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."
Showing posts with label rappahannock river. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rappahannock river. Show all posts
Friday, August 18, 2017
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Skivvies Optional
Today's road trip was steeped in nostalgia.
I hadn't been to the river to see my parents in a couple of months, and as the oldest (and the closest, distance-wise), I was overdue.
It was a picture-perfect day for the drive with the Rappahannock a silvery blue mirror when I crossed it about 10 a.m, not so much as a wisp of a breeze to be seen or felt.
Arriving at the house, my Dad was just about to depart for the barber shop In Kilmarnock, 30 minutes away.
Inquiring if I needed anything, I asked only for some good dirt from the boys at the shop and he set off, leaving us womenfolk alone.
I did some chores for Mom, mostly the kind of stuff I don't do at home.
Changing linens on all four beds from summer to fall (meaning lightweight flannel sheets). Baking a cake. Hemming a new skirt of hers. Laying some shelf paper in the pantry.
Being female, we chatted non-stop the whole time, with her asking about the goings-on in my love life ("I'm just glad you're happy") and telling me about a friend's husband (bitten by a crab and almost lost his arm).
During a tangent about ironing, something neither of us do much, she told me my #3 sister used to iron her hair as a teenager.
I didn't know that.
Odd as that procedure sounds, it's even more so when you know that all six of us have stick-straight hair.
On a related note, she gave me a 5 x 7 copy of a photograph of her and my Dad in bathing suits in Ocean City just after my #3 sister was born.
For lunch, she had a surprise.
When we were kids, we were the hot spot of the neighborhood because my Mom had a round grilled cheese maker and no one else did.
The pleasures of a round grilled cheese - that soft puffy center with the circle of buttery crust all around- were even extolled by my childhood best friend, Cindy Smith, who when given an assignment in school to write about a favorite thing, wrote about her best friend Karen's Mom's round grilled cheeses.
Of course, I didn't remember that story, but Mom did and shared it as she made our sandwiches on her brand-new round grilled cheese maker, recently acquired from Amazon after years without because sister #2 had "borrowed" it in the '90s and never returned it.
When Dad finally got back from the barber shop, it was with a story.
Seems the boys had been discussing the dearth of two-dollar bills in these parts in recent years when someone said he knew why they'd originally been so popular in the area.
Two bucks was what it cost a man at the Kilmarnock brothel, so they used to see a lot of the bills.
Not so much anymore.
When I went out to get the mail, the postal truck arrived and the woman handed me two packages.
Back on the porch, Dad opened one to find the coastal blue shorts he'd ordered from J. Crewe.
Mom insisted he try them on despite him insisting he's been the same size since the Clinton administration (a frequent reference point for my screaming liberal parents), and he barely stepped inside the house and dropped trou.
Returning to show us how well the shorts fit, he asked if I'd cut the tag inside off for him.
When I agreed, he dropped trou, this time right in front of Mom and me on the porch and handed me the shorts.
I gave her the look and she tells me laughingly that sometimes he goes out to raise the flag in the yard in his skivvies, much to her mortification but not to her surprise.
Sweet jesus. I may be eccentric as hell, but clearly I come by it honestly.
I only hope I'm as happy as these two when I'm their age.
I hadn't been to the river to see my parents in a couple of months, and as the oldest (and the closest, distance-wise), I was overdue.
It was a picture-perfect day for the drive with the Rappahannock a silvery blue mirror when I crossed it about 10 a.m, not so much as a wisp of a breeze to be seen or felt.
Arriving at the house, my Dad was just about to depart for the barber shop In Kilmarnock, 30 minutes away.
Inquiring if I needed anything, I asked only for some good dirt from the boys at the shop and he set off, leaving us womenfolk alone.
I did some chores for Mom, mostly the kind of stuff I don't do at home.
Changing linens on all four beds from summer to fall (meaning lightweight flannel sheets). Baking a cake. Hemming a new skirt of hers. Laying some shelf paper in the pantry.
Being female, we chatted non-stop the whole time, with her asking about the goings-on in my love life ("I'm just glad you're happy") and telling me about a friend's husband (bitten by a crab and almost lost his arm).
During a tangent about ironing, something neither of us do much, she told me my #3 sister used to iron her hair as a teenager.
I didn't know that.
Odd as that procedure sounds, it's even more so when you know that all six of us have stick-straight hair.
On a related note, she gave me a 5 x 7 copy of a photograph of her and my Dad in bathing suits in Ocean City just after my #3 sister was born.
For lunch, she had a surprise.
When we were kids, we were the hot spot of the neighborhood because my Mom had a round grilled cheese maker and no one else did.
The pleasures of a round grilled cheese - that soft puffy center with the circle of buttery crust all around- were even extolled by my childhood best friend, Cindy Smith, who when given an assignment in school to write about a favorite thing, wrote about her best friend Karen's Mom's round grilled cheeses.
Of course, I didn't remember that story, but Mom did and shared it as she made our sandwiches on her brand-new round grilled cheese maker, recently acquired from Amazon after years without because sister #2 had "borrowed" it in the '90s and never returned it.
When Dad finally got back from the barber shop, it was with a story.
Seems the boys had been discussing the dearth of two-dollar bills in these parts in recent years when someone said he knew why they'd originally been so popular in the area.
Two bucks was what it cost a man at the Kilmarnock brothel, so they used to see a lot of the bills.
Not so much anymore.
When I went out to get the mail, the postal truck arrived and the woman handed me two packages.
Back on the porch, Dad opened one to find the coastal blue shorts he'd ordered from J. Crewe.
Mom insisted he try them on despite him insisting he's been the same size since the Clinton administration (a frequent reference point for my screaming liberal parents), and he barely stepped inside the house and dropped trou.
Returning to show us how well the shorts fit, he asked if I'd cut the tag inside off for him.
When I agreed, he dropped trou, this time right in front of Mom and me on the porch and handed me the shorts.
I gave her the look and she tells me laughingly that sometimes he goes out to raise the flag in the yard in his skivvies, much to her mortification but not to her surprise.
Sweet jesus. I may be eccentric as hell, but clearly I come by it honestly.
I only hope I'm as happy as these two when I'm their age.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Out of the City and Back In
It was meal as mini-vacation.
Four of us drove down and met up with three others in Topping for an afternoon at Merroir.
