Mrs. Trusch

Friday, before the tornado and before my daughter's incredible basketball game, I made a long overdue trip to the nursing home to visit a local legend by the name of Mrs. Trusch.

If you attended Mathews High School any time between the 1950s and the early 1980s, you know Mrs. Trusch. She taught my father; she taught me; she taught everyone.   Although petite in stature, she ruled her classroom like nobody I've ever seen.  She expected nothing but courtesy, respect, and undivided attention from her students. 

And they gave it to her, willingly.

Her undying enthusiasm and passion for government and politics was contagious.  She made us want to learn.

But Mrs. Trusch's legendary status isn't solely attributed to her incredible knowledge inside the classroom.

She's also an important part of our local history, brimming with stories. 

In my book on Mathews, she's mentioned on page 77:

"Bavon Post Office, built around 1920 and established by Norman Burroughs in 1935, was at the corner of Routes 14 and 600 near the lighthouse.  The store and post office served as a primary source of communication with the outside world and, at one time, had the community's only telephone.  Burroughs's daughter, Marion Grey Trusch, served as a teacher in Mathews for approximately 30 years.  Today, the cheerful beacon still shines for visitors coming to or from the lighthouse."

Mrs. Trusch,  my favorite high school teacher, made a lifelong impression on me.  So I was very pleased to mention her. 

About a month after the book was released, I received the following note in the mail:

"Dear CBW,
I received a copy of your 'Mathews County' for Christmas. I would like to compliment you on this very outstanding work. It has given me hours of enjoyment.I am especially grateful to you for mentioning my name in the write up of Bavon, and my 30 years of teaching at M.H.S.

Happy New Year and continue with your writing. You have a great talent.

-Marion G. Trusch"

She's telling me that I have talent? You could have knocked me over with a feather.

So I decided to stop in and say hello and let her know how much that note meant.  

My high school classmate Johnny Pugh, also a wealth of local information, called just as I was pulling into the nursing home parking lot.  Knowing he was just down the road, I asked if he wanted to join me, and he did.

What a marvelous visit it was! She and Johnny told tales about Bavon; we delved into politics (her favorite subject); she asked about any future projects of mine; and she gave a glimpse into the more humorous side of nursing home life.

One such story involves her late-night walks.  She enjoys walking for exercise every day but finds that the only time she can do so without interruptions is after 10:00 p.m. when most of the other residents have gone to sleep.  

She used to go earlier in the day, when the hallways were lined with patients who often flagged her down for this or that or simply to chat. Mrs. Trusch, who has all her wits and then some about her, is often interacting with residents who suffer from Alzheimer's or other forms of dementia.

A recent episode illustrates why walking later at night is probably the only way for her to get any exercise. Three different people stopped her before she could get very far down the first hallway:

Resident #1, who is 100 (literally!) years old, seeing Mrs. Trusch approaching: "Hey, can you bring my car around? I need to get out of here."

Mrs. Trusch, playing along: "Sure! Can I come too?"

Resident #1: "Of course, just hurry up and get my car."

Mrs. Trusch keeps on walking until she comes upon Resident #2.

Resident #2:  "Is there a teacher's meeting today?"

Mrs. Trusch, again playing along: "No, not today."

She kept walking a little further and came upon someone she knows well.

Mrs. Trusch, to Resident #3, who was sitting in the hallway:  "Good Morning!  How are you?"

Resident #3, perhaps a little paranoid, obviously not aware of precisely who she was talking to, and clearly not having a good day:  "Aw, go to hell!!"

We cracked up in hysterics.  The very teacher who commanded so much respect extends a simple "Good morning" and is met with "Go to hell!" We were very amused. But now we understand why Mrs. Trusch walks at night.

It was a pleasure and an honor to meet with Mrs. Trusch, who has touched the lives of so many. Thanks also to Johnny Pugh for joining me on this little adventure.

Mrs. Trusch and J.P.

Beachland - Part One

,

Once upon a time, down a long, leisurely,
leaf-filled lane,
tucked away between some stately old trees and a creek 

(Pardon the glare. Camera issues.)

lived a beautiful, historic home called Beachland.

The home has been in the same family--the Smiths, one of Mathews' "first families"--since before our county was officially formed from Gloucester, which was one of the first 13 counties established in Virginia in the mid 1600s.

Mathews County was formed in 1791 from the part of Gloucester that used to be (more or less) Kingston Parish.

A bit of googling and library-ing unearthed the following excerpts from a fascinating 1934 Mathews Journal article on the Smith family and the first known Smith of Beachland:

 "There is no available data relative to the ancestry of Capt. Thomas Smith of Beechland. Since there were several families of Smiths residing in Gloucester about the same time, and owing to the similarity of names, it is almost impossible to determine to which line any one individual belongs without access to family records. Whether Capt. Smith was of the line founded by Lawrence Smith or that of John Smith of Purton, is a decision the writer is not qualified to make.


Capt. Thomas Smithy was evidently a ship builder, for in the Gazette of May 6, 1767, he advertises - to be sold - "A new ship about 263 tons, well calculated for tobacco trade, built of best seasoned plank and lumber, and can be launched in a little time if required. Twelve months credit will be allowed for two thirds of three fourths of the value. Any person inclinable to purchase may be shown the vessel by applying to the subscriber, living in Kingston Parish."


Capt. Thomas Smith first married Dorothy Armistead in 1753... His second wife was Anne Plater of Maryland...

...The will of Capt. Smith, Feb. 11, 1789 - "One third of my estate to Anne Smith during her life, desiring her to live with my son, Thomas, in the mansion house... 

..Thomas Smith, son of Capt. Smith and first secretary of Phi Beta Kappa, was a member of Legislature, 1784, and other years and a member of State Convention, in 1788, called upon to pass Federal Constitution."

The original 1700s home, which was all brick, was destroyed by fire. The current house, built on the original brick foundation, dates to the late 1800s.

An 1813 insurance policy, on "Beechland" (spelled both ways, though the current owner says it's Beachland) contains a map that described four buildings on the property:  "(A) a brick dwelling, two stories high, covered with wood, 52 feet long by 22 feet wide with a cellar; (B) a kitchen; (C) a laundry; (D) a smokehouse.

Today, there is also a beautiful barn on the property, which is in the process of being restored.  

That 1934 article from the Mathews Journal went on to talk about Thomas and Armistead Smith, sons of Captain Smith:

"Phi Beta Kappa was organized Dec. 5, 1776 at the College of William and Mary at Williamsburg, and was the first Greek letter organization. Among the charter members were two from Mathews County, Thomas Smith and his brother, Armistead, sons of Capt. Thomas Smith of Beechland. This old home is still occupied by a Smith family, but whether they are descendants of Capt. Smith, the writer is not qualified to state."

