The Chimney

Last week my friend Waterman JP asked me if I wanted to take some pictures of places he discovered wandering around the woods of Mathews during hunting season. Of course I said yes.

The first spot is off of the road I normally jog down, Route 614.

There, trying its best to pretend to be just another pine tree, was a chimney.

I'd never seen this before even though I've jogged past it a million times.

I'm usually peering through the trees on the other side of the road, where a few abandoned houses hide.

After this stop we headed towards Bethel Beach to a swamp another hidden beauty in an area I've been by a million times.  I'll show those pictures next.

*******

In other news, my daughter's basketball team remains undefeated after a very close match against Nandua Saturday night. Nandua is over in Europe on the Eastern Shore, a not so long boat ride but one heckuva commute by car.  We'll be traveling there in a few weeks for the away game. Hopefully the difference in score will be much greater than it was Saturday night.

Otherwise I may need prescription medication.

Completely nerve wracking. But also lots of fun.

There is another home game tonight at 6.

Redart Workboats

Last Friday, when the thermometer hovered near 80 degrees, I took advantage of the warm sunshine and went on a little photo spree starting at a dock down Redart.

Before I arrived at this dock, I had pulled over on the side of the road about a quarter mile away to take pictures. I've been down here enough to know this particular dock is plastered with No Trespassing signs.  And who am I to argue with a sign, or at least so many signs?

(I might put up a little argument with one sign. But when the signs outnumber me and start giving me the hairy eyeball, I tend to back down. There's nothing worse than the hairy eyeball.  Where did that phrase come from anyway?)

Back to the topic at hand, in the car I hopped and drove slowly towards the multitude of No Trespassing signs that started to snicker the closer I came. As I approached the dock, a man crossed the road in front of me. Rolling down my window, I explained that I just wanted to take some pictures of the boats.   

"Well. I wondered what you were doin'," he said.

He had seen me a quarter of a mile away pulled over on the side of the road.

Desperately trying to get a picture legally.

Without trespassing.

After we went through the Mathews Checklist of Sizing Up a Stranger  (which includes discussion of family, length of time in the county, exact location of residence, what you do for a living, the maiden name of your maternal grandmother, and at least one bit of evidence over and above all that which puts the other party at ease once and for all), we launched into a discussion about these boats and about the gentleman himself. 

He's still trying to eke a  meager existence out of the water.  A little oystering and crab potting are all he's up to these days.

He's 70 years old.

70.

Seventy.

Seven. Tee.

It's hard enough for a younger person to survive in this fading industry. For a 70-year-old to still be at it is admirable, to say the least. Astonishing, if you want to know the truth. There's nothin' easy about workin' on the water.

Why I didn't get his picture is beyond me, although after he told me to go on down to the dock and take as many pictures as I wanted--any time I wanted--giddiness set in. So I neglected to take his picture in all my euphoria.

I plan to take him up on his generous offer again soon.  So maybe next time.

Next time I'll also be taunting those haughty No Trespassing signs.

Thanks for reading. Have a great weekend.

Three Things

Welcome to Three Thing Thursday, where I share three five six things and you share three.  Or five.  Six.  Whatever floats your boat.

1. My sincere apologies for the delay in posting the pictures and info on my trip to Beachland, the historic Mathews home dating to the 1700s.   The good Lord willin' and the creek don't rise, I'll have everything posted on Friday.

2.  My daughter's first dance is on Saturday.

3.  My son's first formal dance is next Saturday.

4.  I have forty-eleven-thousand things converging over these next several weeks.  Things such as book signings; Christmas preparations (Can't we skip Christmas this year?- Signed, Ebenezer Scrooge); my mother's 70th birthday on Christmas Eve;  the neighborhood Christmas party; work, personal property taxes due;  new technology to learn; work; an improperly functioning camera; Christmas bills; my 16-year-old son approaching one of the final hurdles before being able to legally drive;  no car for me him to drive; a trip to New York City between Christmas and New Year's and did I mention my 13 year-old-daughter has a dance this weekend when only yesterday I was dropping her off at preschool?

5.  I wish I were in Bali with Javier Bardem.

6. Today's pictures (which are actually last winter's pictures that have been sitting here in draft for months) show the back side of Westview Inn, one of two legendary inns at Ward's Corner. Oh, the stories this building could tell.

Now it's your turn to share three or six things.  Whatever you feel like, anything at all.