The date had been set for weeks, so the absolutely perfect weather was a bonus.
We'd still have gone if the forecast had been 100 degrees, but fortunately it wasn't.
Because we arrived before the trio, we claimed the shadiest picnic table nearest the river and the monumental pile of oyster shells.
I went over to say hello to the chef before we all walked over to the dock to admire how green the water was.
And then our true purpose kicked in.
People gotta eat (and drink).
Our smiling server remembered me from my visit three weeks ago, impressing me with her customer recognition skills.
She approved of our choice of a bottle of Wimmer Gruner Veltliner, delivering it in a gallon bucket with an old label proclaiming, "Pittman Bewdley Brand Rapphannock Oysters, Lancaster, VA."
It was the ideal touch to set the tone for our afternoon of seafood eating.
Unable to wait for the trio to start slurping, we got a dozen to tide us over, mixing and matching three kinds of oysters (Rapphannocks, Stingrays and Old Saltes) with three kinds of house made sauce, cocktail, tomatillo cocktail and to-die-for red wine shallot mignonette.
If we'd left after just that part of the adventure, it would have still been noteworthy.
The sky was bright blue, the water a deep green, the breeze non-stop and the shade of the big old tree delicious.
Soon the trio arrived and we all got to eating in earnest.
My partner in crime and I made pigs of ourselves with no apologies.
He at first shunned the lamb and clam stew for fear it would be too heavy a dish, but I insisted and we were rewarded with a cioppino-like broth loaded with ground Border Springs lamb and local Old Salte clams.
I don't think he even minded me being right once he tasted it.
The smoked lamb ribs with peach barbecue sauce were bone-sucking good and one in our party even pilfered a rib from his beloved's plate when she wasn't looking.
Angels on horseback kept the oyster theme going for us, albeit with bacon, which we all know makes everything better.
I felt like we had to try the stuffin' muffin, a tribute to the chef's mom's recipe for using up leftover oyster stuffing after Thanksgiving.
Balls of stuffing were flattened, grilled and covered in a bacon and onion cream sauce for a carb fest that tasted like the holidays even on a July day.
We closed out with a pound of steamed Outer Banks shrimp cooked with celery, onions and Old Bay.
By that time, our group had downed three bottles of wine and untold food.
After a while, I lost track of what others were eating in my own feeding frenzy.
Boats came in and out of the marina, a blue heron sat on a nearby dock and everyone agreed that the river vibe had reduced us to creatures completely relaxed, at times even incoherent.
Less than an hour and a half from the city and we might as well have been in another world.
After gorging, we all wandered down to the dock to dangle our feet in the impossibly-warm water and consider a dip.
It was obvious no one wanted to get in our cars and return to the real world.
For some of us, doing so was possible only because we intend to go back very soon. Very soon.
So back we went over the two bridges and westward home.
The only needs left to be satisfied were dessert and entertainment beyond nature.
We took care of both neatly with a trip to Ipanema, meeting up with another couple still making the river to city adjustment.
Foolishly after an afternoon of much wine and seafood, I ordered the brownie a la mode and my seatmate the apple berry pie a la mode.
Not surprisingly, neither of us did justice to our desserts, but managed to down the Durant White that accompanied them.
Before long, the music for which we'd come began in the form of Friends of Mine, the latest DJ night courtesy of Jamie, he of the former Blood Brothers before one bro split for NYC.
The idea is that he'll share turntable rights with a different friend every week and tonight's was Cassie Jane.
If tonight was any indication, I'm going to like these friends of mine, who leaned heavily on early '60s rhythm and blues to get the party started.
From the smooth soul stylings of "I'm Your Puppet" to the urgency of "In the Midnight Hour" to the forgotten "Putty in Your Hands," it was a rock solid night of music.
I mean, come on. "Heat Wave," "Piece of My Heart" and the always-classic "Little Bit of Soul"?
People should have been dancing on that beautiful new bar with that kind of music being cranked out.
It was a long way from a picnic bench by the Rappahannock, but if we had to come back to the heat of the city, this was the way to end it.
Leave it to friends of mine to put an exclamation point at the end of a stellar day.
Four of us drove down and met up with three others in Topping for an afternoon at Merroir.
The date had been set for weeks, so the absolutely perfect weather was a bonus.
We'd still have gone if the forecast had been 100 degrees, but fortunately it wasn't.
Because we arrived before the trio, we claimed the shadiest picnic table nearest the river and the monumental pile of oyster shells.
I went over to say hello to the chef before we all walked over to the dock to admire how green the water was.
And then our true purpose kicked in.
People gotta eat (and drink).
Our smiling server remembered me from my visit three weeks ago, impressing me with her customer recognition skills.
She approved of our choice of a bottle of Wimmer Gruner Veltliner, delivering it in a gallon bucket with an old label proclaiming, "Pittman Bewdley Brand Rapphannock Oysters, Lancaster, VA."
It was the ideal touch to set the tone for our afternoon of seafood eating.
Unable to wait for the trio to start slurping, we got a dozen to tide us over, mixing and matching three kinds of oysters (Rapphannocks, Stingrays and Old Saltes) with three kinds of house made sauce, cocktail, tomatillo cocktail and to-die-for red wine shallot mignonette.
If we'd left after just that part of the adventure, it would have still been noteworthy.
The sky was bright blue, the water a deep green, the breeze non-stop and the shade of the big old tree delicious.
Soon the trio arrived and we all got to eating in earnest.
My partner in crime and I made pigs of ourselves with no apologies.
He at first shunned the lamb and clam stew for fear it would be too heavy a dish, but I insisted and we were rewarded with a cioppino-like broth loaded with ground Border Springs lamb and local Old Salte clams.
I don't think he even minded me being right once he tasted it.
The smoked lamb ribs with peach barbecue sauce were bone-sucking good and one in our party even pilfered a rib from his beloved's plate when she wasn't looking.
Angels on horseback kept the oyster theme going for us, albeit with bacon, which we all know makes everything better.
I felt like we had to try the stuffin' muffin, a tribute to the chef's mom's recipe for using up leftover oyster stuffing after Thanksgiving.
Balls of stuffing were flattened, grilled and covered in a bacon and onion cream sauce for a carb fest that tasted like the holidays even on a July day.
