Tag-Team Babysitters

A few weeks ago I had the pleasure of joining my friend Faye for a babysitting gig. Here’s how it went.

 

You are invited: to help me babysit

Honorees: 2 adorable grandchildren (Amaya & Selma)

Location of Venue: Richmond, VA

Time: Wednesday ‘till Friday

 

I gotta say, I never hesitated.   Faye and I always have a good time…wherever we’re headed, whatever we’re headed into.  So off we went to Richmond with an open itinerary.  Our charge was to deliver and pick up the girls from school, feed them and put them to bed.  There were no long lists (left by their mom) as to what to feed, when to bed down and how to spend the afternoon hours until lights out.  The details were left up to us and  

we tackled the task with creativity and enthusiasm.

Our location was picture perfect.  The girls live (with their parents) in a beautiful old 3 story townhome in the heart of Richmond known as the Fan District.  Here the streets fan out like the spokes of a wheel, and the traffic roundabouts are adorned with massive statues of mostly Civil War heroes.  (There is one renegade statue of hometown local Arthur Ashe)  Tree lined sidewalks, quaint coffee and bake shops dotted about, and every house spit-spot, make this neighborhood totally charming.  

We walked the girls to school both mornings.  The scene on the school yard corner is truly Norman Rockwell; mothers with strollers, children with scooters, daddies on bicycles and folks just milling about talking and visiting with one another.  They are waiting for a connecting bus to the pre-school, or waiting for the morning bell to ring signaling it’s time to bring the children inside.  And indeed they do.  When the bell rings, everyone…mothers, fathers, grandmothers and fathers and sitters and nannies all escort their darlings into the building, down the halls right into their respective classrooms.  Where, I will add, the teacher is at the door to greet everyone with a cheerful good morning!  It was wonderful!

By 8:45 in the morning, we had adeptly performed our duties and were foot loose and fancy free until 3:15.  It goes without saying (or maybe I should) that we used our time wisely, or at least used it to our liking.  Our “to do and to see” list was much longer than the hours we had to fill.  The only task we had promised to do while in Richmond was to locate a particular beer supply store, and buy George the ingredients needed for his next brew batch.   It took a bit of time to find the tiny hole-in-the-wall, but once we did, the well informed fellow behind the counter took charge, and while we shopped the antique/thrift shops across the street, he pulled things off his shelves, mixed up concoctions and totaled it all up for us.  One swipe of the credit card and we were out of there with two bags full. 

We had a blast.  We shopped ‘till we dropped at every thrift shop in the west end.  We swung by Trader Joes and stocked up on specialty items.  We lingered over sweet, rich coffee at Kuba-Kuba and had French fries for lunch.  Oh, what decadence. 

We found a couple of real treasures…a red leather chair and a wooden porch bench.  Fitting it all into the back of the car was a real jigsaw puzzle, but we were determined.

It was 3:15 before we were half way down our list, and we sped back to pick up the girls.  That’s when the fun really started.  We drove over to Maymont, a breathtakingly beautiful park with 100 acres of gardens, fountains and waterfalls.  The impressive Victorian mansion on the grounds was built in 1893, and the entire property was given to the town of Richmond by the owners for future generations to enjoy.  The park also serves as a sanctuary for injured birds and animals or otherwise endangered species.  We got up close and personal with an enormous pair of black bears, and shared a moment with a fox being served his evening meal. 

In spite of the late afternoon heat, we had a blast.  Selma gave us a solo performance of “It’s a Hard Knock Life” while standing in the middle of the dome topped pergola. We all marveled at the “surround sound” effect the architecture afforded.  We enjoyed several repeat performances. 

A pizza dinner, ice cream cones and bedtime stories topped off our busy day.  Everyone had fun.

I gotta say, I think we handled our job in a responsible and trustworthy manner.  We may even have performed it with a bit of style and grace.

 Humm, just a glimpse into what may lie ahead.   Maybe I’ll need Faye to tag-team with me some day.   Raleigh here we come!

 

 

San Miguel - A Magic Tonic

A few days in San Miguel is like a magic tonic that sharpens the senses at the same pace it eases you into the slow lane.  The only things moving fast are the wings of the hummingbird I’m watching through the open veranda doors.  The terrace walls are dripping with bougainvillea, and the giant terra cotta pots sprinkled about are bursting with color. 

Our long-time friends, Barbara and David, have set up residence in this bucolic, way south-of-the-border town.  Founded centuries ago, San Miguel de Allende is a charming city of narrow cobblestone streets, beautiful churches, and warm hues of brick and stone buildings.  The markets, plazas and jardins are always busy, filled with locals and tourists alike.  Everyone mingles, everyone offers a friendly greeting, and the air is charged with life.  New smells are offered up as you walk past vendors.  I haven’t been tempted or brave enough to try any street food except for the ice cream – la lima – delicioso!

