At our first meeting, my girl crush and I fell hard for each other.
Seated in the bow of a power boat (hers and her husband's) sipping pink bubbles while skimming the Corrotoman River, we bonded over age (ours, the same), the quest for true love (she'd succeeded in finding hers, I was still working on it) and having sex in their spacious outdoor shower (her, not me).
The date was August 11, 2014 and our admiration for each other was immediate and mutual.
By the time I got home from that weekend, she'd emailed me gushing, "Meeting you was wonderful and I can't wait to see you again! Anytime you can visit, please do!"
Sigh. A girl lives for that kind of romance.
In my efforts to see as much of her as I could, I managed two more visits back to their river cottage before that summer ended and a fabulous friendship was born.
Over the four summers since, I've spent many a day and night back at that river cottage so that she and I could talk, laugh, walk, drink, eat, talk, boat, jet-ski and lounge on the deck. Oh, yes, and talk. Finally, last year we had an a-ha moment when we realized we could also spend time together during the other seasons.
Translation: we didn't just want to be each other's summer fling.
When I introduced her and her handsome husband to Mr. Wright, they were not only thrilled for me but eager to spend more time as a foursome. We all enjoyed our summer get-togethers so much that we planned a big river weekend together in October, only to be thwarted when some hurricane or another knocked out power at both their Richmond and river houses.
But while our couple date hadn't worked out, you can only keep a couple of girl crushes apart for so long, so when she emailed me last week suggesting a catch-up dinner/girls' night out, I couldn't say yes fast enough.
Knowing your crush's preferences is essential, so when she assigned me the task of choosing the restaurant, I took into account her dislike of parallel parking. Suggesting Hob Nob because I'm a fan of their food, and guessing that she hadn't been there, I was pleasantly surprised when she responded, "Is that where the old Hermitage Grill was?"
Yes, it is. Turns out that Lakeside is part of her youth, a fact I hadn't known.
Arriving without reservations, we were surprised to find that every table except the sole occupied one was already reserved, so we settled in at the bar for dinner. Her beer and my Anjos Vinho Verde Rose had barely been placed in front of us when a server offered to seat us at the just-vacated table.
We certainly didn't mind since now we could look at each other.
With so much to talk about - it's been two and a half months, after all - we opted for the special of crab and shrimp spring rolls, a fine choice given the crispy golden wrapper that shattered with each bite and the crab-heavy filling.
A cheeseburger, Gouda grits and a Brussels sprout/bleu cheese/pomegranate seed salad fueled us through the next few hours as we dissected millennial anxiety, shared film recommendations and talked about what our menfolk have been up to.
Her man is as much a word nerd as I am - I know he's fond of lumbago, swale and gadabout, a term he's used to describe me once or twice - so I laughed hearing how he has "Dead Guy" listed as one of his phone contacts. Naturally, I also got the backstory on how he got to be "Dead Guy" in the first place, because there's always a good story with him.
He's also full of surprises, having recently suggested they go sailing...so she could see their new sailboat.
Seems he'd decided to sell the sailboat I'd been on with them for so many splendid adventures and upgrade to a new one. Like a proud parent, she pulled out her phone and showed me gorgeous photos of it, pointing out its handsome woodwork, sleek galley and sleeping quarters and new toilet (more important than you might think when pink bubbles are involved).
But she made sure that I knew that the main appeal for us girls is the flat bow, which she assured me would be easier for the two of us to maintain our balance on when we're sitting there chatting as the boat cuts through the water. Depending on the wind and the angle of the boat, we've had to do some serious bracing to stay upright while lounging under the mast.
When I reminded her that we could also not drink while we're up there, she gave me that look that made me crush on her from the beginning. "No, we can't!" she said emphatically.
They'd tried taking the boat out this past Sunday when temperatures had been forecast to warm up into the '60s, but between the cold river and warm air, it was so foggy they gave up. But the fog had other compensations, it seems. "Driving over the bridge, the clouds were so thick you couldn't see the river or the sky or anything except what was right in front of you," she told me dreamily. "It felt like being in heaven!"
Is it any wonder I love this woman?
Eventually we looked up to realize that every table and bar stool was now occupied, a fact neither of us had noticed happening. It didn't affect us, though, so we went on to share a slice of mint chocolate chip cake, its pale green buttercream frosting as sweet and rich as accidentally finding your girl crush at a crab feast.
But we're not idiots, so we also cooked up a plan for another couple date weekend to make up for being robbed of our October plans. It doesn't hurt that our mates have a bit of a man crush on each other, too.
Heaven is a weekend I get to spend with Mr. Wright, my favorite word nerd and my girl crush. But don't give me credit, I'm just doing as I was told.
Which is why, gadabout that I am, every time I can visit, I do.
Showing posts with label corrotoman river. Show all posts
Showing posts with label corrotoman river. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 5, 2018
Tuesday, August 28, 2018
A Lily of the Valley Ending
The standards have changed at the little yellow river cottage I so enjoy.
How else to explain a call from the man of the cottage asking if we could delay our arrival until after 1:00? Mind you, the missus - aka my girl crush - had already said to arrive mid to late morning, preferably with a Hanover tomato in hand. Now he was saying they needed more time?
More time to what? They've both told me repeatedly that I'm not a guest, I'm family. When my visits are in the same month, I ask that they don't even change the sheets on the screened porch bed between visits. The guest cottage requires no upkeep for me beyond opening the windows and making sure there's toilet paper.
Turns out the uptick in housekeeping standards had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the man who was driving the car toward the cottage. For him, they were putting in extra effort on chores. I know because after handing over the Hanover tomatoes, I asked if they'd have warned me off if it had been just me.
Nope.
And while I could be insulted, I prefer to think that it's just an affirmation that I'm like the mint planted in the toilet in the yard: no more than another cottage fixture.
As always, they were the host and hostess with the mostess, taking us for a leisurely power boat ride on the eastern and western branches of the river for the shank of the afternoon.
We admired older river houses built with windows for ventialtion, checked out new construction (including a house on stilts seemingly built right at the water's edge - WTF?) and scratched our heads over waterfront houses without porches facing the view. We spotted an old boathouse out in a cove, the pier behind it long gone and the boathouse now sitting at a precarious 45 degree angle as if it were returning to the water incrementally.
Atop channel markers and buoys, we saw empty nest after empty nest where just last month young ospreys had been learning to fly under the parents' tutelage. They'd since left home and the captain was already missing their distinctive sounds in the neighborhood.