We closed out with a pound of steamed Outer Banks shrimp cooked with celery, onions and Old Bay.
By that time, our group had downed three bottles of wine and untold food.
After a while, I lost track of what others were eating in my own feeding frenzy.
Boats came in and out of the marina, a blue heron sat on a nearby dock and everyone agreed that the river vibe had reduced us to creatures completely relaxed, at times even incoherent.
Less than an hour and a half from the city and we might as well have been in another world.
After gorging, we all wandered down to the dock to dangle our feet in the impossibly-warm water and consider a dip.
It was obvious no one wanted to get in our cars and return to the real world.
For some of us, doing so was possible only because we intend to go back very soon. Very soon.
So back we went over the two bridges and westward home.
The only needs left to be satisfied were dessert and entertainment beyond nature.
We took care of both neatly with a trip to Ipanema, meeting up with another couple still making the river to city adjustment.
Foolishly after an afternoon of much wine and seafood, I ordered the brownie a la mode and my seatmate the apple berry pie a la mode.
Not surprisingly, neither of us did justice to our desserts, but managed to down the Durant White that accompanied them.
Before long, the music for which we'd come began in the form of Friends of Mine, the latest DJ night courtesy of Jamie, he of the former Blood Brothers before one bro split for NYC.
The idea is that he'll share turntable rights with a different friend every week and tonight's was Cassie Jane.
If tonight was any indication, I'm going to like these friends of mine, who leaned heavily on early '60s rhythm and blues to get the party started.
From the smooth soul stylings of "I'm Your Puppet" to the urgency of "In the Midnight Hour" to the forgotten "Putty in Your Hands," it was a rock solid night of music.
I mean, come on. "Heat Wave," "Piece of My Heart" and the always-classic "Little Bit of Soul"?
People should have been dancing on that beautiful new bar with that kind of music being cranked out.
It was a long way from a picnic bench by the Rappahannock, but if we had to come back to the heat of the city, this was the way to end it.
Leave it to friends of mine to put an exclamation point at the end of a stellar day.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Folks Sure are Friendly in These Parts
Barely back two days from vacation and I headed out again.
I've been missing the ocean anyway, so I was more than happy to go to the river today.
I just didn't expect so much stranger love.
With my WRIR cooler packed with hydration, I gathered up some CDs (Richard Hawley's "Lady's Bridge," Grimes' "Visions," Richmanian Ramblers "World, Sister World" and Mat Kearney's "City of Black and White") for the drive and headed east.
My destination was Kinsale, a tiny Northern Neck town on the Yeocomico River, to talk to a man who's been in the oyster business since 1966.
Arriving at the complex, a man in a golf cart approached me presuming I was lost, but I told him who I was there to see.
A huge smile erupted on his face. "Come on, baby," he grinned, putting his golf cart in gear, "I'll show you."
Inside, the receptionist called the boss and said there was a "young lady" here to see him.
You talking about me?
After a satisfying interview with a man who loves what he does, I got back on the road and before long saw a sign for Vault Fields Winery.
Mid-afternoon grape? Why not?
So I made the turn, winding my way through sunny cornfields, curious about a wine I knew a few Richmond restaurants are now carrying.
But today being Tuesday and all meant no dice.The tasting room is only open Thursdays through Sundays.
Back on the road again.
Coming through Tappahannock, I decided to stop at Parr's Drive-in, two blocks off the riverfront, for ice cream.
Parr's is a throwback: concrete floors, 25-cent gumball machines and a gray-haired guy behind the counter making corny jokes.
Seeing me looking at my choices, he cracked, "One of each?"
I finally decided on a dip-top cone, anticipating it even more when I heard they had chocolate/vanilla swirl soft serve.
Let's just say it had been a while since I'd had a zebra cone.
The guy asked if I wanted small or medium and I told him I'd have a medium, even if it meant I was going to hell in a hand basket after a week of trashy beach eating.
"I won't tell anyone" he said conspiratorially and then winked at me.
My total came to $3.04 ("Just give me three dollars," he said, but I dug out four pennies anyway) and I took my towering treat out to my car to enjoy.
With all the windows down, I enjoyed the 80-degree breeze blowing in from the river while I watched a woman contently sitting on a porch swing on a nearby white house.
Seems like just a few days ago I was sitting on a porch swing overlooking the ocean. Ah, well.
A car pulled up next to me and a guy got out and went in, glancing over at me.
He soon came back out with stuff in his hands, which he put in his car before going back in.
This time he returned with a dip-top cone in hand and looked right at me.
I raised my cone in salute and he did the same.
"Nice idea!" he said, smiling and nodding at me, apparently giving me credit for his decision to dip along with me.
No problem, I told him as he got in his car to leave.
Aw, shucks. Just spreading the gospel of stopping to smell the roses.
Nice idea, if you ask me.
But what do I know? I had chocolate all over my chin.
I've been missing the ocean anyway, so I was more than happy to go to the river today.
I just didn't expect so much stranger love.
With my WRIR cooler packed with hydration, I gathered up some CDs (Richard Hawley's "Lady's Bridge," Grimes' "Visions," Richmanian Ramblers "World, Sister World" and Mat Kearney's "City of Black and White") for the drive and headed east.
My destination was Kinsale, a tiny Northern Neck town on the Yeocomico River, to talk to a man who's been in the oyster business since 1966.
Arriving at the complex, a man in a golf cart approached me presuming I was lost, but I told him who I was there to see.
A huge smile erupted on his face. "Come on, baby," he grinned, putting his golf cart in gear, "I'll show you."
Inside, the receptionist called the boss and said there was a "young lady" here to see him.
You talking about me?
After a satisfying interview with a man who loves what he does, I got back on the road and before long saw a sign for Vault Fields Winery.
Mid-afternoon grape? Why not?
So I made the turn, winding my way through sunny cornfields, curious about a wine I knew a few Richmond restaurants are now carrying.
But today being Tuesday and all meant no dice.The tasting room is only open Thursdays through Sundays.
Back on the road again.
Coming through Tappahannock, I decided to stop at Parr's Drive-in, two blocks off the riverfront, for ice cream.
Parr's is a throwback: concrete floors, 25-cent gumball machines and a gray-haired guy behind the counter making corny jokes.