Barbara and David are true locals and know all the best restaurants and where to shop.  Their wide circle of friends, artists, musicians and actors include many fellow Americans (all ex-pats) and Mexican residents as well.  David plays in a band (his brain child) and Barbara belongs to several acting groups doing a bit of everything from improv to miming.   This wonderful group of folks has made us feel quite included and welcome. 

San Miguel is steeped in a rich history of family, religious rites, celebrations, and revolution.  The Virgin of Guadalope is the symbol of all that is holy and good, and her image emblazes everything from shopping bags to stained glass.  There are daily celebrations of parades and fireworks following the religious calendar.  It takes a few days to sleep though the boom of fireworks that begin at midnight on the eve of the honored birthday of any given saint or national hero….and there are hundreds of saints and heroes.  Some obviously don’t rate as high as others…say Christopher Columbus.  The only quiet night we had was Oct. 13….eve before Columbus Day.  The word’s out - he wasn’t such a nice guy after all.   Then there’s Ignacio Allende (hence the Allende of San Miguel de Allende), Captain of the Mexican Army who led the downtrodden masses in the revolution against Spain.  Caught and beheaded, his legend lives on in the hearts of every Mexican.  During the huge Independence Celebration, canons are fired, dancing and music fill the streets, and fireworks light the sky all night.  Festival de los Locos, to celebrate the arrival of spring, is a huge favorite with most persons. 

In age-old tradition, men dress as women, dancing and music fill the streets, and my favorite, the Mojigangas  (stilt-walkers) parade with their elaborate, enormous puppet-like costumes.  Oh, to be in San Miguel on a festival day!

We’ve got five days to take it all in.  Hurry up to slow down.  There’s the market (I’m addicted), the churches, the hot springs, art galleries, botanical gardens, scenic drives, parties, breakfast engagements, lunch engagements, dinner plans, and open houses.  In between, we soak up the sunshine; wander the narrow streets and mill around el jardin.  

      It’s all good.         

Climbing Crabtree Falls

I climbed to the top of Crabtree Falls yesterday.  It was a perfect day offering up crisp Indian summer temperatures.  In all honesty, I didn’t climb to the top…I clawed and crawled my way upward to the summit. 

This outing had been suggested by several “in the know” adventurous folks who touted the beauty of the falls and urged us to go for it.  So venture forth we did. 

Sunday afternoons have long been established as an outing day.   We took off from Farmville with little in mind other than to find the trail; hike it and then top off the day raising a glass at The Devil’s Backbone Brew Pub.  What…four, maybe five hours, max?

We lost the navigation signal two hours into the trip as the road fell away and we climbed into the Blue Ridge.  But even sans signal, not long after we crossed the Appalachian Trail, we pulled into the parking lot at the base of the trail.  After wolfing down our picnic lunch, we meandered over to the trail map and discovered it was a mere 1.7 miles to the top.  Piece of cake. 

Crabtree Falls is the highest waterfall east of the Mississippi.  The first overlook of the falls is just a few hundred feet from the parking lot and is handy for even the faint of heart hikers to view.  Several other sightings of the cascading water are scattered along the trail, but only the most adventurous (as the guide book calls us) make it to the top.

I was feeling rather fit and right spunky as I forged ahead…onward and upward.  The trail was well traveled yesterday and often we had to squeeze to the side to allow someone to pass us…going up, as well as coming down.  As we climbed higher and the path grew steeper, my cocky confidence waivered.  I began to really pay attention to my fellow hikers.  There was indeed a lot of diversity.  Surely I can do this if the Vertically Challenged lady in the pink high heel flip flops can!  Right?  And there were people with babies strapped to their backs.  And folks handling dogs…on leashes.  I mean, “What are these people thinking,” I thought to myself?  I certainly could not voice that sentiment out loud (to George) because I couldn’t talk at all.  “Just put one foot in front of the other and pray we get to the top soon."  That was my mantra. 

The climb took us two hours.  Two hours!  I can walk 1.7 miles in about 24 minutes on the treadmill.  What’s with that?

Was it worth the climb?  Damn right.  It was a beautiful panorama vista; a meadow vista the guide book calls it.  I call it tops of trees. 

But it wasn’t about the view at all.  It was all about me.  Yep, I was feeling pretty good about myself at that point.  I had made it.

Everyone claimed it was much easier heading down the mountain and I agree.  I have to say; however, that taking teeny-tiny steps while bracing yourself to keep your footing is hard on the knees.  We made the descent in half the time and limped to the porta-potties.

Ready to put Crabtree Falls behind us, we set off to find Devil’s Backbone Brewery with one thought in mind….an ice cold draft.  It was quite close by, only 13 miles, but we headed in the wrong direction and had to make a few detours before we took our spot at the bar.  The brew and food did not disappoint.  You can indulge with sweet abandon when you rationalize how well deserving you are!