Well, this blogger isn't qualified for much, but she is qualified to state that the current Beachland resident and owner, a wonderful woman by the name of Gloria, is indeed a descendant of the original property owners.

I know because she told me so herself when I had the privilege of meeting her last weekend.  Although she's a bit camera shy, she gave me permission to post the oh-so-distant shot of her with the oh-so-beautiful Beachland off in the distance, below.

There is too much from this brief visit of mine to convey in one post. I've decided to write a book.  I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the estate; the significance of its history; and the charm and instant like-ability of its owner, who has so many stories that could never be found in books.

So stay tuned for a Part Two about Beachland, where I'll share some more fascinating facts and tidbits about this house and its family.

This is the view heading away from Beachland.
I hated to leave.

I'll also share how I came to be asked to visit Beachland.  I cannot thank Gloria and her sister Susan enough for the invitation.

But they may have created a monster.

I'm already daydreaming about my next project:  a novel with Beachland as the backdrop; a little bit of history mixed with CBW's vivid imagination. This could be dangerous be a novel that is turned into a movie, starring Chesapeake Bay Woman! a female lead actress and, naturally, Javier Bardem.

Stay tuned for Part Two of Beachland, which I hope to have up on Monday.

Enjoy the weekend.

A Cow Tale

Garden Creek Road, February 2011.  BTW, this has nothing to do with today's blog post.

Today I am very pleased to showcase a story written by a From Here (Anonymous Mathews Native in the comments) whose roots in this county are so deep she probably had kinfolk helping Captain John Smith wrestle the mosquitoes sting ray off the shores of Deltaville back when he was doin' all that. (He did, you know. That's why they call it Mosquito Sting Ray Point, or so the story goes.)

Anonymous Mathews Native played high school basketball with my Baby Sister, and she and I attended the same college. She's full of talent, and does a good job here of providing a glimpse at what life is really like around here.

Without any further ado, here's her story which I originally posted in December 2008.  Thank you, AMN!
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Young readers, let this be a cautionary tale – never tell anyone that you enjoy gift-wrapping, you will be cursed with doing all the gift-wrapping for your family FOREVER.

I have wrapped everything you can imagine -- from a single 4 mm pearl to an ironing board. My mother hands me my own gifts already boxed, so I can wrap them for myself. I no longer do fancy bows or ingenious tags -- the thrill is gone.

When I was in college she saved all the wrapping for me when I got home for winter break. I usually accomplished most of it in the middle of the night when everyone else was asleep -- and it’s there that our tale really begins.

One night (at about 3 AM) I was sitting up to my shoulders in gifts and wrappings on the living room floor, wrapping like a robot, and trying to stay awake by watching a silent movie version of “A Christmas Carol.”

(Has CBW mentioned that we only had 3 TV channels in Mathews back in the day? Well pickin’s were even slimmer at 3 AM -- the silent movie was the only thing on TV.)

I was jolted out of this zombie-state by the surprising vision of headlights rounding the driveway, and I headed to the back door to see who it could be. No, no, it wasn’t Santa Claus -- if it had been any time before midnight, I would have stopped to put the coffee pot on, because it surely would have been my uncle, but this was even too late for him. I was met on the back step by a Mathews County deputy (who shall remain nameless to protect the guilty), who calmly informed me that our entire herd of cattle (about a dozen cows) was outside the fence and wandering on the highway.

This was really bad. I had visions of horrible cow/car pileups and ensuing lawsuits. 

(I really need for CBW and CB Mother to find out the name of that stress-hormone they often reference in their posts, ‘cause whatever it’s called, it immediately started surging through my system.) 

I told the deputy that I would awaken my parents and that we’d be out the lane in a few minutes to gather the herd. I roused the ‘rents and threw on some warm layers, because it was about 17 degrees out, and trotted on foot out the lane.

I paused long enough to collect a “cudgel,” in case any of my bovine friends needed to be either persuaded (to come home) or dissuaded (from trampling me) and I was accompanied by my cheerful, loyal, loving, yet-not-too-bright dog. I set off down the lane, and found the  oh-so-helpful (hear the dripping sarcasm?) deputy watching from his (warm) car across the highway, shining his headlights on the herd. The cattle were now between the highway ditch (remember this is Mathews – the ditches are six feet deep) and the pasture fence. There seemed to be no imminent danger of them getting back into the road.

I had no idea how they had gotten out, so my plan was to drive them along the fence/ditch corridor. Once I had them in motion, I’d climb back through the ditch to the highway, circle wide enough and fast enough to meet them at the lane, and encourage them to turn into the lane (instead of the highway) without spooking them. Once I got them back into the yard, I could put them into another enclosure until we could inspect the fences and gates in daylight and see where they had escaped.

The plan was a good one, except for one oversight which shall soon be revealed…. I trotted down the highway, and climbed (with some trepidation) through the dark ditch and began slowly to herd the cows along the ditch/fence corridor (and away from the church and graveyard on the corner – Yikes, cows in the graveyard! now that could have been very bad!). At this point, the “helpful” public servant DROVE AWAY--and left me alone—with twelve cows—in the dark—at 3 AM on Christmas Eve’s Eve! I couldn’t believe it! And still no sign of Mama (mumma) and Daddy!

I turned my attention back to the cows, who had gained sufficient momentum to make it to the lane. I was about to cease encouraging them from behind and to slip around to the side to perform the tricky one-woman-herd-turning-maneuver. (Ideally it should have taken about three people to do this easily – one “encourager” in the rear, one in front to stop their forward progress, and one to dissuade them from turning left onto the highway, leaving a right turn down the lane as their only option.) Just as I was preparing to cross the deep, dark ditch once more, my not-too-bright “oversight” kicked into high gear.

The sight of several cattle moving in the same direction was just too much temptation for my mixed-breed, sheep-doggy, “Benjy-on-steroids” hound to resist! He suddenly started barking and nipping at their heels and driving them with such ferocity that I saw at least two dark shapes keel over belly-up into the ditch in the confusion.The rest of the cows high-tailed it for the courthouse! They were almost to Linda’s Diner before I could get them turned around.

And the dog! Afterwards, the crazy, dumb dog came loping up to me, grinning from ear to ear. If he could speak he would have said, “Wasn’t that great? They ran like crazy! Four of them s**t themselves and two of them fell into the ditch! This is fun! Why don’t we do this every night?”