Seeing me looking at my choices, he cracked, "One of each?"
I finally decided on a dip-top cone, anticipating it even more when I heard they had chocolate/vanilla swirl soft serve.
Let's just say it had been a while since I'd had a zebra cone.
The guy asked if I wanted small or medium and I told him I'd have a medium, even if it meant I was going to hell in a hand basket after a week of trashy beach eating.
"I won't tell anyone" he said conspiratorially and then winked at me.
My total came to $3.04 ("Just give me three dollars," he said, but I dug out four pennies anyway) and I took my towering treat out to my car to enjoy.
With all the windows down, I enjoyed the 80-degree breeze blowing in from the river while I watched a woman contently sitting on a porch swing on a nearby white house.
Seems like just a few days ago I was sitting on a porch swing overlooking the ocean. Ah, well.
A car pulled up next to me and a guy got out and went in, glancing over at me.
He soon came back out with stuff in his hands, which he put in his car before going back in.
This time he returned with a dip-top cone in hand and looked right at me.
I raised my cone in salute and he did the same.
"Nice idea!" he said, smiling and nodding at me, apparently giving me credit for his decision to dip along with me.
No problem, I told him as he got in his car to leave.
Aw, shucks. Just spreading the gospel of stopping to smell the roses.
Nice idea, if you ask me.
But what do I know? I had chocolate all over my chin.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Random on the Half Shell
It may be a personal best.
I've had men approach me in some of the oddest places - a stoplight on Monument Avenue at midnight, the Ladies' Room at Lemaire, the third row of D.A.R. Constitution Hall - but never when I was surrounded by water.
It was like this: I was visiting the 'rents on the Northern Neck.
When my Dad and I headed down to the dock, we noticed that the tide was exceptionally low.
So low that the shell bar that extends from their beach was completely exposed.
It's a crescent of shell-covered sand created years ago by the castoffs of an oyster facility on the very long wharf that used to jut out from that place.
Most of the time you can't see it, except at low tide when parts of it are exposed.
Today, a full half a mile of it was sticking out of the crystalline blue water, something I'd never seen in all the years of visiting there.
It was irresistible, so when my Dad I headed up to the house, I decided to walk out on it.
It was a truly unique feeling to be on this sliver of "land" surrounded by gently lapping waves.
When I reached the end, I paused to look around, admiring the new vantage point of my parents' house, the point of land and the duck blind which was now amazingly close by.
Next thing I know, a guy in full waders is loping through the water toward me.
He must have been out there all along and I just hadn't noticed him.
We'll just chalk that up to nature's beauty distracting me. That and the bright midday sun.
So, yes, perched on a foot-wide piece of exposed beach in the middle of the Rappahannock River, I met a semi-retired judge, former Marine (Desert Storm), water fowl lodge owner and former Richmonder (Freeman High School, Hampden-Sydney, UVA Law).
I was thrilled to get an impromptu local seafood industry lesson.
He showed me Black Butt oysters (enormous) and an oyster half eaten by a cow-nosed ray (major crunch action).
I heard about the wooden wharf (which explained the remaining pylons) and how it had a shucking shack with brick fireplaces (that explained the occasional bricks in the river) in it to keep the shuckers warm.
Oyster boats brought their catches to the wharf, they were shucked and then steam boats coming up the river stopped to buy them and take them to Baltimore.
I had had no idea about any of this history.
He was out in the river doing his favorite thing: gathering oysters, which he apparently sells to local restaurants.
"Ever been to the Lancaster Tavern?" he asked once we'd shared our life stories.
Of course I had, many times with my parents.
"I'm the one who supplies them for Oyster Tuesdays," he said with not a little pride.
He said that he found gathering the mollusks to be zen-like, a real change from his other occupations.
"How do you like your oysters?" he asked, presuming correctly.
Any way I can get them, I answered honestly.
Pointing to his bushel basket under a nearby dock on the shore, he instructed me to go pick out a couple dozen for myself.
You don't have to offer me hour-old oysters twice.
Once our extended chat ended, he told me what a pleasure it had been to meet and talk to me.
I felt exactly the same.
Walking back across the shell bar towards his basket, I found an old medicine (or maybe spice?) bottle embedded in the sand.
This day keeps getting better.
And so it was that, for the first time in my life, I not only shucked oysters (and I wasn't half bad, either) but enjoyed them literally fresh out of the river.
With a dash of hot sauce, my amazed parents and just a little appreciation for the random places men choose to talk to me.
I couldn't have been more satisfied if I'd found a pearl.
I've had men approach me in some of the oddest places - a stoplight on Monument Avenue at midnight, the Ladies' Room at Lemaire, the third row of D.A.R. Constitution Hall - but never when I was surrounded by water.
It was like this: I was visiting the 'rents on the Northern Neck.
When my Dad and I headed down to the dock, we noticed that the tide was exceptionally low.
So low that the shell bar that extends from their beach was completely exposed.
It's a crescent of shell-covered sand created years ago by the castoffs of an oyster facility on the very long wharf that used to jut out from that place.
Most of the time you can't see it, except at low tide when parts of it are exposed.
Today, a full half a mile of it was sticking out of the crystalline blue water, something I'd never seen in all the years of visiting there.
It was irresistible, so when my Dad I headed up to the house, I decided to walk out on it.
It was a truly unique feeling to be on this sliver of "land" surrounded by gently lapping waves.
When I reached the end, I paused to look around, admiring the new vantage point of my parents' house, the point of land and the duck blind which was now amazingly close by.
Next thing I know, a guy in full waders is loping through the water toward me.
He must have been out there all along and I just hadn't noticed him.
We'll just chalk that up to nature's beauty distracting me. That and the bright midday sun.
So, yes, perched on a foot-wide piece of exposed beach in the middle of the Rappahannock River, I met a semi-retired judge, former Marine (Desert Storm), water fowl lodge owner and former Richmonder (Freeman High School, Hampden-Sydney, UVA Law).
I was thrilled to get an impromptu local seafood industry lesson.
He showed me Black Butt oysters (enormous) and an oyster half eaten by a cow-nosed ray (major crunch action).
I heard about the wooden wharf (which explained the remaining pylons) and how it had a shucking shack with brick fireplaces (that explained the occasional bricks in the river) in it to keep the shuckers warm.