The helmsman turned the conversation to how thug-like ospreys were and yet how noble eagles were, casting them as members of opposing gangs. From there, it was a short leap for the two fans of show tunes to begin snapping their fingers a la the Sharks and the Jets.
We got back just in time to change clothes before the dinner party guests began arriving.
There was the judge and his wife, whom I'd met over dinner last spring. There was the couple next door who'd been invited by text while we were out tooling around on the boat (ah, technology). Then during dinner on the deck, when they saw their other neighbor busy doing yard work (and without his family), they called to him and he joined the party.
After dinner and the judge's wife's Atlantic Beach pie - notably with a Saltine crust - we watched the moon rise over the Corrotoman River, debating whether or not it was full (turns out it wasn't) as it cast a long, shimmering reflection across the barely rippling water. The captain had his fingers crossed that a breeze would pick up overnight.
I've had many a wonderful night sleeping on that screened porch, but I can't recall one with such magnificent moonlight bathing the turquoise floor and the single antique bed.
Sunday dawned just as blue sky-beautiful but definitely hotter. After checking the readout for the weather station atop his boathouse, the captain decided that although it was rather still on this part of the river, it looked to be breezier toward the bay. As always, when he inquired who wanted to go sailing, I was the first to raise my hand.
Then it happened again. My girl crush tells me that they're going to go ahead to the marina and tidy up the boat and we should follow along in 15 minutes. I looked at her like she'd grown another head. Since when don't I go along with you to the boat? Since never.
Wait, was this about cleaning up the sailboat before you-know-who saw it for the first time? Well...
Holy cow, they were doing it again. Just to be sure, I inquired if I'd be going with them if I had come alone. Sheepish looks all around.
Insisting that he could handle meeting the boat no matter how she looked, I said we were coming with them. Riding to the marina is when the boating party gets started, what with anticipation of the adventure, joking around and miscellaneous information shared along the way. With a lawman in charge, there's no booze, but there is a whole lot of smart-assed repartee.
It wasn't our best sailing day in terms of wind, although the new helmsman did manage to heel over a few times and give the girl crush and I - lounging on the bow of the boat in our legless seats - some cheap thrills.
Or, as she likes to put it in her raunchiest voice, "Yea, baby!"
Coming up under the Whitestone bridge near the bay, we admired how the new coating of sky blue paint really does melt the bridge right into the sky when you're moving under it. Which, considering the never-ending construction, is a far better place to admire it than on top with the hot asphalt and Port-a-Potties.
It was a slow but steady trip back with only a little of the time under sail power, with the captain pulling the technology card to snap a photo of his crew to document the momentous occasion. Fortunately, he was not around for the pre-journey home, but oh-so important, final outdoor shower of the weekend. Because what happens in the finest shower on the river, stays in the shower.
Yea, baby.
How else to explain a call from the man of the cottage asking if we could delay our arrival until after 1:00? Mind you, the missus - aka my girl crush - had already said to arrive mid to late morning, preferably with a Hanover tomato in hand. Now he was saying they needed more time?
More time to what? They've both told me repeatedly that I'm not a guest, I'm family. When my visits are in the same month, I ask that they don't even change the sheets on the screened porch bed between visits. The guest cottage requires no upkeep for me beyond opening the windows and making sure there's toilet paper.
Turns out the uptick in housekeeping standards had nothing to do with me and everything to do with the man who was driving the car toward the cottage. For him, they were putting in extra effort on chores. I know because after handing over the Hanover tomatoes, I asked if they'd have warned me off if it had been just me.
Nope.
And while I could be insulted, I prefer to think that it's just an affirmation that I'm like the mint planted in the toilet in the yard: no more than another cottage fixture.
As always, they were the host and hostess with the mostess, taking us for a leisurely power boat ride on the eastern and western branches of the river for the shank of the afternoon.
We admired older river houses built with windows for ventialtion, checked out new construction (including a house on stilts seemingly built right at the water's edge - WTF?) and scratched our heads over waterfront houses without porches facing the view. We spotted an old boathouse out in a cove, the pier behind it long gone and the boathouse now sitting at a precarious 45 degree angle as if it were returning to the water incrementally.
Atop channel markers and buoys, we saw empty nest after empty nest where just last month young ospreys had been learning to fly under the parents' tutelage. They'd since left home and the captain was already missing their distinctive sounds in the neighborhood.
The helmsman turned the conversation to how thug-like ospreys were and yet how noble eagles were, casting them as members of opposing gangs. From there, it was a short leap for the two fans of show tunes to begin snapping their fingers a la the Sharks and the Jets.
We got back just in time to change clothes before the dinner party guests began arriving.
There was the judge and his wife, whom I'd met over dinner last spring. There was the couple next door who'd been invited by text while we were out tooling around on the boat (ah, technology). Then during dinner on the deck, when they saw their other neighbor busy doing yard work (and without his family), they called to him and he joined the party.
After dinner and the judge's wife's Atlantic Beach pie - notably with a Saltine crust - we watched the moon rise over the Corrotoman River, debating whether or not it was full (turns out it wasn't) as it cast a long, shimmering reflection across the barely rippling water. The captain had his fingers crossed that a breeze would pick up overnight.
I've had many a wonderful night sleeping on that screened porch, but I can't recall one with such magnificent moonlight bathing the turquoise floor and the single antique bed.
Sunday dawned just as blue sky-beautiful but definitely hotter. After checking the readout for the weather station atop his boathouse, the captain decided that although it was rather still on this part of the river, it looked to be breezier toward the bay. As always, when he inquired who wanted to go sailing, I was the first to raise my hand.
Then it happened again. My girl crush tells me that they're going to go ahead to the marina and tidy up the boat and we should follow along in 15 minutes. I looked at her like she'd grown another head. Since when don't I go along with you to the boat? Since never.
Wait, was this about cleaning up the sailboat before you-know-who saw it for the first time? Well...
Holy cow, they were doing it again. Just to be sure, I inquired if I'd be going with them if I had come alone. Sheepish looks all around.
Insisting that he could handle meeting the boat no matter how she looked, I said we were coming with them. Riding to the marina is when the boating party gets started, what with anticipation of the adventure, joking around and miscellaneous information shared along the way. With a lawman in charge, there's no booze, but there is a whole lot of smart-assed repartee.
It wasn't our best sailing day in terms of wind, although the new helmsman did manage to heel over a few times and give the girl crush and I - lounging on the bow of the boat in our legless seats - some cheap thrills.
Or, as she likes to put it in her raunchiest voice, "Yea, baby!"