I caught the dog by the collar and performed the rest of my herding maneuvers while dragging him along by the neck.* My lungs were burning from my belly-button to my earlobes. The mad dash in the cold night air catching the courthouse-bound cows almost KILLED me.However, SHEER RAGE at the dratted dog and the disappearing deputy spurred me on and I caught those cows and turned them around. With gritted teeth, dragging the dog behind me, I managed to get them headed down the lane and into the yard.

Just as I chased the last cow into the yard, one parental unit careened around the house in her large sedan. The other cruised up from the barn in his pickup truck. Steamy, warm air billowed out of their vehicles when they rolled down their respective windows. I swear I could smell hairspray on my mother, and minty-fresh breath on both of them.

I mean come on, people! This was an emergency! No time for teeth-brushing and hair-combing! Where are your priorities? 

My dad got a good chuckle out of the dratted dog and the courthouse-bound cows. At the time, I did not think it was funny.

*No actual dogs were harmed in this process -- he was just as happy and goofy as ever afterwards. Nothing fazed that dog -- one of his most endearing traits. The cows, even the ones who fell in the ditch, were equally unharmed. I, however, had a vicious cough for the rest of winter break (and a serious grudge against that deputy to this very day).
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Chesapeake Bay Woman's Comments:
Anonymous Mathews Native is correct in that the ditches in Mathews County rival the Grand Canyon, and you surely do not want to end up in one, especially if you are a cow recently sprung from prison heading to the courthouse and/or Linda's Diner being chased by a not-so-bright dog. Also?  The image of that steamy, warm air billowing out along with their minty-fresh breath just cracks me right up.  Bravo!

From Old Garden Creek Road, February 2011.  Again, no connection to today's post.  Just sharing photos.

The Jolly Spot

This is a shot of Mathews Mark walking back from an old cemetery the other day when he took me on a little photo tour. As a reminder to any available ladies who might be reading, Mathews Mark is an eligible bachelor - tall, dark, handsome, funny and sweet.

During our photo outing he showed me one of the old shot houses, where liquor was bought and sold illegally years ago when it was otherwise difficult to acquire.

Back in the day, a shot house might have been a legitimate commercial establishment or it might have been a shack in the middle of the woods. Even worse better were the old stills we'd happen upon as kids playing in the woods.

This (below) is not an old still, nor is it an old shot house, but it is a chicken coop shack in the middle of the woods. It stands in back of a gorgeous old house that happens to be for sale. Regrettably I had the camera set to "video" mode--even though I don't know how to shoot videos on my camera--and the picture ended up a little wonky. (We can thank Daryl for introducing me to the word "wonky." It's one of my favorites.)

In spite of the inability to use the proper setting on my camera slant of the shack, no illegal liquor was used in the making of this photo:

Below is what used to be called the Jolly Spot. "Jolly" was a ubiquitous term slapped on just about every underaged drinking establishment gathering place around for youth young adults looking to engage in some frivolity.

My personal favorite was the legendary Jolly Lobster, across the river, which had no official relationship whatsoever with the Jolly Spot but which relied on very similar products to ensure the jolliness of its patrons. As long as you had a pulse you could get in to that place, and even then blood flow to the brain appeared to be optional based on some of the characters I saw running around there. (I much preferred the Spectrum, and once or twice visited the Inn Place, but all that's for another day.)

Anyhow, the Jolly Spot was not just a shot house or a juke joint but a place where Chesapeake Bay Father played when he was the drummer for a legendary band known as the Dynatones. He said one night at a dance there, someone got stabbed. Thankfully the person was not seriously injured but I'm sure he was quite a bit wonky a far cry from jolly leavin' out of there.

Here's what the Jolly Spot looks like today:
What I really wanted to share about this place is one of Mathews Mark's stories that he left in the comment section on an earlier post. It was downright hilarious, plus now I have the photo to go along with the story.

Here's Mathews Mark:

"...At one time we had over 10 local shot houses (bootleggers) in Mathews. They had names like Jolly Spot, East View Inn, West View Inn, R. Jordans and Wormlys to name a few. Mathews was a dry county on Sundays therefore you would go to one of the local shot houses for a drink . 1/2 pints of old crow, rum etc. were $4.00; a six pack was $4.00; and a chicken sandwich (a whole breast or leg slapped between 2 pieces of white bread was $1.00.

For those of us that were under age, as long as the owner knew your father and you had cash (cash being the main thing) you could get whatever you wanted. I spent many a Saturday night banging on the back door of one of these joints.

It went like this:

(tap, tap ,tap )

Owner: WHO IS IT?
Me: IT'S MARK.
Owner : MARK WHO, YOU A COP?
Me : NO, I AM WINFRED'S BOY.
Owner: WHO?
Me:WINFRED'S BOY!!!!
Owner: OH, YOU'RE NOT HERE TO COLLECT A CAR PAYMENT ARE YOU?
(CBW's Note: Mathews Mark's Daddy sold cars, and it was right about here that I cracked up laughing.)

Me: NO, I NEED A PINT AND A SIX PACK.
(Forgot to tell you we are hollerin' thru an old oak door that weighs about 400 pounds.)
Owner: DAMIT YOU AIN'T PAYED ME FOR THE LAST PINT YET!!!!!
Me: YES I DID!!!
Owner: OH, OK, JUST CHECKIN.' TELL YOUR DADDY I WILL BE UP THERE MONDAY WITH MY CAR PAYMENT...

Then the door would crack open and out would come a box for your money then a bag with your spirits. This went on for years..."
-----------------------------------------------

As I was working on this post last night, I called next door to confirm with the Chesapeake Bay Parents that CB Father did in fact play at the Jolly Spot. After a brief conversation with my mother about the stabbing, she asked, "Why do you need to know all this?"

"Because I'm putting up a picture and a post about the Jolly Spot tomorrow," I replied.

CB Mother: "Oh, we're so proud."

CB Woman: "Thank you."

Mrs. Trusch

Late last week, I received the following message from someone involved in local politics:

"Marion Grey Trusch of Mathews, VA, turns 90 years old on April 21st. A retired high school government teacher, she has always prided herself on being a "Byrd Democrat" and enjoys the political debates. It's not every day that someone turns 90 so let's see how many birthday cards can brighten her day. Her address is: P.O. Box 1516, Mathews, VA 23109."

Mrs. Trusch is a living legend in Mathews County. She spent her entire life sharing her passion for government with high school students.

