Connections

Here are some more shots from Sunday morning's saunter around an old homestead over near Glenns in neighboring Gloucester County.

There are I-don't-know-how-many acres associated with this place.  The original property, according to my friend Alda, included land that went all the way to Freeport Landing.

In case you haven't heard, one of my German American ancestors hopped off the boat at Freeport after what I'm sure was an enchanting final leg of the trip up the Piankatank River.  Every chance I get I mention that, and today marks about the 568th time I've done so!

In other genealogical news, we're also kin to Wayne Newton, although we don't usually admit that talk much about all that other than the forty two couple of times I've mentioned it here. That particular branch of the Family Tree involves my mother's side, some kin to a clan that settled in or near Fredericksburg.  

(The Chesapeake Bay Children need to know these things, it's important.  Or, as my father says, "It's  somethin', all right.")

Chesapeake Bay Mother, not at all lacking in the singing and showmanship department, can provide further details of the Wayne Newton Connection.  

Let's move along now to another subject, such as our blog post, which--last time I checked--has nothing to do with lounge singers or Red Roses for a Blue Lady .  

Danke Shoen.

In some strange twist of fate which always seems to wrap itself around Chesapeake Bay Woman, I happened to be sitting at a stoplight last night on my ride home from work, when I heard someone hollering at me from the adjacent car.

This happens on the Route 17 corridor from time to time.  You can be in your own little world, running down your mental checklist of who needs to be where, when, and what's going on tomorrow, and what's for supper tonight, and how one gets last year's pollen off this year's dashboard, and who is going to let the dog out, and how you're going to get the smell of musty, mildewed laundry out of your room since you left a wet load in there for a week--when all of a sudden you're interrupted by a friendly holler at a stoplight.

It was my friend Alda's husband, Lawrence.  Or Lawrence, my friend Alda's husband. In other words, it was Lawrence! His family owns the property photographed above.  

He was on his way home from work too.

I rolled down my window and in the amount of time it took for the light to change from red to green, we had a nice conversation about how he's been, how she's doing, and how life was going in general. He filled me in on their recent vacation, and I completely forgot to mention my visit to his property the day before.  (She told me a while ago I could take pictures there, so I knew it was OK.)

When you're sitting at a stoplight in the middle of Route 17, trying to work your way through mental checklists that involve mildewed laundry, sometimes it's hard to focus on anything other than driving home the most superficial, cordial conversation.  Nothing too heavy or in-depth, that's the rule of thumb for conversation at a Route 17 stoplight.

Anyway, the light turned green, windows were rolled back up, gas pedals were depressed, and all eyes returned to the monotony of the commute home.


The End.