Coming up under the Whitestone bridge near the bay, we admired how the new coating of sky blue paint really does melt the bridge right into the sky when you're moving under it. Which, considering the never-ending construction, is a far better place to admire it than on top with the hot asphalt and Port-a-Potties.
It was a slow but steady trip back with only a little of the time under sail power, with the captain pulling the technology card to snap a photo of his crew to document the momentous occasion. Fortunately, he was not around for the pre-journey home, but oh-so important, final outdoor shower of the weekend. Because what happens in the finest shower on the river, stays in the shower.
Yea, baby.
Monday, July 16, 2018
Five and Counting
It would have made the AAA map guy furious.
I'm talking about the person whose job was to draw the yellow lines on Trip-tik road trip maps back in the day, a job that is surely now done on computer. The person whose sure handed, easy-to-read map made clear how to get to each of the destinations along your road trip.
Oh, sure, he'd be fine highlighting the Northern Neck-bound route from Jackson Ward to Morattico for a Reuben lunch with my parents, the Reuben part a holdover from Father''s Day when he'd wanted one and something else got planned for lunch.
That I showed up in a Cubs t-shirt tickled my mother no end.
And while they were waiting for us on the screened porch, you'd better believe Wimbledon was on in a nearby room. Mom takes her tennis watching seriously. Still, I was very surprised when she told me that not learning tennis was a sincere regret. Funny, I always attributed my lack of hand/eye coordination to her un-athletic DNA. Maybe not.
The Trip-tik guy might have let it slide that when we left Morattico, it was to retrace our steps to Warsaw to go to Menokin's speaker series to hear architect Reid Freeman. Why double back, you ask? For no other reason than I'm the kind of bon vivant who chooses to spend a gorgeous Friday afternoon being lectured to about early Tidewater building techniques. Yes, I am.
Or at least that had been the planned topic when the series was decided 6 months ago, but as Reid said, now it all tied back into the wood frame classroom they'd built on Menokin's 18th century grounds. In researching local house-framing techniques before building it, he'd been sucked down the rabbit hole of old, local frame buildings (like smokehouses and barber shops), information which had informed the building of the classroom.
But where he scored major points was toward the end of his two-hour talk when he implored us, "Now, just let me dork out for a minute here," and took off running down an architectural rabbit hole with a faraway smile on his face.
Surely the Trip-tik guy would have scratched his head when we left Warsaw for the Trick Dog Cafe in Irvington because by now our route resembled a backward "Z" or perhaps just scribble-scrabble. There's tuna tartare and obscenely rich she-crab soup, asparagus and grilled shrimp but a very small crowd. It's my first time, so I know not what to expect.
The next morning, the AAA guy would be further perplexed as he drew yet another yellow line, this one needing to be drawn from Irvington across the river at the Merry Point ferry back to River Road, less than 10 miles from my parents' house.
Even the trees were starting to look familiar at that point.
But I'd do a lot more than retrace routes to get to the yellow cottage on the Corrotoman to stay with the only couple I know who refer to their time apart between the two stages of their relationship as "the terrible awful."
The captain had already promised me a boat ride (never mentioning he had a new power boat) but then delivered three rides, including one to scope out the view from the river of the house we'd just left, a leisurely tour of the western branch (with all its new construction) and a sunset cruise on a glassy river.
He also grilled salmon for dinner while my girl crush made shrimp and grits (the latter unfamiliar to the native Chicagoan, though he loved them) and a cobbler with fresh peaches for dessert. The topic was how hungry everyone was after an exhausting day doing little more than sitting on a boat cutting through the water.
My Mom used to say that children never sleep or eat better than at the beach, and maybe the same applies to river time for adults. All I know is, the four of us didn't do much beyond eating, drinking and comparing notes on our backstories the entire time.
And when it all became too much, there was my favorite screened porch for sleeping.
Sunday was basically rinse and repeat, with more of the same plus a test drive in a fast car done by two men with an affinity for high RPMs and show tunes. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that Sunday was the first time "Camelot" was being belted out from a speeding car in Bertrand.
When it came time to bid farewell to the happy couple, it was to head back to Irvington, but naturally not by the same route we'd come the day before because the ferry doesn't run on Sundays. So back we went, practically to my parents' house, before taking the long way back to Irvington.
At this point, AAA guy's yellow line has begun to resemble a line drawing of a shrimp or crawfish with its mouth open and there's just no way to tell what any of the routes are because they've crissrossed each other so many times.
A first-timer to the Northern Neck would have looked at that map and given up. I'm talking people like John and Sharon, the nice couple from Frederick, Maryland sitting behind us after the next leg of the journey took us from Irvington to Topping for dinner at Merroir. They were NNK virgins, having succumbed to an enticing Travelocity package (who knew that was a thing?) to celebrate his recent retirement.
They were celebrating with Rochambeau oysters while I had to have Old Salts to accompany Vino Verde (and commemorate our occasion), followed by ceviche, fish tacos and smoked cobia and arugula. The ritual pineapple upside down cake followed for dessert before we took the last of the wine down to the dock to watch dusk settling in while fish splashed in and out of the river.
Fortunately, the drive back to Irvington added no new lines to the map. Nevertheless, Trip-tik guy's head has exploded by now.
Even today's drive home further muddied the waters since we came back via West Point rather than Tappahannock, as we'd done on Friday. This was no carefully planned route, this was a map covered in intersecting and overlapping yellow lines as we tooled around Lancaster County for days.
Not to mention, had a perfectly marvelous time doing it. Let me dork out for a minute here and share my favorite assessments of this brave new world I now occupy. I was compared to a three layer chocolate cake, for one, but it's hard to beat what the boat captain observed to the newcomer. "She's walking a whole lot lighter now."
Without a map, I might add. Take that, Trip-tik.
I'm talking about the person whose job was to draw the yellow lines on Trip-tik road trip maps back in the day, a job that is surely now done on computer. The person whose sure handed, easy-to-read map made clear how to get to each of the destinations along your road trip.
Oh, sure, he'd be fine highlighting the Northern Neck-bound route from Jackson Ward to Morattico for a Reuben lunch with my parents, the Reuben part a holdover from Father''s Day when he'd wanted one and something else got planned for lunch.
That I showed up in a Cubs t-shirt tickled my mother no end.
And while they were waiting for us on the screened porch, you'd better believe Wimbledon was on in a nearby room. Mom takes her tennis watching seriously. Still, I was very surprised when she told me that not learning tennis was a sincere regret. Funny, I always attributed my lack of hand/eye coordination to her un-athletic DNA. Maybe not.