Although petite in stature, she came across like a giant in the classroom and never--ever-- lost control. I'll never forget the hush that came over the room on our first day of twelfth-grade government. She spoke with the authority of a drill sergeant, not allowing one person to speak unless asked to speak. Pursing her lips and tilting her chin up, she conveyed her expectations right off the bat and never wavered from those rules. Hers was definitely a zero-tolerance classroom.

But it was also the most fascinating classroom.

After that bit of business was taken care of--establishing authority--she relaxed just enough to let the flow of her never-ending river of knowledge spill forth in such a way that we sat riveted-- even those who were the worst students. She had a way of making everything about government sound interesting and important. Because to her, it was. It still is.

Mrs. Trusch made a lasting impression on generations of students. She taught my father (and the parents of my classmates) as well as my sisters at Mathews High School.

When I first started this blog, I wrote a post about seeing her at the nursing home when Chesapeake Bay Daughter and I were delivering daffodils. She looks the same as she did 30 years ago and her mind and her wit are just as sharp as ever.

Here's an excerpt from that original post:

When my daughter and I saw her, she was racing down the hallway. With our basket of flowers, we hurriedly asked her if she'd like some. "Sure," she said. "I'm in Room 15. But I'm hardly ever there."

Even in the nursing home, she's always on the go, interested in talking with other people, refusing to sit idle and never allowing the numbers on the calendar to dictate how she ought to live. She's still very much in charge.

Below is a comment on that original post from Janice Blake, a good friend and classmate of mine:

Thank you, Chesapeake Bay Woman, for this wonderful, heartfelt mention of our lady, Mrs. Marion Von Trusch! Even her name is one of distinction. Although disappointed to hear she is at a new home away from home, I am elated to hear that she is still being VonTrusch-like. I absolutely adore that woman! Thanks, from Dr. Janice Blake-Brooks (I owe her)

Mrs. Trusch turns 90 on Wednesday. If you're in the county and able, please stop by to wish her well. If you're no longer in the county but have been impacted by her incredible ability to inspire learning and a passion for government in all of her students, please send her a card.

Happy Birthday, Mrs. Trusch. The depth and breadth of your impact on so many students cannot be measured or adequately captured in words, but these two are a start:

Thank you.

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If you're from Mathews, do you have any Mrs. Trusch stories?

If you aren't from Mathews, who was your favorite teacher and why?

No matter where you're from, have a great Monday.

*******************************

Off-Road Driving

Above is a shot of Hills Bay taken from a moving vehicle my favorite stretch of highway leading off/onto Gwynn's Island. You can see there is not much separating the road from the water. One false move and you're overboard.

Below is a story about one such false move, relayed by Mathews County native and long-time friend of mine, Bayman.

"The road along the "river shore" on Gwynn's Island is CBW's favorite drive. (Mine too.)

It offers gorgeous views of tranquil blue waters, an endless canvas of sky, seagulls, clouds and as witnessed at Blogfest, some of the best sunsets you will ever see.

The road, however, can be treacherous at times. Cars have been known to be blown off the highway by wind during winter storms, when the road was covered in ice. I have seen the spray from the crashing waves go clear across the highway.

My favorite story about this road is set on a nice summer day. It was told to me by a friend who is no longer with us. Some alcohol was involved in both the telling and the hearing of this story. The names have been omitted to protect the innocent.

The island is home to numerous "come heres" during the warmer months. The majority was from Richmond. They had cottages, or a boat at the Islander Marina.

One day, a carload of young men, we'll say from Richmond, though we may never know for sure since my friend is no longer with us, was traveling along the river shore. Out in a yard was a very pretty Gwynn's Island native, enjoying the summer day in her bathing suit. She was bending over in her yard, tending to a rosebush or some other gardening project. The young men must have thought she was doing a very nice job, as they completely lost track of what they were doing. Their car sailed over the bank, and out into the tranquil, shallow waters. Hills Bay had claimed another."

Bayman--much like Mathews Mark--has more stories than Uncle Remus, and hopefully he'll share some more soon.

For now, I'm going to share a couple of pictures of him. Here he is giving a come-hither sort of glance.

Below is what he looks like while reflecting on things, such as the state of health care in America, or how many packs of Best Value chicken wings (grilled to perfection over charcoal) are needed to feed a bevy of Blog Fest attendees.


Thank you, Bayman, for your stories, your world-famous chicken wings, and most of all your kindness and friendship. Please send me wings stories any time. How does tomorrow sound?

If anyone reading has any chicken wings grilled to perfection stories about Mathews they'd like to share, please send them to ChesapeakeBayWoman@gmail.com. And don't forget the hot sauce.

The Building

This structure was either a school or a church, and at one point here recently I could tell you which one, but welcome to yet another fact-filled post written by Chesafreak Bay Woman, who can barely remember her own name.

Perhaps one or more of our local readers will help fill the gaping holes in the sieve known as my mind, but first a little background on this structure's location and how the photo came about.

Coming from the Court House past Moon, you eventually come to a T in the road.

(If anyone reading this is not from Mathews, please note that no errors were made in the construction of that sentence, particularly the parts that say "Court House" and "Moon" because they are actual places here. Although there may well be other errors in the sentence, those two words are correct.)

Anyway, at the T past Moon, make a left, and just before you bear right to head in the direction of Siberia and also the Eastern Shore Haven Beach there's an old building on your left sitting next to a house. This is the building.

Now I've passed this place eleventy scrillion times going to and from the county beaches. But on this particular day, what caught my eye was the open door. Each and every one of the previous eleventy scrillion times, the door has been shut.

From the car, stopped in the middle of the road, I rolled down the window and took this shot, hence the pine limb obstructing the full view of the facade which might have been avoided had I been able to go into the yard for a better angle. Beggars can't be choosers.

Speaking of beggars, that door beckoned. It called my name.

Today it gives me great joy to announce two things:

1. I did not risk breaking the law to dash into the building above no matter how much it called, and for the moment we will not dwell on the legality of taking pictures from a car stopped in the middle of a road. Thank you.

2. Today I will be legally trespassing on a Gwynns Island property--the very same house where I was officially nabbed for trespassing a year or so ago--at Miss Pookie's grandfather's house.

Pookie and Mathews Mark will be on hand to tell stories and provide some hysterical historical background, and I can take pictures inside the house without risk of spending quality time in the Saluda jail.

Stay tuned. Pictures and stories will be forthcoming and nary a one will be from Saluda. The good Lord willin' and the creek don't rise.

Click here for a picture of the house and the original trespassing story.

