Off with Her Head

You could call it just another evening watching simulated oral sex with my parents.

But before all that unfolded, I was in Urbanna by late morning for an interview with a 26-year old who owns a boutique. A woman who gave up living in the Fan to return to the Northern Neck to take advantage of a business opportunity.

All I could think of was how when I was 26, I was working, sure, but not at anything I loved (teaching correspondents how to write, back when that was a thing) and still going to clubs twice a week.

Not a bit concerned with investing in my future like this sensible young woman.

My afternoon was given over to a couple of Richmonders who also happen to own a marina in Deltaville. One part of me was thinking about their commute, while another was acknowledging that strolling down "A" dock admiring boats that go for what houses cost is a pretty terrific way to spend a sunny spring-like afternoon.

And they get to do it everyday.

Once one of the owners found out my food background, he was the one asking questions, admitting that O'Toole's is one of his favorite restaurants. He expected me to judge but I told him every Forest Hill resident loves O'Toole's.

Once I was finished working for the day, I headed to my parents' house for dinner and a sleepover, a prospect so unusual that my smart alecky mother had observed, "Staying over? My, my, how things have changed!"

And while she's right, things have changed dramatically, the truth of it was that I couldn't see any good reason to return to Richmond when I had yet another interview on the Northern Neck the next morning.

Unlikely as it may seem, I do have a sensible side.

Before I'd even arrived, Mom had emailed, giving me a choice of dinner options and I'd picked chicken. But since she had no real plans for the package of drumsticks sitting on the counter, I resorted to the Internet, putting in on-hand ingredients to come up with a recipe. As I got busy making it, Mom returned to her chair in the other room, so I questioned what she was doing.

"Enjoying the smells while someone else makes dinner for me," she said happily.

But she did have a plan for all three of us post-dinner and that was to watch "Mary, Queen of Scots." She'd tentatively asked if I'd seen it and been relieved to learn I hadn't. She and Dad are big fans of British historical series, so this film seemed like a natural for them.

Only problem was, I don't think Mom was expecting to see Lord Darnley, Mary's second husband, pleasure her orally. She certainly wasn't expecting to see Ismael, Mary's gay confidante, violently stabbed by a group of her subjects. And I'm almost positive she didn't see the Earl of Bothwell's rape of Mary coming.

What I couldn't deal with was the colorblind casting, despite being a fan of the practice. But do I believe for a moment that Elizabeth I had a Chinese lady-in-waiting? I do not. Or that Lord Thomas Randolph, Elizabeth's adviser, was black? Sure don't.

And while I understand the director's reluctance to shoot an historical drama with an all-white cast in the politically correct times, if the actors don't make sense visually, what have you accomplished?

By the end of the movie, we were all sort of underwhelmed and went to bed. But this morning at breakfast, when I admitted to some historical curiosity about the real Mary (I mean, besides her sex life, which we were current on), both copped to some questions themselves. Out came the iPad, joining the Washington Post and Richmond Times Dispatch at the breakfast table so we could all learn a little more about the Scottish queen.

In other words, the nerdy apple doesn't fall too far from the nerdy tree.

Of course Mary didn't really wear an elaborate red gown for her beheading (too obvious). But after fact-checking, I was sorry that they hadn't shown the moment when the executioner lifted up her head for the crowds to see, only to have the head go rolling away because she had on a wig.

Come on, why pass up that kind of cinema verite?

After breakfast, Dad invited me to ride shotgun as he did a few errands in Kilmarnock, a trip that resulted in the overhead door to his trunk dropping on my head ("We need to get that fixed," he said, stating the obvious), which hurt like hell. My head may be hard, but those doors are heavy.

The outing also took us past a gang of convicts picking up trash in Lively under the watchful eye of a man with a rifle. I've no doubt it sucks to be a convict, but these guys really couldn't ask for a more glorious March day to be out in the sunshine.

After bidding so long to the people who spawned me, I drove back to Kilmarnock for another interview. This one was right on Main Street and if there's a busy time in a town like Kilmarnock, it's lunchtime. The sidewalk was full of slow-moving people coming in and out of shops and restaurants like they had all day to get their business done.

Which, given that this was the Northern Neck at mid-day on Tuesday, they probably did. Besides, no one is in a hurry after they've had a slice of pie after lunch at Lee's.

Crossing the arching Norris bridge - which my Mom fears and avoids - meant crossing a Rappahannock River covered in whitecaps, which probably explains why not a boat was in sight. I love the view looking down from that bridge because of the many times I've been in a boat going under the bridge and my inability to reconcile the two.

One thing I long ago reconciled is how lucky I am to have these two people for parents. When Dad mentioned that he'd just recently been at the doctor's office, it was to brag that his blood pressure had been 130/60, a major accomplishment for an 87-year old man, according to his doctor.

"I told him the reason is because of all these years with your Mom, the love of my life," he told me quite seriously.

Romantic, yes, and absolutely true. But I have it on good authority he also likes enjoying the smells while someone else makes dinner for him.

Some things don't change.

Pink Roses and Moose Meatloaf

I didn't know it at the time, but the deer was a sign.