The Trip-tik guy might have let it slide that when we left Morattico, it was to retrace our steps to Warsaw to go to Menokin's speaker series to hear architect Reid Freeman. Why double back, you ask? For no other reason than I'm the kind of bon vivant who chooses to spend a gorgeous Friday afternoon being lectured to about early Tidewater building techniques. Yes, I am.
Or at least that had been the planned topic when the series was decided 6 months ago, but as Reid said, now it all tied back into the wood frame classroom they'd built on Menokin's 18th century grounds. In researching local house-framing techniques before building it, he'd been sucked down the rabbit hole of old, local frame buildings (like smokehouses and barber shops), information which had informed the building of the classroom.
But where he scored major points was toward the end of his two-hour talk when he implored us, "Now, just let me dork out for a minute here," and took off running down an architectural rabbit hole with a faraway smile on his face.
Surely the Trip-tik guy would have scratched his head when we left Warsaw for the Trick Dog Cafe in Irvington because by now our route resembled a backward "Z" or perhaps just scribble-scrabble. There's tuna tartare and obscenely rich she-crab soup, asparagus and grilled shrimp but a very small crowd. It's my first time, so I know not what to expect.
The next morning, the AAA guy would be further perplexed as he drew yet another yellow line, this one needing to be drawn from Irvington across the river at the Merry Point ferry back to River Road, less than 10 miles from my parents' house.
Even the trees were starting to look familiar at that point.
But I'd do a lot more than retrace routes to get to the yellow cottage on the Corrotoman to stay with the only couple I know who refer to their time apart between the two stages of their relationship as "the terrible awful."
The captain had already promised me a boat ride (never mentioning he had a new power boat) but then delivered three rides, including one to scope out the view from the river of the house we'd just left, a leisurely tour of the western branch (with all its new construction) and a sunset cruise on a glassy river.
He also grilled salmon for dinner while my girl crush made shrimp and grits (the latter unfamiliar to the native Chicagoan, though he loved them) and a cobbler with fresh peaches for dessert. The topic was how hungry everyone was after an exhausting day doing little more than sitting on a boat cutting through the water.
My Mom used to say that children never sleep or eat better than at the beach, and maybe the same applies to river time for adults. All I know is, the four of us didn't do much beyond eating, drinking and comparing notes on our backstories the entire time.
And when it all became too much, there was my favorite screened porch for sleeping.
Sunday was basically rinse and repeat, with more of the same plus a test drive in a fast car done by two men with an affinity for high RPMs and show tunes. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that Sunday was the first time "Camelot" was being belted out from a speeding car in Bertrand.
When it came time to bid farewell to the happy couple, it was to head back to Irvington, but naturally not by the same route we'd come the day before because the ferry doesn't run on Sundays. So back we went, practically to my parents' house, before taking the long way back to Irvington.
At this point, AAA guy's yellow line has begun to resemble a line drawing of a shrimp or crawfish with its mouth open and there's just no way to tell what any of the routes are because they've crissrossed each other so many times.
A first-timer to the Northern Neck would have looked at that map and given up. I'm talking people like John and Sharon, the nice couple from Frederick, Maryland sitting behind us after the next leg of the journey took us from Irvington to Topping for dinner at Merroir. They were NNK virgins, having succumbed to an enticing Travelocity package (who knew that was a thing?) to celebrate his recent retirement.
They were celebrating with Rochambeau oysters while I had to have Old Salts to accompany Vino Verde (and commemorate our occasion), followed by ceviche, fish tacos and smoked cobia and arugula. The ritual pineapple upside down cake followed for dessert before we took the last of the wine down to the dock to watch dusk settling in while fish splashed in and out of the river.
Fortunately, the drive back to Irvington added no new lines to the map. Nevertheless, Trip-tik guy's head has exploded by now.
Even today's drive home further muddied the waters since we came back via West Point rather than Tappahannock, as we'd done on Friday. This was no carefully planned route, this was a map covered in intersecting and overlapping yellow lines as we tooled around Lancaster County for days.
Not to mention, had a perfectly marvelous time doing it. Let me dork out for a minute here and share my favorite assessments of this brave new world I now occupy. I was compared to a three layer chocolate cake, for one, but it's hard to beat what the boat captain observed to the newcomer. "She's walking a whole lot lighter now."
Without a map, I might add. Take that, Trip-tik.
Sunday, March 11, 2018
The Taj Mahal of Cottage Bunks
I could get used to river hopping.
Friday found me at my parents' house, where Spring was busting out all over, from the pink hyacinths (Mom asked me to cut a couple so she could enjoy their heavenly fragrance inside) blooming near the driveway to the weeping willow covered in the lightest of green leaves just beginning to unfurl.
The back 40 leading to the dock was still super-saturated from last week's Nor'easter, but I didn't let that stop me from traipsing through it to go down to the river, where the beach was littered with shells and the air smelled especially briny.
Back at the house, Dad surprised me by sharing that my friend, a member of the local sheriff's department, had stopped by for a chat the other day. Dad was incredulous that despite four (five?) years of friendship, I'd never let slip that I have five sisters. I explained that his wife not only knew how many sisters I had but had heard stories galore about some of my trials and tribulations with them.
Seems the two of them had bonded, both being men's men with the kind of softer side that allows them to openly worship the loves of their lives. They apparently hit it off so well that I think we all know there will be future chats between them.
And just for the record, it's not as if my friend had just randomly shown up at my parents' house, either.
He'd been checking on a security system alarm across the street caused by a window blown in by that same Nor'easter and figured as long as he was in the neighborhood, why not finally meet the man who'd produced me? He'd certainly heard enough stories about him and Mom and it's not like I hadn't told him where they lived. In fact, just the other day, he'd sent me a photo of a flooding in a yard very near my parents' house and I'd forwarded it to my folks.
By mid-afternoon, I was bidding my parents farewell because I had an interview to do with - wait for it - my sheriff friend. When I'd called to set up the chat, his beautiful wife had gotten on the phone and insisted if I was coming that I stay the night at their cottage. Actually, she wanted me for the entire weekend, but I had plans Saturday.
For the record, the sole time I have not spent the night with these friends was the night of our first meeting and then only because I hadn't known what a perfect place I was walking into. Since then, I return regularly to soak up their happily-ever-after vibe and partake of their stellar Corrotoman River views. They're the ones who introduced me to sailing.
So I left the Rappahannock River and my parents behind to work (not that interviewing a friend is work, not really), dine and spend the night with the happy couple. It was notable mainly because it was my first winter visit so I wasn't going to be able to sleep in my usual spot, the screened in porch on the guest house. That's okay, I was ready for a new experience.
