Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: TUESDAY, December 21, 1993 TAG: 9312210167
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: Kathleen Wilson
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
Forget it.
Ritzy fund-raisers thrown by local Republicans for future Gov. George Allen?
Ha!
The above-mentioned soirees have that high-glam quotient that might exclude the more bourgeois. But there is a party that's even tougher to wrangle an invitation to.
That's the annual Christmas party thrown by the Community Inn.
You know, it's the Raleigh Court watering hole that many of us could declare a second residence - if you logged the amount of time we spend there.
When I called to invite myself, I had to speak to three people who, after a brief summit, figured it might be OK.
For the past four years, the Community Inn has issued almost top-secret invites, declaring boldly: No Guests!
That's because owners Bruce and Juanita Moorow serve all their favorite customers a Sunday breakfast to celebrate the holidays: eggs, bacon, biscuits, spiced apples and sausage, all laid out on one pool table.
There were punch bowls of bloody marys and screwdrivers on the other pool table.
"Merry Christmas!" Juanita hollered, with big bottles of vodka in each hand.
Tommy Chattin, 70, and Lucian Shelor, 67, were sharing a table for two. "You know, there's probably not a day we're not in here," contemplated Lucian. Denise Gabriel and Deb Solomon informed me that Lucian is known for his singing.
Lucian declined, explaining that he only sings at night.
Well, what if we shut the lights off?
"Oh, forget it.
I can get Lucian to sing," declared a woman who identified herself only as Emmalee.
Sure enough. Lucian burst into "Why don't you love me like you used to do?"
"I just love this place," said Wayne Hale, making his third trip to the pool table.
He's not the only one.
The folks invited for this Christmas breakfast weave about as crazy a patchwork quilt as you can imagine.
"One of these plates is for my husband . . . honest!" explained Diane Wood of her two-fisted feeding frenzy.
In the midst of a plethora of plaid flannel shirts, workboots and baseball caps, David Scott was an elegant sight sitting at the bar in a suit and tie.
"I've been coming here for, gee, 30 years," he marveled. "Since my daddy would bring me in with him when I was 6 or 7."
David can remember all the way back to when Bruce drove a tow truck.
I tried to wedge myself into a conversation between Joe Bandy, Dwayne Philpott and Rife something-or-other.
When I asked how to spell his last name - Rifendifer - he opened his wallet and tossed me his driver's license.
"Just copy it off of that so I can keep eating."
For many of these people, it could be the first time they've ever seen each other in daylight.
Michelle Bennett said her favorite time to hang at the Community Inn is around 7 p.m.
"That's when `Wheel of Fortune' and `Jeopardy!' are on and everyone just yells out the answers," she said.
He's out there. Somewhere.
We search high and low. Leave no stone unturned. Endure boredom, humiliation, pantyhose, lipstick and mascara with high hopes of finding him.
I'm talking, of course, about Mr. Right.
Well, call off the search. 'Cause - darn it - he's been found.
Debora Stafford found him right under our noses at Lord Botetourt High School.
It's fun, she admitted at Corned Beef on Saturday, introducing her husband as Mr. Right.
That's Mr. Wright. Kyle Wright. With a "W."
"And don't forget," she added, "that makes me Ms. Right."
No, that's Ms. Wright.
With a "W."
by CNB