It was a sweet afternoon that left me with sore muscles and much to ponder. I’m checking that one off my bucket list.

 

 

 

Touching Base

      

I talked with all three of my children yesterday.  That may not seem like a sentiment worth mentioning, but I find it fairly remarkable.  My children are grown and live scattered about.  One lives in our hometown of Elizabeth City, NC.  One lives 3,000 miles away on the west coast.  And one lives in our state capitol, Raleigh, NC.  I live in Farmville, VA.

With the dawn of cell phones, email and social media, staying “in touch” is easier than ever.  Friends text to connect all day long, often interrupting work or sleep or just about anything one finds themselves doing while toting a phone.  I’ve seen people who should know better, crossing a five street intersection while texting.  And, we’ve all encountered the distracted motorist looking into his or her lap while waiting for an already green light to turn green.  Or, worse still, careening down four lanes astride the middle line. These days you can “reach out and touch someone” as fast as your fingers can move.

I remember when I left home for college in 1968.  My parents suggested that I call home on Sunday evenings – only.  Using long distance more than once a week would have been considered too indulgent.  Like most girls’ colleges of that era, there was one pay phone on the hall.  There were no pre-paid phone cards.  You either had a roll of dimes or you called “collect” through the operator.  I always called collect. 

It was a time I looked forward to…a chance to share my week and find out about things at home.  Just hearing my mom or dad’s voice over the line often put a lump in my throat and tears weren’t far behind.  There’s an intimacy that comes with talking on the telephone.  It’s a precious familiarity of speaking in hushed tones and hearing laughter and noticing pauses in conversation.

We all can recall those special phone calls…the ones that change your life for better or worse.  The good news of a new grandchild, or the relief that she’s (he’s) home safely, or the test results were negative.  All too often however, the phone is a channel for bad news.

During the days before telephones were common at Nags Head, we used to occasionally receive word from the grocery store up the road that they had a phone message for us.  I learned that my x-ray had indeed indicated that my foot was broken, and I must travel back to Elizabeth City to have it casted….for a month, in mid-summer.   And far worse, my mother learned of a dear friend’s fatal accident.

 There have been times when I dreaded answering the phone.   Seems there is no good news at 3 AM.  But regardless of what the call might reveal, I always answer.  We now have the marvelous benefit of caller ID and can anticipate before the “hello” whose voice we’ll hear.  Lately the news is all good.  I feel blessed, and oh - so lucky.

Kate, the youngest, called first thing yesterday morning (as she always does before leaving for work.  She was walking her new puppy and just checking in.  She likes to hear my voice just as I like to hear hers.  You can tell at lot by listening closely.  All is well in Raleigh she reported.   Son John (middle child) called about 5:00 (2:00 Pacific time) as he was riding his bike home from work.  He’s working as a prep chef in a restaurant these days and loving life.  He’s doing a fair amount of surfing on his day off.  Santa Barbara is hard not to like.  He was just touching base I imagine because he knows how much it means to me.  Then low and behold, Jenny (senior child) called me to talk about her day.  She unfolded her day for me as I fried fish (yeah, fried!) for dinner.  Just reaching out.  It was nice.

 

There’s a feeling of completeness after I’ve spoken with all of my children.  I can visualize them in their lives, doing what they’re doing and I know that for now, this day and moment, all is well and right in my world.

Shenandoah Paddle

George and I just returned from three days of paddling two of the most scenic rivers Virginia has to offer.  Mind you, these trips aren’t spontaneous.  Anyone who is paddle savvy, knows that weeks of planning and organizing make the trip more fun.  Emails begin flying after folks check their calendars and sign on.  Reservations are booked, kayaks, canoes and lifejackets are secured. And most importantly, picnic menus are discussed, decided upon and divided up.

Our paddle companions were Mary Anne and Barry, Heidi and John, Phyllis and Margene and Casey and Walter…a great bunch.  What some of us lacked in experience, we more than made up for in enthusiasm and stamina.  There were no whiners on this trip.  Well, one small navigation error almost resulted in mutiny, but one loyal mate offered words of perseverance and we forged ahead.  (this occurred on the way to the river….in the car!)  But, once on the river there was no mistaking which way to go….just go  with the flow.

Four of us from Elizabeth City joined two from Farmville (Faye and Chuck) and spent Thursday (Aug. 15 – George’s birthday)  kayaking on the James River. Putting in at Scotsville, we traveled 13.6 miles and pulled out 4 ½ hours later at Bremo Bluff.  We enjoyed lots of class 1 rapids and a fantastic lunch prepared by Faye (culinary queen extraordinaire)  Just when one thinks the river has nothing else to offer, Faye spotted a huge creature moving in the water.  Who would ever guess a manatee had found its way into Virginia waters?  We didn’t have this confirmed until our return and read the newspapers.

