequently went to visit the Godwins in Tidewater.
The only Virginia governor to ever serve two terms (his first as a Democrat; his second as a Republican), Godwin couldn't quite remember which of his administrations ended with Chicken's daring feat of acrobatics. But here's what happened:
By long-standing tradition, the outgoing governor tries to unobtrusively slip away from the Capitol during the inauguration ceremony for his successor. As Godwin and his wife were leaving, quietly walking to the governor's mansion to collect their bags and head home to Chuckatuck, they heard that familiar voice and looked back.
Louise Olliff - no spring chicken - was abandoning her limeade customers, climbing out of a Capitol window, causing a commotion, running to give the Godwins farewell hugs and kisses.
Chicken, eightysomething when she died, was an institution within an institution, the snack shop, within an institution, Virginia government. I suppose legislators will find a way to wrap up their current session without her, but they will surely miss her. So will I.