Oyster boats brought their catches to the wharf, they were shucked and then steam boats coming up the river stopped to buy them and take them to Baltimore.
I had had no idea about any of this history.
He was out in the river doing his favorite thing: gathering oysters, which he apparently sells to local restaurants.
"Ever been to the Lancaster Tavern?" he asked once we'd shared our life stories.
Of course I had, many times with my parents.
"I'm the one who supplies them for Oyster Tuesdays," he said with not a little pride.
He said that he found gathering the mollusks to be zen-like, a real change from his other occupations.
"How do you like your oysters?" he asked, presuming correctly.
Any way I can get them, I answered honestly.
Pointing to his bushel basket under a nearby dock on the shore, he instructed me to go pick out a couple dozen for myself.
You don't have to offer me hour-old oysters twice.
Once our extended chat ended, he told me what a pleasure it had been to meet and talk to me.
I felt exactly the same.
Walking back across the shell bar towards his basket, I found an old medicine (or maybe spice?) bottle embedded in the sand.
This day keeps getting better.
And so it was that, for the first time in my life, I not only shucked oysters (and I wasn't half bad, either) but enjoyed them literally fresh out of the river.
With a dash of hot sauce, my amazed parents and just a little appreciation for the random places men choose to talk to me.
I couldn't have been more satisfied if I'd found a pearl.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
My Invisible Escape
The best offense is a good defense.
Presuming that the city was going to let me down today (the sheer amount of parking in my neighborhood is testament to how few people are in town), I escaped it at 8:30 this morning.
Less than an hour's drive put me in Tappahannock for the departure of the Captain Thomas, a Rappahannock River-cruising boat that wends its way upriver to Ingleside Vineyards and back.
But the purpose of the six-hour excursion is not just to taste wine and turn around, but to take in the scenery, both historical, natural and merely colorful.
We passed steamboat docks where boats with shows would pull up and entertain the locals.
We saw long-time river resorts with shacks next to custom-looking houses and dozens of people in the water or lounging on the beach at 10:30 in the morning.
From a distance there was no missing an enormous white house erected by a local lawyer and painted with a distinctive Cavalier-orange roof as a nod to his alma mater.
Eventually we came upon cliffs, something I didn't even know existed on the sea level or lower Northern Neck. Made of clay and sand, their trees were homes to an amazing number of bald eagles.
Once the captain showed us a few, easily recognizable by their white heads, the entire boat was engrossed in being the first to spot another one.
Despite a sunny forecast, the weather was more like what Nick Hornby called "a grey, wet British summer" kind-of-a-day with leaden skies and uneven warmth all around.
We docked at Leedstown, unknown to me, but apparently the site of the signing of the Leedstown Resolves, a precursor to the Declaration of Independence declaring the citizenry of Westmoreland County independent from England.
It's now a campground, albeit one with the brick remains of Bray's Church where the document was signed at its center, and today was full of people enjoying the holiday on the waterfront.
We then piled into school buses for the short jaunt to Ingleside, passing Ingleside Plantation on the way (41 rooms, two occupants, oh my) where we took a tour of the winery and did a tasting of five wines clearly chosen for their appeal to non-wine drinkers.
For lunch, I'd brought a pretty traditional picnic of fried chicken, watermelon slices and hummus and veggies, which I enjoyed in the courtyard under enormous trees.
Afterwards, I peeked at the museum of local Native American artifacts and stuffed wildlife before finding a shady bench and taking out my book.
Moments later, the winery tour guide walked by and shouted at me, "You're supposed to be drinking wine, not reading!" Pour me some Petit Verdot Reserve instead of Blue Crab Blush and we'll talk, I thought, politely saying, "Don't you worry about me."
On the ride back, the sun finally put in an appearance and a father and daughter argued whether the moon was visible just behind the clouds; they asked the captain for confirmation.
Suddenly an older woman pointed and gasped, "The man in that boat must be a nudist. He just pulled his pants down and back up. And he has a beer!" Boating and beer: shocking.
All in all, a very different day than my usual. Almost no conversation, but the history and nature parts satisfied my inner nerd and it's always a pleasure to be on/near the water and smelling the salt air.
But I hadn't realized how invisible I was amongst the couples and groups until on the cruise back when the captain's assistant went around passing out photographs of passengers disembarking before lunch.
There wasn't one for me. No doubt I'd been at the back of someone else's group and went uncaptured.
After all, who goes on an all-day boat cruise by herself? Who else?
Or it could be I don't photograph outside my natural habitat. But now there's no proof that I ever left the city.
Presuming that the city was going to let me down today (the sheer amount of parking in my neighborhood is testament to how few people are in town), I escaped it at 8:30 this morning.
Less than an hour's drive put me in Tappahannock for the departure of the Captain Thomas, a Rappahannock River-cruising boat that wends its way upriver to Ingleside Vineyards and back.
But the purpose of the six-hour excursion is not just to taste wine and turn around, but to take in the scenery, both historical, natural and merely colorful.
We passed steamboat docks where boats with shows would pull up and entertain the locals.
We saw long-time river resorts with shacks next to custom-looking houses and dozens of people in the water or lounging on the beach at 10:30 in the morning.
From a distance there was no missing an enormous white house erected by a local lawyer and painted with a distinctive Cavalier-orange roof as a nod to his alma mater.
Eventually we came upon cliffs, something I didn't even know existed on the sea level or lower Northern Neck. Made of clay and sand, their trees were homes to an amazing number of bald eagles.
Once the captain showed us a few, easily recognizable by their white heads, the entire boat was engrossed in being the first to spot another one.
Despite a sunny forecast, the weather was more like what Nick Hornby called "a grey, wet British summer" kind-of-a-day with leaden skies and uneven warmth all around.
We docked at Leedstown, unknown to me, but apparently the site of the signing of the Leedstown Resolves, a precursor to the Declaration of Independence declaring the citizenry of Westmoreland County independent from England.
It's now a campground, albeit one with the brick remains of Bray's Church where the document was signed at its center, and today was full of people enjoying the holiday on the waterfront.
We then piled into school buses for the short jaunt to Ingleside, passing Ingleside Plantation on the way (41 rooms, two occupants, oh my) where we took a tour of the winery and did a tasting of five wines clearly chosen for their appeal to non-wine drinkers.