Settling into comfortable chairs for the interview, we journeyed back through his life - the MCV blood bank in the '70s, his carrot cake-making days in the Fan, his absolute luck in marrying the woman of his dreams - as I teased out the information I needed for my article and got the scoop on so much of what I hadn't known about him before.
More than a few times, we found ourselves completely distracted by a sailboat out on the water on a chilly day. It originally caught our attention because it was heeling so far over we were convinced it was going to capsize. Only when it changed direction could we see its sails only partly unrolled and understand that it was following a wind pocket unusually far in.
I didn't wish I was on it - too chilly - but it made for some spectacular viewing from our cozy perch.
"That's the most we've ever talked!" he, an introvert, observed. I didn't point out that actually, it was just the most he'd ever talked with me. A shame because he's a great conversationalist, funny and with a near perfect memory.
It wasn't long after we finished the interview that my girlfriend got in from work and the full-on fun could begin. Our first topic was an agreement: I will no longer be just a winter friend and am expected to visit year round from here on out. Can do.
First she poured us wine, then we settled down to catch up after six months. So much to talk about in both our lives. Turns out we've both had a sharp turn for the better with people very close to us.
But since woman cannot live on wine and girltalk alone, her husband eventually rounded us up and drove us to The Corner, notable because the last time she and I went there, in bathing suits and still damp from the pool, the owner expressed interest in getting to know me better.
When we pulled up, it was clear the place was rockin' on a Friday night, with cars everywhere and a crew of smokers on the front porch. Inside, two birthday parties kept the jukebox fed and a continuing stream of new arrivals incoming.
We scored a table in the center of the madness and an adorable young server my friends knew by name (likewise, she knew their beer orders without asking) took our food order while chaos swirled around her. When she brought my wine, she asked, "So who are you?" without a trace of hesitation.
Best she learn my name and order if I'm going to be a year round regular.
The very first time I'd gone to The Corner had been for an interview with a guitar-maker and he'd told me that his wife said the crabcake was the best in the state and I hadn't ordered it (the cheeseburger had been calling my name). Tonight I rectified that and I'd have to say that the woman I never met (and who since left him, a fact I know only because he asked me to dinner as result) knew her crabcakes.
Once back at the cottage, it was blowtorch time because my hosts had made creme brulee using Matt Lauer's recipe and, I think, because the man of the house likes desserts that involved open flames. You have to love friends who make dessert because they know you're coming.
My girlfriend teased me about how whenever I blog about their cottage, I get effusive. "You made our outdoor shower sound like the Taj Mahal of showers!" she joked and I reminded her that it is extraordinary. It's just a shame that it's March and I can't use it.
For the first time ever, I slept in the bunk room, a slender room fashioned out of a former bathroom with a nautical theme and two single beds mounted on the wall. I saw no reason to climb the ladder to the top, instead burrowing into the lower bed and sleeping like I was on a boat.
In a related note, my host had suggested that one of these times I sleep on the sailboat, so it looks like I've got another first time experience to look forward to.
Who am I? A woman with fabulous friends and a happier outlook than I've had in months. Only now we know I can hold my own at The Corner.
Friday found me at my parents' house, where Spring was busting out all over, from the pink hyacinths (Mom asked me to cut a couple so she could enjoy their heavenly fragrance inside) blooming near the driveway to the weeping willow covered in the lightest of green leaves just beginning to unfurl.
The back 40 leading to the dock was still super-saturated from last week's Nor'easter, but I didn't let that stop me from traipsing through it to go down to the river, where the beach was littered with shells and the air smelled especially briny.
Back at the house, Dad surprised me by sharing that my friend, a member of the local sheriff's department, had stopped by for a chat the other day. Dad was incredulous that despite four (five?) years of friendship, I'd never let slip that I have five sisters. I explained that his wife not only knew how many sisters I had but had heard stories galore about some of my trials and tribulations with them.
Seems the two of them had bonded, both being men's men with the kind of softer side that allows them to openly worship the loves of their lives. They apparently hit it off so well that I think we all know there will be future chats between them.
And just for the record, it's not as if my friend had just randomly shown up at my parents' house, either.
He'd been checking on a security system alarm across the street caused by a window blown in by that same Nor'easter and figured as long as he was in the neighborhood, why not finally meet the man who'd produced me? He'd certainly heard enough stories about him and Mom and it's not like I hadn't told him where they lived. In fact, just the other day, he'd sent me a photo of a flooding in a yard very near my parents' house and I'd forwarded it to my folks.
By mid-afternoon, I was bidding my parents farewell because I had an interview to do with - wait for it - my sheriff friend. When I'd called to set up the chat, his beautiful wife had gotten on the phone and insisted if I was coming that I stay the night at their cottage. Actually, she wanted me for the entire weekend, but I had plans Saturday.
For the record, the sole time I have not spent the night with these friends was the night of our first meeting and then only because I hadn't known what a perfect place I was walking into. Since then, I return regularly to soak up their happily-ever-after vibe and partake of their stellar Corrotoman River views. They're the ones who introduced me to sailing.
So I left the Rappahannock River and my parents behind to work (not that interviewing a friend is work, not really), dine and spend the night with the happy couple. It was notable mainly because it was my first winter visit so I wasn't going to be able to sleep in my usual spot, the screened in porch on the guest house. That's okay, I was ready for a new experience.
Settling into comfortable chairs for the interview, we journeyed back through his life - the MCV blood bank in the '70s, his carrot cake-making days in the Fan, his absolute luck in marrying the woman of his dreams - as I teased out the information I needed for my article and got the scoop on so much of what I hadn't known about him before.
More than a few times, we found ourselves completely distracted by a sailboat out on the water on a chilly day. It originally caught our attention because it was heeling so far over we were convinced it was going to capsize. Only when it changed direction could we see its sails only partly unrolled and understand that it was following a wind pocket unusually far in.
I didn't wish I was on it - too chilly - but it made for some spectacular viewing from our cozy perch.
"That's the most we've ever talked!" he, an introvert, observed. I didn't point out that actually, it was just the most he'd ever talked with me. A shame because he's a great conversationalist, funny and with a near perfect memory.
It wasn't long after we finished the interview that my girlfriend got in from work and the full-on fun could begin. Our first topic was an agreement: I will no longer be just a winter friend and am expected to visit year round from here on out. Can do.
First she poured us wine, then we settled down to catch up after six months. So much to talk about in both our lives. Turns out we've both had a sharp turn for the better with people very close to us.