 By 5 PM we told the Greens goodbye and headed towards Skyline Drive and Big Meadows Lodge where we were to meet the group arriving from Elizabeth City.  Pulling a trailer loaded with six kayaks and sporting another one on top, we talked about the day’s trip and wondered about the one coming up…. the Shenandoah!

What a dream…floating down the stream, kayaking on the Shenandoah.  That pretty much sums up Friday and Saturday as our entourage floated, paddled and navigated that majestic river.  With 8 boats carrying 10 people, we can boast that no-one took a spill.  George and I teamed up in a double kayak and did our best to keep the gunnels above the water line.  My role seated fore was to spot upcoming obstacles and potential danger.  For left-handed George, me shouting “paddle left” or “paddle right” doesn’t get it.  He’s never been able to decipher that basic navigational tool.  We settled on using the clock-face.  “Rock ahead at 1 o’clock” worked like a charm.  The last rapids (Compton’s) was a class 2+ and by late Saturday afternoon we were all ready and prepared to take the dive.  All 8 boats rode it down like professionals and hit the tidal pool with big grins.  The tidal pool, by the way, held 500 college kids in tubes….and an extra 200 tubes sporting coolers.  It was a colorful sight.

The rest is all downriver.  We gathered for cocktails and tales on the Keyes’ patio and watched the sunset.  We laughed about near spills and “out-of water” experiences on rocks.  We shared reflections and the after-glow of a shared adventure.  We’re already talking about our next trip!

Surfing Sixties

A feature article in the morning paper about surf legend Bob Holland led me down memory lane.  Everybody who toted a surfboard on the Outer Banks in the sixties knew the name. Years before he made it into the East Coast Surfing Hall of Fame, he was making a name for himself as an east coast champion.  The kids I hung with were into surfing and were lucky to be a beach local from Memorial Day to Labor Day.  Some of us had family cottages, some stayed with friends and some worked jobs that provided lodging (of sorts).  I swear Pat and Julia spent an entire summer in a camper parked in my family’s driveway.  Where there’s a will, there’s a wave.

I started surfing on a chunky orange board I bought from Nancy Wood Foreman.  When Bob Holland teamed with partner Pete Smith to open Smith & Holland Surf Shop in Virginia Beach, I bought my first real board, a 9.5 ft. Hansen Superlight.  I was stoked!

We lived and breathed surfing and the waves were better then.  Maybe it was the position of the sandbars, maybe it was the wave gods, but we almost always found rideable waves.  You could find our crowd on any given day at dead low tide, somewhere between Hatteras and Corolla searching for the waves. Many mornings we were in the water just after sunrise and ride a few before breakfast. A favorite time was just before twilight when the surf often got glassy.  Our evening surfing slowed a bit after an incident with a shark.  There are no causalities to report, just a little too up close and personal.   Sharks aside, not much else could squelch our dedication and enthusiasm…we ignored jellyfish, sea nettles, sting-rays and bone numbing cold water.  I broke my foot one morning and didn’t feel it until lunch due to the freezing water temperature. 

Those were the golden years of surfing.  West coasters had been testing the waters for decades, but in the mid-sixties the sport took off and ignited the east coast in a hot frenzy.  Fueled by top 40 hits by The Beach Boys and dozens of surfing films, we fell into the scene with complete allegiance.  We followed the weather reports and storm predictions.  We skipped school, drove endless miles up stretches of isolated beaches and waited out the red warning flags flying during gale force winds.  We looked out for each other. 

I recall one incident with sober clarity.  It was at the tail end of a storm when the surf was glassy, but the waves were still huge.  Several of us, including myself, George and Allan (my brother) paddled out at the Nags Head Fishing Pier.  It took a while to get out, past the big swells rolling in one after another, and when we finally stopped paddling and turned to sit on our boards, the beach was a long, very long way away.  We were as far as the end of the pier.  Every wave seemed deadly…too big to take off on.  It grew later and darker.  My mother had put the beach towel on the roof to signal it was time to come it now.  I saw it, we all saw it, but we were scared.  Someone decided we should all take off on the same wave.  So, that’s what we did.  Nobody made any effort to stand up. We all caught that wave and rode it like we were riding a raft. 

Surfing’s still big, but it will never impact an entire generation of teens like it did for us. The sixties spawned a culture that made zinc oxide a symbol of belonging .  It forever changed beach fashion and almost invented the bikini. Surfing symbolized our freedom and gave us the rush we so needed.  It was the perfect time.   