For lunch, I'd brought a pretty traditional picnic of fried chicken, watermelon slices and hummus and veggies, which I enjoyed in the courtyard under enormous trees.
Afterwards, I peeked at the museum of local Native American artifacts and stuffed wildlife before finding a shady bench and taking out my book.
Moments later, the winery tour guide walked by and shouted at me, "You're supposed to be drinking wine, not reading!" Pour me some Petit Verdot Reserve instead of Blue Crab Blush and we'll talk, I thought, politely saying, "Don't you worry about me."
On the ride back, the sun finally put in an appearance and a father and daughter argued whether the moon was visible just behind the clouds; they asked the captain for confirmation.
Suddenly an older woman pointed and gasped, "The man in that boat must be a nudist. He just pulled his pants down and back up. And he has a beer!" Boating and beer: shocking.
All in all, a very different day than my usual. Almost no conversation, but the history and nature parts satisfied my inner nerd and it's always a pleasure to be on/near the water and smelling the salt air.
But I hadn't realized how invisible I was amongst the couples and groups until on the cruise back when the captain's assistant went around passing out photographs of passengers disembarking before lunch.
There wasn't one for me. No doubt I'd been at the back of someone else's group and went uncaptured.
After all, who goes on an all-day boat cruise by herself? Who else?
Or it could be I don't photograph outside my natural habitat. But now there's no proof that I ever left the city.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Scoring at Chores
Could there be a better way to spend a warm, breezy day at the river scoring points than doing chores for my parents in the sunshine?
I painted the wooden garden chairs a lovely shade of purple.
I painted the bird feeder roof cherry red.
I stained the dock chairs so that the new umbrella can go up for dockside happy hours.
The straw hat I was wearing kept threatening to blow off because the breeze spent the day shifting directions.
I waded into the Rappahannock River up to my ankles to discover that it's still really cold.
I saw that parts of the water were almost brown, no doubt recently churned up by nearby rain, and others a bright sparkling green.
My parents sat on the big screened-in porch reading a Northern Neck magazine for which I'd written a guide to the Chesapeake Bay wine trail (yea, I hadn't known there were wineries out that way, either), pleased as punch.
Proud, even.
Not sure if it was my writing skills or how good I was at the chores that had them going.
My Dad did say he's planning to buy me a pair of short overalls for future visits.
My guess is it was the latter.
I painted the wooden garden chairs a lovely shade of purple.
I painted the bird feeder roof cherry red.
I stained the dock chairs so that the new umbrella can go up for dockside happy hours.
The straw hat I was wearing kept threatening to blow off because the breeze spent the day shifting directions.
I waded into the Rappahannock River up to my ankles to discover that it's still really cold.
I saw that parts of the water were almost brown, no doubt recently churned up by nearby rain, and others a bright sparkling green.
My parents sat on the big screened-in porch reading a Northern Neck magazine for which I'd written a guide to the Chesapeake Bay wine trail (yea, I hadn't known there were wineries out that way, either), pleased as punch.
Proud, even.
Not sure if it was my writing skills or how good I was at the chores that had them going.
My Dad did say he's planning to buy me a pair of short overalls for future visits.
My guess is it was the latter.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Of Memories and Offerings
I set out to be a good daughter and ended up with a trip down memory lane, followed by another turn as the sacrificial offering.
No one but parents can provide those two experiences over the course of a mere twelve hours.
With the holiday season looming large, my parents had asked for my assistance in getting Christmas stuff down from the third floor of their over-sized waterfront Northern Neck house (it should be noted that they raised six daughters in a 1300-square foot suburban rancher and only moved to spacious digs once we were out of the house, but that's okay).
I spent the day schlepping box after box of stuff down two sets of steps so they can begin over-decorating their house.
What I hadn't expected was all the detritus of those years in suburbia to still be filling the top floor of this house.
I opened the shades up there for the gorgeous and panoramic views while we worked and suddenly light was shed on all kinds of long-forgotten reminders of childhood.
Like so many post-war houses, ours had been "improved" by adding a bar to the basement rec-room.
Much to my surprise, the adornments of that bar still live on in a room upstairs with a beautiful eyeful of the widest stretch of the Rappahannock River.
The gray knitted poodle cover made for a bottle of booze? It's up there.
The tilting stand that holds the 16" bottle of Galliano? Dusty, but present.
The bobble-head Redskin figure that all the teen-aged boyfriends commented on? Check.
But it wasn't just bar stuff they inexplicably kept.
By the time the cultural revolution had trickled down to suburbia, my mother was in her crafty phase.
Hanging upstairs was a colorful, framed needlepoint piece she'd done proclaiming, "God Bless Our Pad."
Maybe it was a preemptive thing since we weren't church-goers.
Still, really?
In any case, I stumbled across more forgotten family treasures than I had any need to, so I had to tease them unmercifully about hanging on to such crap.
My mom assures me that it's my dad who's the pack rat; she said she's even threatened to call the fire department for an inspection just to make him deal with it.
Apparently there are many ways to say I love you after decades together.
After that kind of day, it was good to know that we'd be heading out to dinner at the historic Lancaster Tavern, built in 1790.
I was a tad surprised to learn that it wouldn't be a family affair, though, because they'd invited a neighbor along to "even up the numbers."
That and I have no doubt that they're still seriously worried about me being an old maid.
The neighbor came over for drinks first and I shared with him some of the surprise finds I'd made today, much to my mother's mortification.
No doubt it was more than she wanted a neighbor to know, but considering I had a stranger to entertain, I was going with some recent material.
Anyway, he seemed to find it funny.
We were amazed to discover a nearly full restaurant at the Tavern considering it was a Monday night. I know Chef Adam Ginsberg has been getting some good press for his "traditional comfort foods in untraditional ways" but it made for a far more festive ambiance to be surrounded by a full house.
I had the grilled bone-in pork chop with buerre de pomme and traditional green beans, long-cooked with salt pork but not to the point of mushiness and with the unexpected addition of bits of red pepper.
Given the water's proximity and the season, tonight's special was rockfish with crab meat Hollandaise, ordered by the male contingent (and rated very highly).
The fish was cooked perfectly, exactly the way the fisherman would have wanted it done.