Since I had an interview to do on the Northern Neck mid-afternoon, I invited myself to my parents' temporary cottage for lunch beforehand.

Driving up the winding road toward the Moose Lodge in Litwalton where the three-legged dog used to live, I crested a hill and there, standing in the middle of the road, was a deer. And a deer with a lot of attitude; she was staring at me as if I were the one on her territory.

It wasn't like she was caught in headlights because it was broad daylight, sunny and blue skies.

I slowed, eventually stopping and we faced each other down for a few seconds before she deigned to slowly cross the road and scamper off into the woods.

After eating lunch, my Dad took me down to their real house, still in the throes of being reconstructed after a tree fell into it in May. Proudly, he showed off new ceilings, a column that's been added to the living room to support the library floor upstairs and the new windows and sills that replaced the ones damaged by the tree.

Moving from the kitchen to the family room, we were startled when the master carpenter who's acting as foreman appeared out of nowhere to greet us. As my Dad introduced me, I heard the hesitation when he said, "This is my...daughter," tactfully leaving out the "oldest" adjective.

Richard and I shook hands and he told me what a great guy my Dad was and what a great house it was, asking if it was where I'd been born. No, I explained, my parents had raised me and my six sisters in a house a third the size and only moved to bigger digs once we all left home. My Dad rolled his eyes.

But Richard chuckled and proceeded to one up me, saying that he'd been raised in Maine in a house that only had plumbing to the kitchen sink. In order to use the bathroom, you had to go outside - even in the snow - to his Dad's workshop boiler room. Okay, that topped my childhood woe by a mile.

Before I left, I picked a big pink rose blooming just off the screened porch to take back to Mom and Richard observed, "That's a New Dawn rose, an old heirloom variety before they bred all the scent out of them. It's beautiful."

I guess there's lots of time to read garden catalogs when you grow up in Maine.

After saying so long to the parentals, I headed on to my interview of a boisterous college professor who talked to me about baseball, come heres and come back heres.

Work over for the day, I decided a glass of wine was in order and only had to drive a mile and a half to Good Luck cellars. There was only one SUV in the parking lot, but walking up the wide front steps to the tasting room, I spotted a trio enjoying their wine at a table on the porch.

Nice day for a glass outside, I commented. "Go get a bottle and join us!" one of them called out.

Inside, I got a glass of Rip Rap Rose and as he poured it, the winery guy told me I should go join the gents outside. "They came here to hunt deer with bows but the owners aren't here to give permission, so they're having some wine. They'd probably enjoys some female company."

Ah, so that accounted for their attire. I'd given them such a quick glance, I'd assumed they were military but apparently they were in camouflage to hunt.

Outside, the three men drinking Cabernet Sauvignon welcomed me to their table and told me what I already knew: that their hopes of afternoon hunting had been dashed. Assuring them that they looked very huntsmen like anyway, one informed me he was really a potter. The stoneware wine coolers inside were his, in fact.

Another of the guys was retired military, originally from Brooklyn. He prides himself on answering people who inquire if he's from NYC, "No, I'm from Brooklyn. That's different."

The third guy was a scientist eager to discuss Wallop's Island and how close to it they'd hunted.

As we sat there for the next hour chatting, I found out they've been hunting a lot of places together annually for decades. Like Jefferson Vineyards in Charlottesville, which they've hunted for 30 years. They've only hunted Good Luck a couple of years by comparison.

Then there's their annual trip to Maine to hunt moose which the scientist had missed this year because of a wedding in Italy, where, he said, they had a ten-course meal that included everything that swam, flew or crawled through Tuscany. My kind of meal.

The potter showed me a brochure about his studio and another about the upcoming "Made in Matthews" open studio tour next month, the other two razzing him for doing business.

I have to say, for strangers and hunters, they were smart and funny guys and at one point, one said, "At least now you'll know that not all hunters are rednecks."

When I asked what their first concerts were, the potter was hesitant to share and the others assumed it was because he'd be embarrassed. Brooklyn's first had been Murray the K and the Shirelles in Brooklyn back in the '50s.

The scientist's had been Bob Zimmerman in '63, the kind of show a music lover could keep bragging rights on for a lifetime. The potters's first had been the Kingston trio in '65.

As the sun continued to sink lower over the vineyards, the guys agreed that hunting wasn't going to happen today and finished their bottle of wine.

"Oh, well, I've got venison chili in the refrigerator," the scientist consoled himself. "I'm going home to have moose meatloaf from the freezer,"  Brooklyn said. I thanked them for the conversation and as they got up to leave, the potter said, "Just one more thing. Take off your sunglasses so I can see your eyes."

Boring brown, but I probably didn't need them anymore at that point in the day anyway.

After they left, I finished up my Rose alone watching the winery hounds chase each other around in the nearest vineyard. The guy inside told me about an upcoming oyster crawl and sent me on my way.

Then it was back across the river where the sun laid out a shimmering streak of gold connecting it to the water under the bridge with just a couple of smaller fishing boats moving through it.

What have we gleaned today? I can't seem to have a bad day on the northern neck. And not everyone who hunts is a redneck.

What are we wondering? What moose meatloaf tastes like.