Minibikes

Above is another shot of Bethel Beach and below is another guest contribution, because Chesapeake Bay Woman is plum wore out. Worn out. She's a plum. Not to be confused with aplomb.

Gwynn's Island
written by The Gwynn's Islander

Growing up on an island in the Chesapeake Bay was a wonderful experience.

The time period of the 60's/70's was very memorable.

There were no video games! You could play the pinball machine* at the service station,** or if someone had a car you might make it to the pool hall next to Donks, the local movie theater which was off the island. Woe be unto he, who was caught off the island without informing the parents. We were forced to manufacture our own fun.

We had quite the band of marauding teenagers on the island in those days. Some actually went on to lead happy and productive lives. I will omit the names to protect against litigation.

We played whatever sport that was in season at each other's houses. We would go swimming for hours on end.

Water surrounded us and protected us from much of the outside world.

I can't remember exactly who got the first mini bike, but from that point on, everyone had to have one and they quickly evolved into dirt bikes. Talk about paradise for the teenagers and pure hell for the parents. No Saturday morning was ever quiet again. Gwynn's Island was one big motocross, with trails and jumps and meeting places. We were coming of age, and it is rumored that some even experimented with alcohol and tobacco, among other things.

One of my friends who is no longer with us was called Putt Putt. I am not sure how he got the nickname, but it sure fit him. Putt was as good as gold, and would give you the shirt off his back. One night, several of the boys were getting together for mischief...err...fellowship, but Putt Putt's headlight on his dirt bike had burned out. Chock full of ingenuity, he taped seven*** flashlights to his handlebars.

Despite the flashlights, Putt was having trouble keeping up with his accomplices...err.. friends. In an area known as Spirit Branch, behind the cemetery, his friends stopped so Putt could catch up.

In one of the strangest accidents ever witnessed, (confirmed by all parties involved, I missed it for some reason,) Putt Putt's bike rammed full speed into the back of his friend's bike. Putt's front tire hit the rear tire of the other bike, driving his friend about twenty feet forward, while shooting Putt Putt and his bike high into the night sky.

"It rained flashlights for five minutes," recalled one of the boys. Putt's bike landed on top of him and resulted in a gash to his knee. "I've got to go home," Putt said, thus ending his fun for the night.
___________________________

Chesapeake Bay Woman's Questionable Contributions and Commentary:

* They may have had pinball machines over there on Gwynn's Island, but over here at Hudgins, we had no such thing. The only time I saw a pinball machine was at Payne's Frosty (aka Tastee) Freeze and I had no time for that because I was too busy devouring a cheeseburger on a perfectly steamed bun.

**Service Station: Chesapeake Bay Children? Once upon a time, there was no such thing as self-serve gasoline pumps and debit cards. You pulled up to the gas pump, and a wonderful man in a striped shirt with his first name embroidered on his shirt came to your car and said hello. You made idle chit chat and then you told him how much gas you needed. Then, without being told, he checked your oil and your tire pressure. The only thing he wanted in return was some friendly conversation and a smile. You never left the comfort of your car. It was like going to a spa...a spa for people who need to fill their car up with gasoline.

***Seven flashlights taped to the handlebars of a minibike. Seven. Putting it mildly, before I mustered up the patience to tape seven flashlights to the handlebars of my minibike, I'd just as soon have revved the thing up and driven it straight off Cherry Point directly into the bay.

Therein lies the reason why I am not known for ingenuity but am renowned for lack of patience.

More on Mousie

A couple of weeks ago, I traveled down Horn Harbor and took this. I have no idea what the yellow growth in the field is, but it was incredibly pretty. Speaking of things that are incredible, below is another true story about a Gwynn's Island resident.

The other day I posted a story written by a friend of mine regarding the time the funeral home accidentally picked up the wrong person, someone who had overindulged in spirits.

Below is another chapter in the adventures of Mousie, written by my friend.

Another True Story
by the Gwynn's Islander

Mousie was the only Island resident, perhaps Mathews resident, maybe even United States Citizen, to ever receive a drunk driving ticket while riding a Wheel Horse lawnmower complete with a CB and antenna.

A local deputy, who later became a much-despised sheriff, found it necessary to ticket him on one of his journeys to secure provisions, or beer, for himself or the family. One must wonder, what could possibly have been suspicious about his journey, how could a man in his late sixties driving a lawn mower on a public road at a rate of two miles per hour with a cb antenna and a case of beer possibly attract the attention of the local law enforcement?

Not one to be easily deterred, Mousie crafted paths and shortcuts through wood and field to limit his travels on the public thoroughfares.

On one of his subsequent journeys to Callis Wharf, Mousie consumed a bit too much of the cargo, even by his legendary standards. Taking a path as the crow flies, a shortcut through a field bordering Milford Haven, in a desperate attempt to reach the seclusion of the Gwynn's Island Crab House road, in an area now occupied by waterfront condominiums, Mousie's lawn mower became lodged on a tree stump. Mousie was forced to abandon ship and proceed home on foot.

The next morning, much to his horror, Mousie realized his lawn mower was not where it should be. He wasn't sure what had happened. Had it been stolen? Mousie and Tommy searched the island near and far in search of the Wheel Horse tractor. They finally found it where it rested.

Still perched atop the tree stump.

I love happy endings, don't you?

===========================
Chesapeake Bay Woman's Comments:

I wrote a long time ago about the creative skill set of our local population in outwitting the law, even in cases when the individual has lost his driver's license. Bicycles, scooters, wheelchairs, boats, you name the contraption, they've been known to doctor them up into the most unusual--yet functional--vehicles.

When I first returned to the county from living in Northern Virginia, I saw a man driving his lawn mower down the sidewalk at the courthouse....with a six-pack strapped to the mower deck.

I knew, at that moment, that I'd truly arrived home.

In other lawn mower stories, I have a friend whose husband once put grain alcohol in the lawn mower instead of gasoline. The only thing fueled was the ensuing fire.

Of Mousie and Funeral Home Men

This picture is from Bethel Beach, although you obviously cannot see the beach from here. There are acres and acres of what I'd call swamp before you get to the beach. Now the green marsh grasses are turning brown, and the dead, gray wood sticks up starkly to remind us that winter is just around the corner. Speaking of winter, which symbolizes death, here's a story about death that is anything but stark.

As promised, today I am posting a guest contribution from a Gwynn's Island resident who has more stories than Uncle Remus, and all of them are hilarious and, surprisingly, true.