The formerly-crafty one had the hot crab dip (the fact is, they're still awash in crab here) and the soup du jour, a hearty beef noodle with peas.
It was almost a stew and bone-warming good, especially with the hot-out-of-the-oven crusty bread.
Despite my presumption that my parents had an agenda in inviting a fourth, the conversation flowed and we enjoyed a most entertaining evening.
I even got the offer of a tour of the 18th-century county jail and clerk's office just across the street, should I decide to offer myself up again to the company of my parents' neighbor.
I am a nerd for history, so you never know.
But as I reminded my parents before they went off to bed, I may be their love child and the reason they got (happily) married, but they're going to have to let the old maid thing go.
Chances are, I'll get it right sooner or later...and without any assistance.
No one but parents can provide those two experiences over the course of a mere twelve hours.
With the holiday season looming large, my parents had asked for my assistance in getting Christmas stuff down from the third floor of their over-sized waterfront Northern Neck house (it should be noted that they raised six daughters in a 1300-square foot suburban rancher and only moved to spacious digs once we were out of the house, but that's okay).
I spent the day schlepping box after box of stuff down two sets of steps so they can begin over-decorating their house.
What I hadn't expected was all the detritus of those years in suburbia to still be filling the top floor of this house.
I opened the shades up there for the gorgeous and panoramic views while we worked and suddenly light was shed on all kinds of long-forgotten reminders of childhood.
Like so many post-war houses, ours had been "improved" by adding a bar to the basement rec-room.
Much to my surprise, the adornments of that bar still live on in a room upstairs with a beautiful eyeful of the widest stretch of the Rappahannock River.
The gray knitted poodle cover made for a bottle of booze? It's up there.
The tilting stand that holds the 16" bottle of Galliano? Dusty, but present.
The bobble-head Redskin figure that all the teen-aged boyfriends commented on? Check.
But it wasn't just bar stuff they inexplicably kept.
By the time the cultural revolution had trickled down to suburbia, my mother was in her crafty phase.
Hanging upstairs was a colorful, framed needlepoint piece she'd done proclaiming, "God Bless Our Pad."
Maybe it was a preemptive thing since we weren't church-goers.
Still, really?
In any case, I stumbled across more forgotten family treasures than I had any need to, so I had to tease them unmercifully about hanging on to such crap.
My mom assures me that it's my dad who's the pack rat; she said she's even threatened to call the fire department for an inspection just to make him deal with it.
Apparently there are many ways to say I love you after decades together.
After that kind of day, it was good to know that we'd be heading out to dinner at the historic Lancaster Tavern, built in 1790.
I was a tad surprised to learn that it wouldn't be a family affair, though, because they'd invited a neighbor along to "even up the numbers."
That and I have no doubt that they're still seriously worried about me being an old maid.
The neighbor came over for drinks first and I shared with him some of the surprise finds I'd made today, much to my mother's mortification.
No doubt it was more than she wanted a neighbor to know, but considering I had a stranger to entertain, I was going with some recent material.
Anyway, he seemed to find it funny.
We were amazed to discover a nearly full restaurant at the Tavern considering it was a Monday night. I know Chef Adam Ginsberg has been getting some good press for his "traditional comfort foods in untraditional ways" but it made for a far more festive ambiance to be surrounded by a full house.
I had the grilled bone-in pork chop with buerre de pomme and traditional green beans, long-cooked with salt pork but not to the point of mushiness and with the unexpected addition of bits of red pepper.
Given the water's proximity and the season, tonight's special was rockfish with crab meat Hollandaise, ordered by the male contingent (and rated very highly).
The fish was cooked perfectly, exactly the way the fisherman would have wanted it done.
The formerly-crafty one had the hot crab dip (the fact is, they're still awash in crab here) and the soup du jour, a hearty beef noodle with peas.
It was almost a stew and bone-warming good, especially with the hot-out-of-the-oven crusty bread.
Despite my presumption that my parents had an agenda in inviting a fourth, the conversation flowed and we enjoyed a most entertaining evening.
I even got the offer of a tour of the 18th-century county jail and clerk's office just across the street, should I decide to offer myself up again to the company of my parents' neighbor.
I am a nerd for history, so you never know.
But as I reminded my parents before they went off to bed, I may be their love child and the reason they got (happily) married, but they're going to have to let the old maid thing go.
Chances are, I'll get it right sooner or later...and without any assistance.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Defining a Dad's Duties
I am not a Daddy's girl because that was never a possibility. I have five younger sisters, so I was just part of the group of females who shared his life. He was an old-school dad who never changed a diaper or made us a meal, and since I wasn't one of the athletic daughters, we didn't even share his love of sports like some of my sisters did. But the reality was that in his own way, he had a huge hand in shaping the female I became.
So on this Father's Day, I thanked my Dad for making me who I am. For challenging me to share my opinions at the dinner table every night until I left for college (I no longer need any provocation to do so). For suggesting books he thought would interest me and then telling me to write about why I liked them...or disliked them (write your thoughts and feelings, he always said). For telling me flat-out that I had lovely legs when I was eleven (he takes credit because he has great legs).
For modeling how to treat a woman you truly love (he still thinks my Mom is the love of his life). For demonstrating how far a sense of humor and a good vocabulary can take a person in a room full of strangers. For teaching me how to eat crabs until there is not a shred of meat left in them (and hanging in there eating as long as any man).
Every year for Father's Day I drive to the river to spend the afternoon eating crabs and talking with my Dad. For many years, I was the only daughter who did so, but this year two other sisters came and we had great fun reminiscing and reminding each other of long-forgotten stories.
Judging by his reaction, I think my Dad got a kick out of my laundry list of why I thought he'd been a superlative Dad. But driving back, it occurred to me that he probably would have preferred that I'd written out my list. As the man who taught me the importance of the written word, he would have loved having something to refer back to.
I've been home less than an hour and it's already written; I'll drop it in the mail as I leave the house tonight. Happy Father's Day, Dad, with love from Eldest Daughter.
So on this Father's Day, I thanked my Dad for making me who I am. For challenging me to share my opinions at the dinner table every night until I left for college (I no longer need any provocation to do so). For suggesting books he thought would interest me and then telling me to write about why I liked them...or disliked them (write your thoughts and feelings, he always said). For telling me flat-out that I had lovely legs when I was eleven (he takes credit because he has great legs).