Downtown Market

 

If you haven’t checked out the Saturday morning market in downtown Elizabeth City, you’re missing a delightful experience.  Between May and October, white tents adorn the waterfront lawn on Water Street at the city docks.   Local farmers and bakers tantalize our senses with a plethora of selections.  The current season defines the bounty…..spring offers up asparagus and lettuce while we patiently await the season’s first berries.  As soon as the strawberries are gone, we’re getting  blueberries.  And everyone waits for the summer’s first vine grown tomato.  Good-bye to hot-house, cardboard, no color, no taste tomatoes.  Hello Better Boys!  There’s squash, corn, green beans, butter beans, zucchini too.  One booth sells herbs for “grow your own.”  Do you like lavender or mint in your tea?  Try sprouting it yourself.

The best chocolate chip cookies I have ever eaten are offered at Sydney’s Café, table.  They' re a tad pricey, but I am known to splurge on occasion.  Those cookies just flat out beg.  I usually  buy one for now and another for later.  The bread and baguettes are baked fresh on market day  as well. 

Other vendors are offering up jams and jellies, cucumber pickles, watermelons and cantaloupes, cakes and pies.  You can even buy a necklace or pair of handmade earrings.  Some Saturdays, John Peel sets up shop and sells his top shelf pottery, and the SPCA often brings the “puppy of the week” hoping it will find its new owner. 

The scene is friendly and just plain wholesome.  Folks mill around with their babies in backpacks and their dogs on leashes.   In a few scarce weeks, fall will be upon us and the bounty will change again. Pumpkins will replace watermelons.  It’s a social event.  Everyone’s invited.

 Come one, come all, come often.

There’s something for everyone.

 

The Applejack

The Applejack is third in birth order of our children.  She arrived just two years after John, 1976 to be exact.  She joined our family much like her siblings; much thought about but not planned, and powerfully loved once delivered.

Our Skipjack was designed and built by master boat-builder Curtis Applegarth at his boatyard in Oxford, MD.  Applegarth, a fourth generation boat builder, build skipjacks for pleasure cruising, taking design and dimensional liberties with the full scaled working Chesapeake Bay Skipjack model.  Our best guess is that our vessel was crafted in mid-1960’s and christened with a combination of Skipjack and Applegarth….hence Applejack.  We liked the name and it stuck.

Pleasure cruising is what the Applejack is all about.  It’s hosted a couple of overnights before, but it’s best at entertaining a few friends for a late afternoon sail on the Pasquotank.  If the weather is particularly cooperative and the winds are fair, cocktails and a picnic supper are usually in store.

George manages the tiller and main-sail with confidence and ease, and while I used to handle the jib….I mostly just watch it luff now.  Trimming the sails is tough work and I’m quick to recall the last time the captain asked me to “cheat the jib,” I fell overboard.  I’m better at pushing us off the pier to get underway and securing lines when we return to dock.  I pack a pretty good picnic basket too.

The Captain is cautious  and holds a mighty respect for the water and the dangers that face all mariners.  The Applejack doesn’t sail in blue water; she plies the brackish rivers and local sounds that keep her in safe territory. That’s not to say she hasn’t kissed the bottom a few times.  Wooden boats can sink…fast.  I’ve never been aboard the three times this has occurred.  Umm.

We’ve been lucky, she’s been lucky. She’s still moored in front of our home in Forbes Bay most of the time.  She winters with the O’Neal’s where she can enjoy calmer waters, and when a hurricane threatens, she rides it out in a secure “gunk hole” across the Pasquotank.  Recently she enjoyed a deep-pour cleansing and a minor face-lift while resting at Riverside Boat Works. 

She’s back and better than ever.  She’s ready to go.  Give us a shout and a wave when you see us heading out for a sunset cruise.  Or better still, come along for the ride.

 

California Dreaming

Summer’s promise of lazy days spent with a book on the screen porch, or catching up on those long over-due projects just hasn’t happened.   This summer has been fast and full.  We see ourselves coming and going, and much of the time can’t remember which way we’re headed.  In the midst of a rental house renovation and an Applejack overhaul, we left town and headed to California to visit son John.  It was just the tonic I needed.

Santa Barbara is just about perfect.  Nestled down between the Santa Ynez  Mountains  and the Pacific Ocean, the area enjoys misty mornings, sunny afternoons and cool evenings.  We spent four days catching up with each other and easing into the laid-back lifestyle.  We changed accommodations three times just for the fun of it, and were never disappointed.  One beachside motel offered beach cruisers and we took off for an early morning ride to Montecito.  No one was walking the beach once we got past the beach volley-ball game, so we ditched the bikes and scoured the sand looking for beach glass.  The mansions clinging to the cliffs are mind boggling and one expects to see Bo Derek bouncing down the beach (she does in fact live there).  Save one lone surf caster, we saw no-one. 

State Street is a shopping Mecca and although we strolled through the high dollar district, we prefer to scavenge the fabulous thrift shops.   Everyone found treasures and we felt no guilt or shopper’s remorse when we stuffed my new-old Samsonite carry-on bag full of our new-gently used digs. 