But since woman cannot live on wine and girltalk alone, her husband eventually rounded us up and drove us to The Corner, notable because the last time she and I went there, in bathing suits and still damp from the pool, the owner expressed interest in getting to know me better.
When we pulled up, it was clear the place was rockin' on a Friday night, with cars everywhere and a crew of smokers on the front porch. Inside, two birthday parties kept the jukebox fed and a continuing stream of new arrivals incoming.
We scored a table in the center of the madness and an adorable young server my friends knew by name (likewise, she knew their beer orders without asking) took our food order while chaos swirled around her. When she brought my wine, she asked, "So who are you?" without a trace of hesitation.
Best she learn my name and order if I'm going to be a year round regular.
The very first time I'd gone to The Corner had been for an interview with a guitar-maker and he'd told me that his wife said the crabcake was the best in the state and I hadn't ordered it (the cheeseburger had been calling my name). Tonight I rectified that and I'd have to say that the woman I never met (and who since left him, a fact I know only because he asked me to dinner as result) knew her crabcakes.
Once back at the cottage, it was blowtorch time because my hosts had made creme brulee using Matt Lauer's recipe and, I think, because the man of the house likes desserts that involved open flames. You have to love friends who make dessert because they know you're coming.
My girlfriend teased me about how whenever I blog about their cottage, I get effusive. "You made our outdoor shower sound like the Taj Mahal of showers!" she joked and I reminded her that it is extraordinary. It's just a shame that it's March and I can't use it.
For the first time ever, I slept in the bunk room, a slender room fashioned out of a former bathroom with a nautical theme and two single beds mounted on the wall. I saw no reason to climb the ladder to the top, instead burrowing into the lower bed and sleeping like I was on a boat.
In a related note, my host had suggested that one of these times I sleep on the sailboat, so it looks like I've got another first time experience to look forward to.
Who am I? A woman with fabulous friends and a happier outlook than I've had in months. Only now we know I can hold my own at The Corner.
Friday, August 18, 2017
Helms Alee
Take me to the middle of a river and feed me, and I'm yours for life.
As meals go, having one aboard a sailboat with my favorite river rats made for pretty spectacular eating.
I'd been eyeing the dropped wooden table in front of the helm sine the first time I'd set foot on the boat last summer, but today was the first time we set the boat to auto-cruise, pulled the table up and lunched on the Rappahannock.
In our own modified version of "Groundhog's Day," today's outdoor adventure, like yesterday's, began with a ride in the powerboat to see what we could see and ended up on the sailboat. With a whole lot of talk and laughing in between.
One major difference was that today we finished up our sail trying to outrun a squall. As the sole occupant of the bow when the going got rough, I tried to ignore the choppy water splashing up around me and keep my eyes fixed on the horizon.
Only occasionally did my stomach register a complaint about the rough water, but I didn't falter (much).
But without a doubt, the high point was breaking bread on the water with these two people who act like I'm doing them the favor by coming to visit, when the reality is I'm the lucky one. We've gotten so comfortable with each other that they can now discuss family matters in front of me and pause to listen when I put in my two cents' worth.
Today's voluminous cloud cover was a welcome relief from yesterday's unrelenting sun - with both female members of the crew having the overly brown legs to prove it - while also providing fodder for the cloud game (look, a strapless bra...look, a hen on a nest) when we felt inclined to play.
The captain was in fine comedic form as usual, coming up with the concept of The Church of the Holy Dolphin, wherein people would join in hopes of being reincarnated as a dolphin. To the three of us, it made about as much sense as any other church.
They regaled me with stories of the maritime artist John Barber coming to their house for dinner and took me on a water tour of some of the more notable locals' houses. We discussed the Monkees in depth and when we take a tangent to my long ago phone conversation with singer Bobbie Gentry, my friend demands to know if I'd asked her what Billy Joe McAllister threw off the Tallahatchee Bridge.
I have to admit I hadn't and she sighs in disappointment.
One of my favorite things about these two is that every sentence out of their mouths is an opening to sing a song. Mention darkness approaching and one begins to sing, "Hello darkness, my old friend..." or comment that the dog isn't as spastic as usual and I hear, "He's grown accustomed to your face..."
It's hilarious and non-stop. It also helps that both can sing. You won't find me inflicting my singing on anyone.
And when the sail was said and done, we took turns in the palatial outdoor shower so that we could go out to dinner without the stink of sailing, sweat and sunscreen on us.
We ate at Relish in Warsaw because so much of their sourcing -vegetables, fruits, seafood, meat - is within a few miles and because the place has a charming colorful vibe.
It was also date night and crowded, a testament to both the locals and the summer people. We briefly considered passing ourselves off as on a date - what, no man ever dated two women? - but decided we were too hungry for that and ordered with abandon.
No matter how good lunch on a sailboat is, it only takes you so far. The good news is, with the right friends, that's pretty far. I think these two know they've got me for life and they're okay with it.
Cue "Hungry Like the Wolf."
As meals go, having one aboard a sailboat with my favorite river rats made for pretty spectacular eating.
I'd been eyeing the dropped wooden table in front of the helm sine the first time I'd set foot on the boat last summer, but today was the first time we set the boat to auto-cruise, pulled the table up and lunched on the Rappahannock.
In our own modified version of "Groundhog's Day," today's outdoor adventure, like yesterday's, began with a ride in the powerboat to see what we could see and ended up on the sailboat. With a whole lot of talk and laughing in between.
One major difference was that today we finished up our sail trying to outrun a squall. As the sole occupant of the bow when the going got rough, I tried to ignore the choppy water splashing up around me and keep my eyes fixed on the horizon.
Only occasionally did my stomach register a complaint about the rough water, but I didn't falter (much).
But without a doubt, the high point was breaking bread on the water with these two people who act like I'm doing them the favor by coming to visit, when the reality is I'm the lucky one. We've gotten so comfortable with each other that they can now discuss family matters in front of me and pause to listen when I put in my two cents' worth.
Today's voluminous cloud cover was a welcome relief from yesterday's unrelenting sun - with both female members of the crew having the overly brown legs to prove it - while also providing fodder for the cloud game (look, a strapless bra...look, a hen on a nest) when we felt inclined to play.
The captain was in fine comedic form as usual, coming up with the concept of The Church of the Holy Dolphin, wherein people would join in hopes of being reincarnated as a dolphin. To the three of us, it made about as much sense as any other church.