For modeling how to treat a woman you truly love (he still thinks my Mom is the love of his life). For demonstrating how far a sense of humor and a good vocabulary can take a person in a room full of strangers. For teaching me how to eat crabs until there is not a shred of meat left in them (and hanging in there eating as long as any man).
Every year for Father's Day I drive to the river to spend the afternoon eating crabs and talking with my Dad. For many years, I was the only daughter who did so, but this year two other sisters came and we had great fun reminiscing and reminding each other of long-forgotten stories.
Judging by his reaction, I think my Dad got a kick out of my laundry list of why I thought he'd been a superlative Dad. But driving back, it occurred to me that he probably would have preferred that I'd written out my list. As the man who taught me the importance of the written word, he would have loved having something to refer back to.
I've been home less than an hour and it's already written; I'll drop it in the mail as I leave the house tonight. Happy Father's Day, Dad, with love from Eldest Daughter.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Mom Says, So You Have To
I have one of those mothers who thinks it's more meaningful to be visited by her children on Mother's Day than on Christmas or her birthday (she actually told us that).
Of course, when you produce six children, and six daughters at that, I suppose there isn't a more important day to celebrate yourself.
So I always spend Mother's Day on the Northern Neck being the respectful oldest daughter.
This year's trip to the river had a twofold purpose though, because with the recent demise of the beagle, here, it was time to bury his effects and say one last goodbye.
He loved visiting out there; my parents have several acres on the Rappahannock and there was plenty of room for him to run and large shade trees to nap under.
He and I had visited just ten days before his last day and even in his dotage, he'd seemed absolutely content napping in the sun on the porch all afternoon.
The only time he was ever unpopular on a visit was once in his youth when he bounded out of the car and took off like a shot, only to return less than a minute later proudly carrying a dead baby rabbit in his mouth.
My mother, who had been sending me updates on the mother rabbit and her new brood, was understandably upset.
The beagle was mystified at our reaction; his instinct had betrayed him and it was clear he didn't know what he'd down wrong.
But it was the last time he did any hunting at the river.
Two of my five sisters also made the trek down from Maryland, so there was a fair amount of reminiscing ("Remember when she hitchhiked to the beach in her bare feet?" about one of the absent sisters) and sarcasm ("It's a chopped salad but we don't usually use a bread knife to cut tomatoes," to yours truly about her knife skills).
You know, that sort of sisterly affection where the aim is to insult with humor, but always to get your dig in.
Meanwhile, my mom sits there smiling, but reminding us to stop talking about sisters who aren't present and to please be nice, just like she's been doing since we were old enough to talk.
In fact, I believe that's why she wants us to come down for Mother's Day.
I think her idea of celebrating herself is just having us around so she can do what she does best, which is mother us.
Good daughter that I attempt to be, I'm more than happy to oblige.
Of course, when you produce six children, and six daughters at that, I suppose there isn't a more important day to celebrate yourself.
So I always spend Mother's Day on the Northern Neck being the respectful oldest daughter.
This year's trip to the river had a twofold purpose though, because with the recent demise of the beagle, here, it was time to bury his effects and say one last goodbye.
He loved visiting out there; my parents have several acres on the Rappahannock and there was plenty of room for him to run and large shade trees to nap under.
He and I had visited just ten days before his last day and even in his dotage, he'd seemed absolutely content napping in the sun on the porch all afternoon.
The only time he was ever unpopular on a visit was once in his youth when he bounded out of the car and took off like a shot, only to return less than a minute later proudly carrying a dead baby rabbit in his mouth.
My mother, who had been sending me updates on the mother rabbit and her new brood, was understandably upset.
The beagle was mystified at our reaction; his instinct had betrayed him and it was clear he didn't know what he'd down wrong.
But it was the last time he did any hunting at the river.
Two of my five sisters also made the trek down from Maryland, so there was a fair amount of reminiscing ("Remember when she hitchhiked to the beach in her bare feet?" about one of the absent sisters) and sarcasm ("It's a chopped salad but we don't usually use a bread knife to cut tomatoes," to yours truly about her knife skills).
You know, that sort of sisterly affection where the aim is to insult with humor, but always to get your dig in.
Meanwhile, my mom sits there smiling, but reminding us to stop talking about sisters who aren't present and to please be nice, just like she's been doing since we were old enough to talk.
In fact, I believe that's why she wants us to come down for Mother's Day.
I think her idea of celebrating herself is just having us around so she can do what she does best, which is mother us.
Good daughter that I attempt to be, I'm more than happy to oblige.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Of Mixes, Ice and Deep Thinking
Today was all about a head-clearing road trip. A friend had recently made me two mix tapes and wanted feedback and there's no better way to do that than by taking to the open road to drive and listen and think. The only problem was he didn't provide song listings and I'm way too curious about unfamiliar music not to know who's doing what; hopefully I can get him to correct that.
I've rhapsodized about mix tapes before. These seemed to be a melange of music he favors, newer stuff he's picked up on and some off-beat things he may have even been trying to impress me with. The first listen to a new mix is so enjoyable for the unexpected pleasures.
As for the visual portion of the drive, like an idiot, I forgot my camera, which was a shame because I've never seen the Rappahannock River iced over. In some places, it even looked like there were small ice floes. Just beautiful. I would have loved to have been able to stop the car on the bridge and just admire it but that's generally frowned upon.
Arriving back in the Ward in late afternoon, I felt better for having taken the break to get out of town. Not that I resolved the many issues swirling around in my head, but the music and the river had provided a wonderful interlude.
I've rhapsodized about mix tapes before. These seemed to be a melange of music he favors, newer stuff he's picked up on and some off-beat things he may have even been trying to impress me with. The first listen to a new mix is so enjoyable for the unexpected pleasures.
As for the visual portion of the drive, like an idiot, I forgot my camera, which was a shame because I've never seen the Rappahannock River iced over. In some places, it even looked like there were small ice floes. Just beautiful. I would have loved to have been able to stop the car on the bridge and just admire it but that's generally frowned upon.
Arriving back in the Ward in late afternoon, I felt better for having taken the break to get out of town. Not that I resolved the many issues swirling around in my head, but the music and the river had provided a wonderful interlude.
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