True Story
by The Gwynn's Islander

Once upon a time, on an island named Gwynn, there lived a lady. Miss Pearl was her name. She had at least two sons....we shall call them Tommy and Mousie. I think she had a third, but that is beside the point. They lived in a white farm house in close proximity to the Gwynn's Island Fire House.

Mousie and Tommy had a penchant for alcohol. They liked their drink. Mousie had no driver's license. His mode of transportation was a Wheel Horse lawn mower, decked out with a CB radio and antenna. His daily attire was a khaki work shirt and pants, khaki fisherman's hat with the fish and the net embroidered, white socks and black work shoes.

According to the local Wheel Horse dealer, Mousie was the only person to ever wear out a set of tires on one of his tractors. Mousie went through FOUR SETS. Most of Mousie's travels were to Callis Wharf or Scrooch's Market for beer.

My first job was working at Scrooch's Market for the princely sum of one dollar per hour. I remember, fondly, receiving calls from Miss Pearl, stating in her gravely voice....I want two pounds of lard, one carton of Raleigh plain ends, four six packs of Pabst Blue Ribbon, etc.

One morning, Mousie didn't wake up. He had expired during the night. Miss Pearl called Foster Faulkner, the local funeral home.

Tommy, meanwhile, the sun not yet high in the sky, had already begun the daily ritual. He had found a comfortable place under the shade of a tree in the yard.

The funeral home folks pulled up, saw Tommy passed out under the tree, and started loading him onto the gurney. Miss Pearl came to the door and hollered: NO! NOT HIM! HE'S IN THE HOUSE!

Tommy drove Mousie's lawn mower to the early nineties.

_______________

Chesapeake Bay Woman's Comments:

Is there anything left to say? There are stories like this all over this county, and if I don't write them down how is the world gonna hear them?

The Glebe

The other day I went to a place in Mathews called the Glebe. No, that is not a typo, I did not mean the Globe. The Glebe.

The picture above is a soybean field and Someone's outbuilding down the Glebe. I did not trespass on Someone's property. I was standing in the middle of the road and used the zoom lens. I promise.

The trespassing part came later. I came to a dead end and some lady pulled up behind me. I was turning around in her driveway, and she was not budging until I rolled down my window. She wanted to know if I was lost. She was polite, but suspicious, even (or perhaps especially) after I told her I was taking pictures of the soybean field. People just don't understand.

Below is the historical information pertaining to the Glebe. This is the only way you will get anything factual from this post, because all the rest is piffle, which is a word I had never seen before discovering Foolery's blog. I lead a very sheltered life.

Most of what is written here on a daily basis is just that: piffle.

The Glebe is a section of Mathews that, back in the Whatever Century (for facts, please click on the photo above), supported the minister of Kingston Parish. Over time the land was sold off but the name still stuck. The Glebe refers to the area, and Glebe Road refers to the best drag racing spot in the county. Not that I have ever done that. As far as you know.

There are two things that immediately come to mind when I think of the Glebe:

1. Driving Very Fast
2. Basketball Practice

Glebe Road, which connects Route 198 to Church Street, is one of the flattest, most perfect straightaways in the county. I have This Friend who, whenever she drives down Glebe Road, feels compelled to gun it, floor it, punch it, and put the pedal to the metal. This Friend only does this when (a) she is not traveling with any children and (b)there's nobody else on the road. This Friend is rarely without children as passengers, so she doesn't get to do this as much as she'd like.

This Friend lives in a fantasy world most of the time, though, and she dreams about buying a suped-up hot rod (convertible) that is LOUD. She dreams of an imaginary starting line where she revs the engine in anticipation of the signal to go. Then, she is off like a bullet, hair blowing straight back, madly and wildly shifting gears leaving all her competition in the dust. Although because the road is so narrow, there really wouldn't be any competition. This Friend really has an active imagination.

And a secret desire to be a combination roller derby star and race car driver.

The other memory of the Glebe relates to basketball practice, when we would go joy riding down there just after school and prior to practice. There was lots of speeding, especially over this one dirt road that had a cavernous hole - we loved to bounce over it, dust flying everywhere, bumpers and other car parts scraping the road. We'd spin wheels, do doughnuts, throw bottles at road signs, and spend a lot of time in this little place called StupidityCausedByTeenageHormones-Ville. To get there, you have to pass through West Peer Pressure and bear left at YourMummaWouldDieIfSheKnewWhatYouWereDoing.

Thank goodness I don't visit those places anymore. But I do get the urge now and then to race down Glebe Road. Don't tell anyone.

Father's Day

Half of Mathews will know who we are just by the picture above. Lucky for me I only have two readers, and only one is from Mathews. Our identity should be safe. This is my father's, and he is known as the VW expert around here. There's so much to say about this particular VW that I will tell you about it another day. It has to do with the Bicentennial. Remind me.



This used to be a meter maid vehicle. We don't have meters in Mathews. Or Gloucester. I have no idea where it came from, but my father fixed it up and now uses it as a farm vehicle. He also uses it for what he calls perimeter checks. Again, this is a story--a good one--for another day. It has to do with "only in Mathews." Remind me to tell you.

My Daddy's pretty darn cool. Let me count the ways:

1. He has beaten the odds.

In the early 1940's, Daddy was born with a hole in his heart at a time when heart surgeries were not the norm. I believe he was a teenager when he had to have his first operation. To lower his body temperature they had to submerge him in ice, and the whole thing was very risky. Since then he's had numerous heart operations and a few other scares, but he's still plugging away. I've heard him say a number of times that he wasn't supposed to be here this long. Thank goodness he was wrong.

2. He is a talented drummer.

At a time when race relations were tense at best, the late 1950's to early 1960's, my father was a white drummer in an otherwise black band. The Dynatones were wildly popular, and they played up and down the East Coast. To this day people talk about how good they were. In spite of being physically attacked once because of other people's biases, he looks back on that band as one of his greatest achievements. From early on, my sisters and I had absolutely no concept of prejudice at all. Through his actions he taught us that everyone is equal and to be respected, beliefs we share to this day.

Subsequently he played with various local bands, all very popular. It was cool having a father who played in a band, especially when they practiced in our basement. I would always show off upstairs on the piano and hope they'd invite me down there to play. They never did.

3. He worked his behind off to keep a roof over our heads and has an incredible work ethic that all three of his children share.