They regaled me with stories of the maritime artist John Barber coming to their house for dinner and took me on a water tour of some of the more notable locals' houses. We discussed the Monkees in depth and when we take a tangent to my long ago phone conversation with singer Bobbie Gentry, my friend demands to know if I'd asked her what Billy Joe McAllister threw off the Tallahatchee Bridge.
I have to admit I hadn't and she sighs in disappointment.
One of my favorite things about these two is that every sentence out of their mouths is an opening to sing a song. Mention darkness approaching and one begins to sing, "Hello darkness, my old friend..." or comment that the dog isn't as spastic as usual and I hear, "He's grown accustomed to your face..."
It's hilarious and non-stop. It also helps that both can sing. You won't find me inflicting my singing on anyone.
And when the sail was said and done, we took turns in the palatial outdoor shower so that we could go out to dinner without the stink of sailing, sweat and sunscreen on us.
We ate at Relish in Warsaw because so much of their sourcing -vegetables, fruits, seafood, meat - is within a few miles and because the place has a charming colorful vibe.
It was also date night and crowded, a testament to both the locals and the summer people. We briefly considered passing ourselves off as on a date - what, no man ever dated two women? - but decided we were too hungry for that and ordered with abandon.
No matter how good lunch on a sailboat is, it only takes you so far. The good news is, with the right friends, that's pretty far. I think these two know they've got me for life and they're okay with it.
Cue "Hungry Like the Wolf."
Monday, September 29, 2014
Houseguests and Fish
I've become a cottage groupie.
For the third time since August began, my favorite boyfriend and I headed the car east to visit the happy couple who live in the most charming cottage on the northern neck. Despite warning them that their effusive hospitality was going to result in me saying yes every chance I could, they keep rolling out the welcome mat.
"Who wants to go out in the boat?" our handsome host asked seconds after arriving not long after noon. Pointing at me, he grinned, "I know you do."
I've known the man less than two months and he's already on to me.
Meanwhile, our hostess, my girlfriend, was crackling with enthusiasm; she'd just read an article about oyster gardening and was jazzed to take it up. When I asked her who'd written the piece, she pulled out the magazine, checked and whooped in surprise. "I didn't even notice your name!"
Sometimes in life, you have to point out your own byline. What thrilled me was that my article had done exactly what I'd set out to do - encourage anyone on the northern neck with a dock to take up oyster gardening.
So, sure, I was pretty proud of myself. And hungry, too.
We began with the quintessential river meal: crabs cracked and eaten on a picnic table overlooking the river while the man of the house prepared the boat for takeoff. You see, he's not a fan of cracking crabs (like so many men who find it far too much work for the amount of meat), so his adored wife cracks for him, leaving a pile of backfin meat for him to enjoy.
After gorging, we washed the Old Bay off of our hands and took off in the boat, a bottle of champagne in hand, our skipper abstaining as always.
We moseyed up toward Irvington and gawked at the pricey boats in front of the Tides Inn, bantered about the difference between true cottages and river McMansions and saw sailboats of all sizes breezing along.
Returning to the shore mainly because their dog Jake seemed eager to relieve himself, we took time to snack on the deck, scarfing black bean, corn, onion and avocado salsa our smiling hostess had made. It's a personal favorite, something I could eat almost daily and still look forward to.
Not that she knew that. Is it any wonder I'm such a fan of hers?
When we'd arrived, I'd seen a piece of paper on the dining room table that said "lumbago." Curious, I'd asked about it and our host, as much a language geek as I am, said he'd written it down because it's one of those worlds that has fallen out of use and he wanted to remember it.
He's right, of course, these days people complain of lower back pain but no one (except maybe octogenarians) refers to it as lumbago anymore.
Similarly, he was talking about a trial he'd attended where one of the attorneys had used the word "swale," another underused word that had captured his attention. Later he referred to me as a gadabout. How can I not get a kick out of a man who delights in obscure words?
Soon we left wordsmithing behind and took off again, the menfolk in the back and we girls planted on the bow of the boat, pink polka dot beach towels draped over our legs, laughing and talking the whole way. Most hysterical thing to come out of her mouth (and there were many because she's a funny woman)? "If I recall correctly, I threw up on the dog."
This time, we boated up the eastern branch of the Corrotoman to deep water areas where huge sailboats and yachts were anchored and moored.
One of the most interesting homes we saw was not up on a bluff like most of the houses around, but down near the waterline, so close we worried that the wake from the boat was going to send the river lapping at their front door.
You have to admire those who choose to live dangerously, no?
Heading back, the sun was dropping lower in the sky and everyone had an appetite. My mother has always said that children eat and sleep better near water than anywhere else and apparently it's true for adults, too.
Steak and steelhead trout were expertly grilled outside while the womenfolk made an elaborate salad (spinach, strawberries, glazed nuts, bacon, raspberry vinaigrette, oh, my!) and set the table inside to avoid the mosquitoes that had recently taken up residence on the deck.
Full as ticks, we spent the evening listening to music, talking about Grace Street in the old days, reminiscing about past dogs and wishing our hostess did not have to drive back to Richmond. But duty called.
For the second time, I got to spend the night on the bed that sits on the porch of their guest house, a bedroom with a ceiling fan, three screened walls surrounded by trees and the sounds of nature for a lullabye.
It's about the most perfect place to sleep you could imagine.
Our morning plans to boat to Urbanna and have lunch were canned once we looked at the weather and saw the massive front of rain approaching.
Making lemonade out of lemons, we came up with Plan B, even though it meant leaving the charming, little cottage: a visit to nearby Menokin to see its historical ruins, walk its trails and see Cat Point Creek on which it sits.
It's not as random as it sounds. In 2012, I'd heard a lecture at the Virginia Historical Society about Menokin and the efforts to restore it. Just last January, I'd seen an exhibit at the Virginia Center for Architecture of design plans envisioned by Harvard Graduate School of Design students.
So my curiosity about the real thing had been piqued twice and I'm lucky enough to have an accommodating man to investigate with me.
The heavy gray skies and impending rain were a dramatic backdrop as we pulled up to the 500-acre estate (back in original owner and Declaration of Independence signer Francis Lightfoot Lee's day, it had been 1,000 acres) for a look around.
A short film told us additional history, but I was more impressed with the room full of architectural features removed from the house back in the '60s and destined to be returned once the ruins are enclosed with glass walls.
Closet doors, mantel pieces, the front door keystone and many other significant elements of the original house had been presciently stored away in a peanut barn at Bacon's Castle a half century ago and await return to their home.