The Sandman Inn is our old tried and true place to stay, but after this trip we may recalculate.  The complimentary breakfast is the best thing going in SB; serving up early in a darling “Big Al’s” style diner.  They offer two pools and free passes to the Y.  A true value in anyone’s book, but we all suffered through a long night with the gyrating DJ tunes pulsing through our walls from the “Destination Party” venue next door.

Moving on, we discovered The Marina Inn (complimentary bikes) where they put us up in the corner suite for the night.  It really was sweet and very spacious and lovely, albeit I think George got flea bites while stretching out his periformis while lying on the carpet.  The bike ride got to him.

Moving on, we discovered The Franciscan Inn literally just next door.  This too was nice, offering hot cookies, hot-tub and heated pool.  The room could have been hot….no air condition…but, it wasn’t.  Who would think to ask if the room was climate controlled?  Aren’t they all these days?  Apparently not, and honestly, not needed.  Another match point for Santa Barbara weather.

We ate our fill of fish tacos and California pizza and enjoyed the scene.  We enjoyed walking the piers and boardwalks and taking in the spectacular sunsets.  Most of the time we were there the surf was flat with little wave action and few surfers out, but near the end of our stay the wind kicked up and the swells were ridable.  Within minutes, surfers take to the water and vie for top position on the best waves.  There’s a surfer’s code of ethics that goes unspoken, but it’s easy to spot.  No matter how many boards are in the water, there’s a give and take and courtesy offered to one another.  No worries out there in the water and everyone looks out for each other.

That’s my take on Santa Barbara.  When we left John and headed for North Carolina, I felt great.  He’s okay, in a solid place, where everyone looks out for each other.

Durant Island 2013

There are not too many traditions in our lives outside family birthdays and Christmas that hold fast and true.  Time, distance and aging make many anthills seem like mountains and it’s easier to just let things slide.  Last weekend a group of friends defied the odds as we gathered on Durant Island for a bit of camping.  Friendship, tenacity and gumption have kept this tradition going for well over 30 years.   

The annual sojourn has its genesis with three fellows who waited tables together on the Outer Banks back in the sixties.   Durant Island is situated in the Albemarle Sound where the Alligator River slaps up against its south east banks.  The island is a spit of barren sand and scrub pine.  A few high knolls offer spectacular views of the island, and other than the bare-bones hunting lodge situated on the far side, there is nothing there but nature.  The island offers a perfect get-away for fun-loving, adventure seeking folks.

In the decades following the sixties, the young waiters brought girlfriends, then wives and babies and often invited new friends to experience the secrets of the island.   The dynamics of the group have changed as life throws us punches with illness, divorce and death, but every spring emails start to fly as we decide whose boat is seaworthy, who’s cooking dinner and who’s tending bar.  A full weekend of total abandonment has been changed to arriving late on Saturday in time for cocktails and leaving after a sunrise breakfast the following morning.  Time on the island may have been shortened, but there’s no short supply of food, fun and camaraderie.

Storm winds and tides have altered the shoreline and inlets so our campsites are ever changing. We never know until we arrive where we’ll pitch our tents and dig our fire pit.  Some years have had slim pickings for a suitable spot, but this year we found the island quite to our delight.  No campers do it any finer than the Durant Island Yacht Club.  We’ve fine-tuned every nuance and have every amenity necessary for a grand time.  This year was no disappointment with top shelf cabernet provided by islander Mike, soft shell crabs fried up by Eddie and late night limoncello served around the campfire by the commodoress (yours truly).

Plenty of stories and swapping old memories took us well into a perfect night. We are the best of friends, accepting each other just the way we are.  We know it’ll be the same year after year and we wouldn’t want it any other way.   

See you on the island.   

'Nothing Could Be Finer'

I’ve been reminded that it’s been a while since I’ve posted.   Life’s been busy.  With Longwood’s graduation behind us, Kate and Matt tucked in their new house and two big spruce up & renovation projects under way, we’ve hardly had time for a vacation.  But vacation we did.  Last week we headed to Folly Beach for a few days of fun in the sun.  What some would see as an odd coincidence, I see as sure fire destiny.  George and I spent an entire semester in Charleston (a mere 8 miles from Folly) and haven’t had an opportunity to revisit until our dear new friends, the Greens, from Farmville invited us to share their vacation house in Folly.  It was all grand and as another good friend would say, it was big on big. 