My father owned his own business, a car repair shop in the court house, where he worked from 8-5. He'd come home, eat, and sleep for a few hours before he had to get up at 10 or 11 p.m. to work the night shift at the Naval Weapon Station. He'd come straight home from that and go to his day job. That was his routine Monday through Friday, I don't know how he did it. Friday and/or Saturday nights he played in the band, and another side job was selling fish from the gill nets. Other things he did in his youth include: bowling pin setter (in the days before automated bowling alleys); school bus driver; tractor trailer driver, chartered bus driver, and outboard motor repairman. Even now that he's retired, he gets up at 2:00 a.m. to drive a seafood truck from Deltaville up to Landover, Maryland, several times a week. I simply do not know how he does it.

4. He can fix and/or build anything.
You name it, he can do it; he can fix it; he can build it. Even if he's never done it before, he'll figure it out. The two vehicles above are but a small sampling of his ability to renovate, tinker and rebuild. He is loaded with ingenuity.

5. He has a great philosophy and a very laid back attitude.
I don't know if I've ever seen him stressed; it's possible but I can't recall a single time. One of his favorite expressions is, "Confucious says, 'Don't worry about it.'" He likes to use that one when he hears one of us talking about some problem or concern. He takes each day as it comes and makes the most of any situation.

Thanks, Daddy, for giving us so much, for teaching us so much, and for beating the odds.

We love you.

Hardyville Post Office

Yes, folks, it is true. This used to be an official, honest to goodness United States post office.

This is a picture of the old Hardyville post office, located in downtown Hardyville. The other noteworthy and distinguishing landmarks here include: There are none.

Hardyville is right outside of Deltaville, which is yet another water-bound community quite similar to Mathews, located due north of us. (An interesting side note about Deltaville is at the very end of The One Main Road here is a place called Stingray Point. Legend has it that Captain John Smith wrestled with a stingray here. The score was: Stingray-One. Captain John Smith - Zero. After he finished splashing around the Deltaville waters, Capt. Smith went on to do a few other things that are noteworthy, but around here he's simply known as that famous person who messed with a stingray. We like to focus on the important parts of history.)

A delightful lady fondly known as POOKIE used to be the post master (mistress?) here. And I will say it again: This was the actual Hardyville post office. Now Pookie happens to be the mother of the male friend who took me on the marathon water skiing trip I talked about yesterday. Pookie also has a personality so large, I cannot imagine how it fit inside this small building every single day.

I'd like to point out something that is obvious to me, but perhaps not so to everyone else: Around these parts, most folks drive to the post office to pick up their mail. Although mail delivery is available, I personally do not know a soul who takes advantage of this, and I have absolutely no explanation as to why. It's just the way we do things. The post office, therefore, has been and continues to be a gathering place for people who live in the community. And, just like Hardyville, most "sections" of Mathews, Gloucester and Middlesex counties are named after the local post office.

I have some questions about this particular post office, though.

1. Where, pray tell, is the RESTROOM??? I must know the answer to this. I won't be able to sleep at night until I find out.

2. Exactly HOW MUCH MAIL can actually fit inside this structure?

3. Aren't jail cells bigger than this?

4. If Pookie is in this one-room closet sorting all the local mail, and a family of four walks in, WHERE DO THEY FIT? What is the protocol for determining who has to wait outside?

5. WHERE IS THE BATHROOM?????

The current Hardyville post office is in a slightly larger building right next door to this one. Pookie no longer works as the post master (mistress?) either.

She finally retired after too many years of having to go outside to change her mind.

The Tabernacle

The Mathews Methodist Tabernacle pictured above is on the National Registry of Historic Places.

This is a (bad) shot of the tabernacle. For the uninitiated, a tabernacle was basically an outdoor church "back in the day," where "day" in this instance is defined as circa 1900. Not my day, but Somebody's day, if Somebody is 100 years old.

This tabernacle is located below the courthouse in Mathews.
(Translation: "below" - means "further past." "Courthouse" means the village of Mathews, or the commercial part as opposed to the rest of it, which is.....RURAL. EXCESSIVELY RURAL. You may now return to The Normal English Language, already presumably in progress.)

According to a local publication, the Methodist Tabernacle was long used as a revival center. The original one was built around 1879, but the one pictured here had to be rebuilt in 1922, probably due to fire.

I asked my mother what she knew about the tabernacle. Her eyes got big as saucers as she proclaimed, "Oh my word. That was THE place on any given Sunday around here. People in hoop skirts would show up with picnic baskets and make a day of it." ("It" being church.) She said the indoor churches in the summer time would simply be too hot, so everyone congregated here, in the middle of the woods in Mathews. To hear preaching outside right next to the KILLER MOSQUITOES that no doubt were multiplying by the millions since most of Mathews at any given time is UNDER WATER and has many pools of stagnant water. (Of course, if you're wearing long dresses and hoop skirts, a mosquito in the heat of summer is the least of your worries.)

I could do some research on the tabernacle, but I'm fairly lazy. In the ideal world, my Mathews commenters would check with their relatives who were alive around 1900, or 1879, or 1492. It's all the same.

Truth be told, there are still many people living who would have great stories to tell of this tabernacle. For now, I'll leave those stories alone and let the picture speak for itself.

And what it's saying is, "If only these Outdoor Church pews could talk."

The Islander

If there were such a thing as a Kid Paradise during the 1970’s in Mathews, the Islander Motel and Restaurant on Gwynns Island would hands down be IT.

OK. This picture  has to be blurry. I apologize. But never fear. I have other unblurry ones that will be featured in future editions of The Islander: Unattended Children Gone Wild.

The Islander, pictured above, used to be a combination “anyone can join for a small fee” county swimming pool, restaurant, lounge (shhhh, don’t tell anyone, but people actually drank in Mathews, they don't do it anymore) and marina on The Most Beautiful piece of waterfront property known to man.

If that man lives in Mathews.

It was also where I learned many of life’s lessons.

I’m feeling frisky today, so let’s take a Pop Quiz, shall we?

1. You are 12 years old and either your mother or your father’s mother is responsible for your well being and determining Some Activity for you to do over the summer. The ideal solution is:

a) a nice Baptist summer camp;
b) arts and crafts with your parents, to include a performance of Koom-By-Ah beside a campfire at night;
c) to be dropped off, with no adult supervision, at a swimming pool exactly 8 miles from home and 6 As the crow flies. This would be The Islander Pool. It was 8 feet at the deep end and had a diving board along with a "life" guard.