Have a great Thursday. Welcome to December.

Grace-Providence Church

The road leading into the Mobjack vicinity rolls past majestic old farmhouses, quaint little homesteads and beautiful fields full of this and that until finally it comes to a stop where the East and North Rivers converge and spill out into the Mobjack Bay. There, in the cutest little neighborhood, lives Grace-Providence United Methodist Church, shown above. See how close it is to the water?

Instantly drawn to this church's beauty which was punctuated by the brilliant sunshine, I immediately pulled over on the side of the road and started snapping away.

Then, realizing this was not going to be a quick pit stop, I convinced myself to get back into the car and pull up into the church's parking lot.

(This was mainly to avoid all the awkwardness that comes with being parked on the side of the road. People tend to gawk, not that I saw a single soul down there. But trust me. They gawk, then they glare. They think I'm up to no good, so I hold my camera way up high and smile while repeating over and over to myself, "The road is public property. The road is public property," until paranoia officially sets in, and I wonder who they're calling on their cell phone because no doubt it's the sheriff. But that's not what I'm talking about here today.)

(Anyway.)

But guess what? There is no parking lot at Grace-Providence Church. Not a single one.

At first this surprised me, but only for a second.

You see, there really is absolutely no reason to drive to this church if you live in this delightful little neighborhood. There are only about 3 streets lined with homes, and not a single house is more than a cartwheel or two away.

(If you're not into doing cartwheels, then just know it's within walking distance. If you can maneuver around WalMutant (with or without a scooter), you can walk to Grace-Providence from any of these homes. Of course any day now I expect to see a train inside WalMutant to carry passengers from the front door to the milk and egg section, for example. But hopefully that won't be in my life time, and if it is--even if I have two broken legs-- I will crawl on my elbows through that store before I ride a scooter or a train through there. I just want to make that clear. Thank you. But of course this isn't what I wanted to talk about either.)

(Anyway.)



Below is a shot of the church from the opposite end of the road, close to the water.


This church was just loaded with surprises, one of which is the stained glass window below. The nautical theme is so appropriate for a waterfront church overlooking the site of an old wharf.

In closing, I'd just like to say that I predict a transit system inside WalMutant within the next decade I loved studying the exterior of Grace-Providence Church and hope to explore the interior some day soon.

Very soon.

House Hunters

Once upon a Friday morning, Mathews Mark took me on a little drive around town in search of places to photograph. This was very exciting for me, because I'm not used to having a driver when I trespass am out taking pictures. Mark isn't just a driver, he's a walking encyclopedia of knowledge about this county.

He obtained permission for us to visit a house which dates back to the 1700s and has been in the same family for who knows how many years. After driving down a long, wooded lane, we were greeted by this chimney from the original kitchen, a separate structure from the main dwelling. The sun was shining just so through the trees.

While I spent about 10 minutes taking pictures of this beautiful chimney, Mathews Mark wondered why on Earth anyone would want a picture of a pile of bricks went to talk to the property owner who was out in the yard.

Although we had permission to be on the property, we did not receive 100% clearance to post photos of the house on the internet, so to be safe I'm just going to show you a few glimpses of the yard, including the one below of the lovely creek out back. This was taken as we were walking to the family cemetery, which contains the grave of a man who helped build Poplar Grove, another historic Mathews estate.

Next, we hopped in the truck and drove down below Port Haywood to a rather desolate lane that was loaded with old, abandoned houses, some of which were barely visible from the road.

One of these houses happened to be for sale, so we pulled in to take a look around.

Mathews Mark happens to know the owner of this property too, so between that and the house being up for sale technically we were still trespassing we felt reasonably sure it would be OK to snap a few photos.

Below is one of my favorites from a cute little closet bedroom upstairs.


The house below represents yet another pit stop along that same desolate road. Unfortunately I couldn't get as close to this gorgeous house as I'd have liked because I was wearing flip flops. These aren't just any flip flops either. They're flip flops with a heel on them. Because I am just that much of a slave to fashion that I must wear heeled flip flops on a photo outing in the jungles woods of Mathews County.

Jumping ditches and maneuvering through briars is way more difficult in flip flops, fyi.

Jumping ditches and maneuvering through briars in flip flops with heels is just plain ridiculous. FYI.

Isn't this window precious? Is it even possible for a window to be precious?