Kristen and Jason’s (Green's daughter and son-in-law) cottage is perfect.   Its simple, no-nonsense décor has a lovely rustic charm and is a mere two blocks from the ocean.  I love the no clutter, the clean corners and counters…a way of living that I crave but have never been able to accomplish.  My stuff gathers stuff.   Their house eases you into a laid back lifestyle of eating meals on the porch and lazing on the beach.  If you feel you must have some sort of physical activity, you can take a bike ride or toss a few bocce balls on the beach.   There are plenty of spots to root down with a favorite book or hidden sites to discover on an early morning walk.  We biked to the lighthouse, a wonderful peddle headed down, a kick-butt-head-wind-thigh-screaming ride coming back.  I was the new rookie in a game of beach bocce ball, but soon retreated to my beach chair to watch the seasoned Greens take to the sand.  An extra- long soak in the claw-foot tub helped to soothe my muscles but not my dignity. I came pretty close to hollering for someone to come pull me out of that thing.  After I had used my fair share of the hot water and my fingers were shriveled, I found I was unable to stand up.  Some quick thinking and a yoga move or two found me on the floor side of the tub.  Whew. 

We loved every minute of our stay.  A great night out in Charleston to celebrate Chuck’s birthday highlighted our last evening and was topped off with a visit from son Chaz (fresh back from the west coast). 

‘Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina’…..South Carolina that is….with friends. 

Clipping Away

We subscribe to a lot of newspapers around here.  Any given day we may have 2 or 3 delivered and 2 or 3 arrive by post.  That doesn’t count the weekend papers, for which, we feed quarters into the corner boxes.  All totaled up, it amounts to quite a stack of newsprint and a whole lot of recycling. My husband, George, has always been a clipper.  My father was a clipper too, but George is legendary in his pursuit of worthy clippings.  We’ve had countless discussions about this habit – exactly what does he do with all those thousands of snippets of paper?  Well, he files most of them! Honest.  He sends along pertinent ones to our children (who may read them but certainly don’t file them away)

He often sticks one in his book bag for immediate usage in his morning class.  But mostly they get filed away.  In lots of file cabinets.  Labeled in orderly file folders.  Folders like; Dismal Swamp, wooden boats, growing blueberries, real estate appraising, tax law, electricity, massage therapy, photography…..just to mention a measly few because the list is quite lengthy and new folders are frequently added.    I used to give him a hard time about (in my opinion) the reckless abandonment in which he tears into the news, but I’ve mellowed and come to appreciate that we all depend on his vast collection of fingertip information.  He prides himself (and amazes me) that he can usually put his hands on said article within a few minutes. 

         This finely honed system of delivery and clipping has been duly tested with our recent   
moving about from state to state.  The papers are having a hard time catching up with our comings and goings, and although we’ve been diligent about changes of address, forwarding and rerouting, it sometimes just overtaxes the best of systems.  So when we returned last week to Elizabeth City for the summer, our local newspaper carrier left a note on the morning paper indicating we’d get “caught up” the following day.   Imagine our surprise when this bundle arrived on our doorstep the next morning.  Holy __?  What the  ___?   Words are inadequate.  Some message surely got lost in  all of the shuffling.       
         What now?  Start clipping, George.

Road Trip

I was thrilled to be invited to the Garden Club of Virginia’s 80^th Historic Garden Week.  Last Thursday, my Farmville fave, Faye, and I took off on a road trip through the most beautiful rolling hills this side of the Mississippi.  The grand estates, well- appointed homes and charming parsonages situated from Norfolk to Leesburg, graciously opened their doors and garden gates for the hoi polloi to traipse about.  Our destination was northern Virginia, somewhere in and around Warrenton.  After picking up friend Kay in New Canton, we breezed along Highway 15 to rendezvous with friend Beth in Little Washington. (It’s not really named Little Washington, that’s to squelch confusion with THE Washington.)  The way to Beth’s house was one-lane, following a babbling stream and chocked full of scenery.  We were stopped short, literally, at the bridge.  No go.  Not crossing today. The paving crew from VDOT said we could retrace our steps and go WAY around and come in on the backside of the property – somewhere in parts unknown.  No thanks.  We called (once we back-traced enough to get a cell signal) and asked Beth to meet us up and out of the hollow.  She did. 

 There was no mistaking that I was in the company of Master Gardeners.  My day-tripping companions hold offices in their Garden Clubs and humbly understate their own magnificent gardens.  I was clearly in the midst of garden giants.  They know the name (and I’m speaking of the scientific name) of every tree, bush, shrub and flower.  They reel off varieties of flowers like I might speak of draft beer.  I was in awe.

We toured all but one of the sites, including Leeds Manor Farm (built for Chief Justice John Marshall), The Hume Parsonage (1855 Episcopal Church rectory), Glen Gordon Manor (1833 Wells Fargo stagecoach stop), Locust Grove (fabulous B&B with a wine cellar dating to 1765), and finally Standen Still, my favorite, a English Arts and Crafts stucco home with a steep cedar shake roof. 

I may have been the least trained in flora & fauna, but no one was more enthusiastic and thrilled to be included on such an excursion.  We laughed as we put the miles behind us, sipping on ice coffee and rubber necking all fields & flowers, fences, barns, houses and horses for 150 miles and back again.

