THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, October 29, 1995 TAG: 9510250053
SECTION: REAL LIFE PAGE: K2 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: REAL SLICES
The patrons of Monk's Place, a Pungo general store-turned-pub, bemoan the
encroachment of city ways and housing developments.
SOURCE: BY EARL SWIFT, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Medium: 88 lines
THE BEER'S been drained from Jim's brown bottle. Frank is encouraging the last few drops from his.
``Want another?'' Jim asks.
Frank leans forward in his chair. ``I gotta get some work done,'' he says, ``but I guess we have time for one more.'' He nods at the barkeep, turns back to Jim and says, ``What the heck.''
They're the only customers this early afternoon at Monk's Place, a general store-turned-pub deep in Virginia Beach's agrarian belly. It's a little place, its four tables, four barstools and two booths crammed into a low-slung, rust-red bungalow on a sharp curve of Princess Anne Road a few minutes' drive from the state line.
Inside, knotty pine walls stained dark brown by years and smoke are papered with NASCAR posters, beer come-ons, Washington Redskins memorabilia. A Grand Lizard pinball machine casts a saffron glow in the room's darkest corner. Halloween decorations litter the bar.
``When I moved down to Knotts Island, I thought I was so far away from everything that it would never come out that far,'' Jim is saying, shaking his head.
Frank tips back the brim of his camouflage ball cap, which is emblazoned with the words ``God, Guns & Guts Made America Free - Let's Keep All Three,'' and lights a cigarette. ``There's gotta be twice as many families on the island now,'' he agrees.
``Show me the Green Line,'' Jim says. ``Show it to me. The Green Line's a joke.''
The subject on the table is development, for decades a problem distant from Monk's Place and Creeds and the Knotts Island community that straddles the North Carolina line. This has always been farming country, a place apart from the rest of Virginia Beach, too far-flung on too-small roads to appeal to commuters.
From here it's a dozen miles or more just to the Pungo crossroads, the nearest stoplight. So for decades, while treeless, cookie-cutter subdivisions metastasized up north, gobbling forest and swamp that once buffered the Oceanfront from crowded Norfolk, houses in Creeds and Knotts Island stayed unlocked at night, safe from the ills of big-city life.
Now suburbia is beginning to show even here. A subdivision has bloomed near the Creeds School, a few minutes from Monk's. New houses are going up on Knotts Island. Virginia Beach's Green Line, intended to hem the city's southward sprawl, has sprung holes.
Maybe that old advice is right: If you want to outrun the advancing city, you have to travel farther than you can imagine it chasing you and then double that distance. Don't and you'll find yourself surrounded by fertilized lawns.
Betty Cowan sets a pair of fresh beers on the table. ``The young people,'' Jim is explaining, ``they ain't interested in farming like their daddies did. They're not staying on the farms. They sell the land.''
Frank nods sagely as country-western music dribbles weakly from the jukebox. A minute passes before somebody notes that crime accompanies the sprawl.
``That right there,'' Betty says, her voice rising, a forefinger aimed at the TV, ``that is the problem.
``Filled with nothing but violence and killing and sex,'' Betty declares. ``They'll show two people going right down to the nitty-gritty.
``When I was in school, we said the Lord's Prayer every morning. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing wrong with that at all.''
Jim and Frank nod their agreement that there's nothing wrong with that.
``Now,'' Betty says, ``they've taken out God - and put in condoms.'' Noticing that the men have nearly finished their beers, she asks, ``You want another?''
Frank looks pained as Jack Holmes walks in, wearing a gas station shirt, and sits down a table away. ``I have to get to work,'' he says. ``I have to get that stuff done today.''
Jack overhears him. ``You, work?'' he yells. ``I've heard some good jokes, but damn if that one don't take the cake.''
Betty and the two other men chuckle.
``I'm in no hurry,'' Jim offers.
Frank lights another cigarette and nods to Betty. ``OK, one more,'' he says. ``What the heck.'' ILLUSTRATION: Color photo
EARL SWIFT
Jack Holmes relaxes with some of his friends at Monk's Place in
Virginia Beach.
by CNB