2. You are 12 years old, and you and your younger sister have been dropped off at The Pool at the Islander. Some of the things you do are:

a) swim in the pool;
b) hope that some nice young couple will walk off with your younger sister so she doesn’t cramp your style and
c) go rooting around in the marina trash cans for aluminum cans for money.
d) A,B & C

3. The reason you are rooting around in the trash cans located every 5 feet on the dock of the marina is:

a) You want to help them keep up with their trash maintenance;
b) You are searching for a spare quarter to put in the nab machine (Who remembers –or even knows--what a pack of nabs is? Anyone? Bueler? Anyone?)
c) Your father’s mother promised to pay you a certain amount of money, namely a PENNY for every aluminum can you procured, no matter how much disgusting Pabst Blue Ribbon was swirling around in a hot, hellish vortex of NASTY at the bottom of each can, so therefore you stood on your head in trash cans trying to locate any and all things aluminum.
d) B&C

4. When you were left unattended like every other child in the county at the time at the Islander swimming pool, what are some of the things that occurred that your parents never witnessed?

a) I was running away from Mark Fry, rounded a corner too soon, ran square into a metal telephone box (back in the days of public telephones) and cut my head enough to receive a “butterfly stitch.”
b) I got married and they never knew.

OK. Enough. The Islander is going to be the subject of many future posts here, because there are simply too many stories to tell in one sitting.

Sadly, the Islander currently is in a state of decay, although it has so much potential, and is really only used as a marina and a place for the occasional hotel guest. Hopefully with sense enough not to round that corner too quickly and run dead into the metal telephone booth.

Or dig for beer cans.

Life and Death

The photo above is as blurry as any of the others I've posted here. I can't care because if I did I'd have gone through two Kleenex boxes by now. I'm doing the best I can and am a slow learner. If you wear glasses, take them off. If you don't wear glasses, grab someone else's and put them on.

Surrounded on three sides by water, Mathews has its fair share of waterfront property. There are homes on the Chesapeake Bay, the Mobjack Bay, the East, North and Piankatank rivers, and a multitude of creeks that run like veins throughout this county.

But here's a little known fact: Not only can you LIVE on the water here, you can spend your days of ETERNAL SLUMBER on waterfront property as well.

Yes, folks, I'm talkin' about a waterfront cemetery.

I live directly across the creek from a cemetery, a large one. The picture above is just a smidgen of the entire place; it's pretty darn big and it's on some primo real estate.

As a child I would swim across the creek to play in this cemetery, braving stinging nettles, crabs, eels, blow toads, sting rays and THE LOCH NESS MONSTER (because there is one, you know, here in the Chesapeake Bay--its name is CHESSIE, and it is a direct descendant of Nessie). But once again I digressie. (I'm a poet and didn't even know it.)

Anywho, as I've mentioned before, there was not much to do around here. After painting barn shutters pink and pulling up stop signs and toilet papering teacher's houses (sorry again for that), we next turned to the water and THE DEAD for fun. We'd swim across and just go rompin' and stompin' all over that grave yard (sorry, also, for that, but it sure was fun). There are many familiar and prominent Mathews family names represented there: Diggs, Hudgins, Owens, Marchant, Williams, Smith and Obama. (Just checking to see if you're still awake.)

Another little known fact about that cemetery is that many high school students go there to watch the submarine races. These races occur every Friday or Saturday night around 11:00 p.m. Check your local paper for race times near you.

Also, another great feature of this cemetery is its convenient location right across the road from the Little League field, where they sell The Best sweet iced tea and BBQ sandwiches. So, you can go visit your loved one's grave and hit the ball game right afterwards. Or vice versa. We're pretty laid back around here. Do what you want.

My grandparents, on whose homestead we now live, are buried there, along with my uncle. All my life I've said to anyone who would listen that I want to be buried over there.

Because I was born on the water and I want to be dead on the water. But I'll take the dead part a little bit later on, thank you very much. There's a whole lot of livin' left to do.

The Stop Sign

This may or may not be the scene of a crime that may or may not have been committed. But know this: No stop signs were harmed in the making of this post.

One of the first Halloweens where I was too old to trick or treat was the saddest day of my life because I love candy, and free candy is even better. OK, not really on the sad part. But really on the candy part.

That particular Halloween I could not and would not accept that I had to sit by idly while every one else had the fun. (Where fun was defined as anything besides the infinite stretch of Nothingness there was to do.) So, my friend Alda and I decided we were going to participate in the only way we knew how: focus on the trick part of trick-or-treating. (At the risk of repeating myself, there is absolutely nothing to do in Mathews. Except cut grass.)

Alda was nothing short of a genius at planning such activities. I readily and gladly accepted the role of sidekick, which in this instance meant that I would be driving the getaway car. (STOP EVERYTHING: Now that I am re-living this incident, I realize that I must have been 15 or 16 if I was driving. Well, that's not exactly true, since I learned to drive when I was about 11...Did I mention there's not much to do around here?)

The plan was really quite simple: We'd steal a stop sign and then go toilet paper our teacher's house. That's the first thing YOU'D do, isn't it? Right. We left at dusk, so there'd be enough light to fulfill our mission and yet just dark enough to work in stealth mode.

The particular vehicle we were using was my parents' VW bus that had a faulty horn. By faulty I mean that out of the blue, even if the driver's hands were tied behind her back and she wore a straight jacket, blindfold and were encased in a tomb, that horn would honk. By itself. A very distinct honk. A VW honk.

We decided to tackle the stop sign first. We drove to the end of my lane where the road intersected one of the Two Major Highways in Mathews, Route 198. I pulled the bus to the side, right in front of the sign. We waited until there were no cars coming. Alda got out and began pulling and tugging. She pushed, she heaved, she wrapped herself around that sign and began to make some progress, when all of a sudden----HONK!! HONK!! HONK!! HONK!!--- That VW bus decided right then and there it was going to participate in our venture and BLOW OUR COVER. We began to panic. We could NOT draw attention to ourselves. (After all, isn't a stop sign state property or something?) Undeterred, she continued to tug, and the horn continued to honk in synch with her moves like the accompanying orchestra for a ballet. And, while Alda was putting some creative moves on that stop sign, this GRAND THEFT OF STATE PROPERTY was hardly a ballet.

Due to the absolute horror of potentially being discovered thanks to that VW bus, and the impending INCARCERATION that likely would follow, I don't even remember if we ever did get that sign out of the ground. I do know that we laughed until we couldn't breathe, while adrenaline coursed through our veins with all the speed of Niagara Falls.

Then, with all the reckless abandon and glee of IDIOT SAVANTS TURNED LOOSE IN A CANDY STORE, we toilet-papered our math teacher, Mr. Brown's, house. (I'm sorry, Mr. Brown.) We definitely made up for our first botched mission.

Stupid VW bus.