I cannot close without mention of our box lunch provided by Chef Faye.  By golly, she puts Martha Stewart and Paula Dean to complete shame.  Delicious AND healthy, our individual lunches were packed in recycled mushroom containers, complete with three-bean salad in tightly sealed mason jars, a delightful chicken salad roll-up and cookie! 

Kay brought out her famous cream cheese & cucumber sandwiches and we dined like queens.  Cloth napkins & sweet mint tea topped off the ambiance. It was picture perfect!  It truly was.

Life Is Good

Yesterday – Tuesday, was one of those perfect days.  Nothing terribly special – no “over the top” happening – just time on a lake with a friend and time at a concert with George. 

In the aftermath of Monday, with the gut-wrenching bombing at the Boston Marathon, Tuesday’s roses smelled especially sweet.  How easy it is to slip into the rhythm of one’s day and forget to…well, smell the roses.  That ho-hum, almost blind perspective, where one day melts into another, is an easy place to dwell.

Then, in the blink of an eye, one stride of a runner and a cloud of white smoke, we are jolted to attention.  Everything shifts, again.  Our awareness of how precarious and precious our time is washes over us.  These moments come to us all too often.  Some carry national headlines.  Others, like the death of a loved one, are felt by an entire town.  And still others, like a cancer diagnosis, are personal and are felt by family and friends.   

 I have adopted the premise that no-one can hide from these blind-siding collisions.  My senses are ramped up to full throttle, and I’m on full alert….for life.  Yesterday’s paddle on the Sandy River Reservoir complete with a picnic lunch and a pair of soaring eagles, surely symbolizes the goodness in life. The college students’ jazz performance last evening most certainly celebrated the remarkable talents and exciting futures these young folks have.  Strolling home with George after enjoying a beer at our neighborhood pub, gave pause for some reflections.

 Bad things do happen to good people.  Life isn’t always fair.  Evil is real.   How you choose to deal with these truisms is how you measure your own serenity and happiness, and likewise how you impact the lives of others. 

I believe most folks have a good heart.  I think we’re connected with a common bond to help one another, figure it out and get along.  We need each other.  I believe life is good.  

Bring it on. 

A Little Getaway

We treated ourselves to a little getaway this past weekend and drove up to Roanoke.  After dropping Woody off at the pet resort, we took our time driving 460 W.  Bedford was on our must see list and it didn’t disappoint.  It’s a charming spot with a vibrant downtown, interesting Farmer’s Market and beautiful homes; many very grand with miles of fencing and sweeping views. 

We had reservations at the Hotel Roanoke and I had splurged just a bit to secure a “corner room with superlative views.”  The room was lovely and the view was grand, but our neighbors in the next-door suite were ready to party hardy.  Peals of laughter and squeals of “OMG you won’t believe…” blew through the walls like we were right next door.  Oh yeah, we were.   George chalked it up to day drinking and figured the rowdiness would calm down as the night wore on.  I figured different.  I gotta hand it to George; he very gallantly offered to ask the front desk for a room change….that’s never happened before.  And, he came back smiling with a new key to a new room on a new floor.  Seems he saw the “girls” exiting the room and there were an even dozen…all dolled up and ready for anything.  We made a good call. 

Our new room had its own issues…broken bedside lamp and the sink wouldn’t drain, but brushing our teeth over the bathtub seemed a small concession to make for a good night’s sleep.  God, we’re getting old.

We drove out to Hollins College where Jenny went all four years and found it just as beautiful a setting as it was 20 years ago. Then on to Black Dog Salvage -  a true delight. We wandered about totally enthralled with the vast array of inventory.  George found the wood stove he's been searching for and a deal was made.

 Saturday evening we milled around Center on the Square, Roanoke’s reinvented downtown and enjoyed pizza and beer at a Bar-B-Q joint.  The live music just wouldn’t get going so by 10:00 we walked back to the hotel, only to discover the hotel bar had a fellow playing acoustic guitar.  It topped off our evening.

Easter morning breakfast in the hotel dining room was fabulous!  After a month of oatmeal, I felt entitled to eggs and hash-browns, not to mention the muffin I consumed.  All delicious.

The trip back to Farmville was sobering.  We had a bit of deja-vue from last Sunday’s harrowing drive through a snowstorm.  Having decided to take the Blue Ridge Parkway back to Bedford, we realized too late that visibility was zero.  The fog was so dense it felt like rain.  It was a very long 20 miles before we could exit and come down off the mountain.

 We are grateful and very lucky to be alive.  I’ve learned there was a terrible 95 car pile- up due to the fog near Galax, VA.  Folks died and many were injured.  Next time I’m tempted to take the scenic route, I’m going to make sure the conditions are safe.