The ruins are striking because when the roof eventually collapsed, it left standing two corner sections of wall diagonally across from each other and two massive chimneys, in addition to various other bits of walls and cellar, now all somewhat protected under a large shed.
Just so you know, there is nothing cottage-like about this place. It was a big house for an important man.
The once-terraced gardens that sloped gradually down to Cat Point Creek are now overgrown with trees blocking the view, but restoration of the grounds will come in phase two of the project after the house is redone.
Never one to pass up a good water view, we took the trail down through the woods past walnut trees (the ground under them a minefield of green nuts), dogwoods, American beeches, dark cherry trees and tulip poplars until reaching the creek, serene and silver on a day like this.
Old Lightfoot Lee and the wife would have had a marvelous waterfront view back in the 18th century.
Today it was all ours.
For the third time since August began, my favorite boyfriend and I headed the car east to visit the happy couple who live in the most charming cottage on the northern neck. Despite warning them that their effusive hospitality was going to result in me saying yes every chance I could, they keep rolling out the welcome mat.
"Who wants to go out in the boat?" our handsome host asked seconds after arriving not long after noon. Pointing at me, he grinned, "I know you do."
I've known the man less than two months and he's already on to me.
Meanwhile, our hostess, my girlfriend, was crackling with enthusiasm; she'd just read an article about oyster gardening and was jazzed to take it up. When I asked her who'd written the piece, she pulled out the magazine, checked and whooped in surprise. "I didn't even notice your name!"
Sometimes in life, you have to point out your own byline. What thrilled me was that my article had done exactly what I'd set out to do - encourage anyone on the northern neck with a dock to take up oyster gardening.
So, sure, I was pretty proud of myself. And hungry, too.
We began with the quintessential river meal: crabs cracked and eaten on a picnic table overlooking the river while the man of the house prepared the boat for takeoff. You see, he's not a fan of cracking crabs (like so many men who find it far too much work for the amount of meat), so his adored wife cracks for him, leaving a pile of backfin meat for him to enjoy.
After gorging, we washed the Old Bay off of our hands and took off in the boat, a bottle of champagne in hand, our skipper abstaining as always.
We moseyed up toward Irvington and gawked at the pricey boats in front of the Tides Inn, bantered about the difference between true cottages and river McMansions and saw sailboats of all sizes breezing along.
Returning to the shore mainly because their dog Jake seemed eager to relieve himself, we took time to snack on the deck, scarfing black bean, corn, onion and avocado salsa our smiling hostess had made. It's a personal favorite, something I could eat almost daily and still look forward to.
Not that she knew that. Is it any wonder I'm such a fan of hers?
When we'd arrived, I'd seen a piece of paper on the dining room table that said "lumbago." Curious, I'd asked about it and our host, as much a language geek as I am, said he'd written it down because it's one of those worlds that has fallen out of use and he wanted to remember it.
He's right, of course, these days people complain of lower back pain but no one (except maybe octogenarians) refers to it as lumbago anymore.
Similarly, he was talking about a trial he'd attended where one of the attorneys had used the word "swale," another underused word that had captured his attention. Later he referred to me as a gadabout. How can I not get a kick out of a man who delights in obscure words?
Soon we left wordsmithing behind and took off again, the menfolk in the back and we girls planted on the bow of the boat, pink polka dot beach towels draped over our legs, laughing and talking the whole way. Most hysterical thing to come out of her mouth (and there were many because she's a funny woman)? "If I recall correctly, I threw up on the dog."
This time, we boated up the eastern branch of the Corrotoman to deep water areas where huge sailboats and yachts were anchored and moored.
One of the most interesting homes we saw was not up on a bluff like most of the houses around, but down near the waterline, so close we worried that the wake from the boat was going to send the river lapping at their front door.
You have to admire those who choose to live dangerously, no?
Heading back, the sun was dropping lower in the sky and everyone had an appetite. My mother has always said that children eat and sleep better near water than anywhere else and apparently it's true for adults, too.
Steak and steelhead trout were expertly grilled outside while the womenfolk made an elaborate salad (spinach, strawberries, glazed nuts, bacon, raspberry vinaigrette, oh, my!) and set the table inside to avoid the mosquitoes that had recently taken up residence on the deck.
Full as ticks, we spent the evening listening to music, talking about Grace Street in the old days, reminiscing about past dogs and wishing our hostess did not have to drive back to Richmond. But duty called.
For the second time, I got to spend the night on the bed that sits on the porch of their guest house, a bedroom with a ceiling fan, three screened walls surrounded by trees and the sounds of nature for a lullabye.
It's about the most perfect place to sleep you could imagine.
Our morning plans to boat to Urbanna and have lunch were canned once we looked at the weather and saw the massive front of rain approaching.
Making lemonade out of lemons, we came up with Plan B, even though it meant leaving the charming, little cottage: a visit to nearby Menokin to see its historical ruins, walk its trails and see Cat Point Creek on which it sits.
It's not as random as it sounds. In 2012, I'd heard a lecture at the Virginia Historical Society about Menokin and the efforts to restore it. Just last January, I'd seen an exhibit at the Virginia Center for Architecture of design plans envisioned by Harvard Graduate School of Design students.
So my curiosity about the real thing had been piqued twice and I'm lucky enough to have an accommodating man to investigate with me.
The heavy gray skies and impending rain were a dramatic backdrop as we pulled up to the 500-acre estate (back in original owner and Declaration of Independence signer Francis Lightfoot Lee's day, it had been 1,000 acres) for a look around.
A short film told us additional history, but I was more impressed with the room full of architectural features removed from the house back in the '60s and destined to be returned once the ruins are enclosed with glass walls.
Closet doors, mantel pieces, the front door keystone and many other significant elements of the original house had been presciently stored away in a peanut barn at Bacon's Castle a half century ago and await return to their home.
The ruins are striking because when the roof eventually collapsed, it left standing two corner sections of wall diagonally across from each other and two massive chimneys, in addition to various other bits of walls and cellar, now all somewhat protected under a large shed.
Just so you know, there is nothing cottage-like about this place. It was a big house for an important man.
The once-terraced gardens that sloped gradually down to Cat Point Creek are now overgrown with trees blocking the view, but restoration of the grounds will come in phase two of the project after the house is redone.
Never one to pass up a good water view, we took the trail down through the woods past walnut trees (the ground under them a minefield of green nuts), dogwoods, American beeches, dark cherry trees and tulip poplars until reaching the creek, serene and silver on a day like this.
Old Lightfoot Lee and the wife would have had a marvelous waterfront view back in the 18th century.
Today it was all ours.
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