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.

Better Off Alive

I really couldn't have asked for more interesting men to spend my day with.

After a sunny, music-filled road trip to the northern neck, I wound up at the studio of a man named Jim who makes guitars for a living. And not just any guitars, but ones that start at $6,000 and go up.

Even better, the first thing he wanted to know was if I'd eaten lunch yet. So not only was I going to spend the next couple hours hearing about these one of a kind instruments he crafts, but he was going to feed me, too.

Score.

We walked to The Corner, which wasn't really on a true corner, at least not the kind we have in the city, but we were far from anything urban-like, so I let it slide.

It was everything you'd expect from a river restaurant, from the tiki bar on the front porch to the pool table and dart board in the back room.

When I asked what he recommended, he said his wife thought their crabcake the best in the state, so I ordered it, at least up until he asked for a Jim burger.

Both the server and I wanted to know what this off-menu item was and found out: burger with double cheese, grilled onions, ketchup, mustard, lettuce, tomato, no mayo. Also known as a Karen burger.

Let's just say I changed my order.

We did a good part of the interview there, allowing for bad jokes and segues into the unlikeliest of topics - the sex lives of parents (my fault), men who can fix anything (both he and his father) and the causes of E.D. (he brought that one up) - but always coming back to his love of being a luthier.

After another hour back in his studio admiring these works of art he makes by hand (ever seen a harp-guitar replica? I have...now), it was time for me to hit the road again.

Instructing me to "drive safe," I did my best, ending up at Good Luck Cellars where the next man I was interviewing was out on his tractor plowing rows for the new batch of vines to be planted next week.

You have to admire a man who handles a tractor well.

His wife and I strolled down toward where he was working while a car pulling into the tasting room parking lot let out a wolf whistle in our direction.

As she put it, "I'll take it." That made two of us.

Once he'd joined us and washed his hands of the terroir, the two of us headed up to the cupola with a 360-degree view of the rolling land, various plantings and multiple houses for the pack of winery dogs, all rescued hounds (be still, my heart) to chat.

A former orthopedic surgeon who bought the property ten years ago and now lives there full-time, I sensed the passion he'd once put into medicine now transferred to the farming life.

It was fascinating listening to him wax poetic about the shift to a rural life, the learning curve of farming and winemaking (helped considerably by the consultants he brought in) and his enthusiasm for becoming part of the northern neck community.

His passion for his new life was all over his face when he took me down into the cellar, where with a beatific smile on his face, he said, "This is my heaven."

Mine followed as he handed me pours from the tanks as we made our way around the huge room, glasses in hand before making it into the barrel room.

You see, this is what is called "research" in my business and is part of why I'm willing to be a dirt poor freelance writer.

By the time I waved goodbye to the grape farmers, I was barely able to make it back to the big city in time to catch tonight's music panel discussion at Candela Gallery.

It's part of this weekend's "The Great Busk Event," three days of focusing on street performance, in tribute to Jackson Ward's own Bill "Bojangles" Robinson.

See: statue at Leigh and Adams streets.

I'd figured I'd miss the beginning of it all, but walked in to find everyone still in full-on mingle mode and stopped to chat with a favorite Americana musician who was noticeably hatless because he's decided to grow out his hair. The neighborhood fabricator, whom I seem to run into everywhere now, was there, as was the photographer I met at the  ladies' arm wrestling night who's also turning up wherever I do.

Eventually we took seats so the panel could begin enlightening us.

Here's the first fun fact I learned: busk is Spanish for "to seek." And, sure, buskers seek money in the hat laying on the sidewalk, but they seek much more than that, as we heard from the panelists.

WRIR DJ Carlito moderated a panel of musicians, some of whom busk and some who never have, on the subject of folk music and where they pull their influences from.

Answers were all over the place, with many coming from outside the U.S., places like France, Spain, Romania, Egypt and Chile.

Accordionist Barry cited a Jewish cantor and Richmond's Tobacco parade of yesteryear, with the Armstrong and Walker marching bands recalled as the best musicians in town.

Laney of Lobo Marino, said that her band's extensive travels informed their music, meaning every album showed different influences. "We're modern gypsies," she explained.

Salsa pianist Marlysse talked about the difficulty of busking when your instrument is so large and you haven't mastered the accordion.

After a grazing break, we gathered for music from our panel.

Herschel did his idol, Randy Newman's "Better Off Dead" accompanied by his baritone ukulele, making sure we knew he has the only baritone uke in town and even name checking another uke player who claims hers is a baritone. Not so, he said.

The Richmanian Ramblers' Nate played his Czechoslovakian upright bass to demonstrate the difference between desperation and longing in Romanian gypsy music, playing a couple of songs to prove his point. Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows were nowhere to be found in his music.

DJ Mikemetic talked about the art of DJ'ing and the challenge of trying to get people to dance to music they've never heard before.

Barry, the accordion player, and Khalima, a belly dancer, began with an improvisational piece before doing an 800-year old song called "Surrender," an eventuality if you'd seen Khalima's stunning dancing.

Midway through the song, Nate picked up his bass and began playing along, providing some deep, rhythmic notes to the performance.

Last up was Laney, who did a traditional Hindu call and response chant with musical partner Jameson sitting in his seat next to me before soloing on one of their original spirituals, the jubilant "Celebrate," a song impossible to tire of, no matter how many times I hear it.

The time has come for us to celebrate, celebrate
For all we are, we can not hesitate, hesitate

Who's got time to hesitate when there are luthiers to lunch with, winemakers to sip with and buskers to entertain me?

Like them, for me it's all about the seeking.