After our little jaunt around town we returned to my disaster house where I showed Mathews Mark several projects I'm hoping he can help me with.

All in all it was a very productive outing even if I was wearing improper footwear.

Thank you, Mathews Mark - I can't wait for the next excursion!

If anyone out there owns property in Mathews and would like it plastered all over the internet photographed and featured on this crazy little blog, just e-mail me at ChesapeakeBayWoman@gmail.com. Nothing would make me happier than to be able to legally trespass photograph your place and preserve it for posterity. Of particular interest to me are the older buildings and houses, but beggars can't be choosers I'm open to anything. Including brown and pink plaid Rocket Dog flip flops--with heels.

(They were on clearance and were so ugly cheap they were practically giving them away.)

Eyre Hall, Part I

A while back I read a magazine article about an estate called Eyre Hall over on the Eastern Shore, which is on the other side of the bay from Mathews (about 10-15 miles as the crow flies, but about 2 hours as the car drives).

Every now and again I'll get over to the Eastern Shore and have seen the sign for the historic home, but I always thought it was private property. According to the article, the gardens are open to trespassers the general public. So yesterday, on my drive home from Delaware, I decided to stop in and take some photos.

After a long drive down a lane riddled with pot holes (odd, I remember thinking at the time, because the article made the place sound immaculately kept), I came to the entrance gate and was stunned to be greeted by the horses above, who evidently had broken out of their fence and were trotting across the driveway in front of me. There were five or six of them running wild all over the property.

Strange, I thought.

There was nobody else around, so I pulled over on the grass and wandered around with my camera. The house itself was massive, and incredibly beautiful, but very, very much....in need of maintenance. The article said the house was normally closed, so I wasn't expecting that to be open, but I also wasn't expecting it to be so...in need of maintenance.

Perhaps they focus their resources on the gardens, I told myself.

Below is a shot from where I parked my car. Notice the holes in the windows and the shutters hanging off leaning against the house.

At this juncture most normal people might conclude that they were in the wrong place, but not Chesapeake Bay Woman, who is anything but normal kept wandering all over the grounds in search of this secret public garden.

This magnificent home on an enormous amount of land is on Cherrystone Creek, which leads out to the bay. I wandered all over admiring the views the waist-high grass and the charming outbuildings.

Still, I couldn't figure out where the gardens were.

The more I wandered around, the more perplexed I became. Why would they publish a magazine article advertising magnificent gardens that were so difficult to find?

Perhaps the photo below can begin to convey the state of affairs at these "Open to the Public" formal gardens:

Finally, Chesapeake Bay Woman returned to her car with a camera full of delightful pictures of a beautiful, stately, waterfront manor whose windows were smudged with her noseprints. Her fingerprints may even be on the locked doorknob, who knows.

But alas she had no photographs of the much touted formal gardens.

Little did she know that the reason she had no garden photos is because this was the wrong house.

Dear Property Owners, I had no idea. I think swear the sign at the end of the road said Eyre Hall. But really, your place is gorgeous. You might want to make sure the horses stay out of the road, though, You never know when some frizzy-haired woman might drop by unannounced and unknowingly trespass startle them.

If I hadn't eventually found the real Eyre Hall, I'd still be wondering why I couldn't find the gardens at this first house.

The whole experience was surreal. Truly.

Sort of like last weekend's Womanless Beauty Pageant:

Stay tuned for photos from the real Eyre Hall and the gardens, which not only exist but are truly works of art, just like those biceps on Lady #6 above.

Redart

This gorgeous vista can be enjoyed at the end of a very long dock in the heart of bustling downtown Redart, which is the word "trader" backwards. As I've mentioned many times, there isn't a lot to do in Mathews, so for entertainment we just sit around and spell things backwards, then slap it up on a sign and assign it a zip code.

Anyway.

Mathews Mark, who has been missing in action for weeks now due to lack of internet access, was working down Redart last week. He gave me a call.


(Ring, ring...)

Chesapeake Bay Woman: "Hello?"

Mathews Mark: "Hey, CBW, I'm working down Redart at a gorgeous place that would make some really good pictures. What are you doing right now?"

CBW: Is not even on the line any more because she's spinning gravel out the driveway to get there post haste. An opportunity for legal trespassing does not present itself ever every day.

Mathews Mark was right. This piece of property was gorgeous, ideally situated on a point with not one but two docks, one of which was about a mile long if it was a foot.
Prior to coming out here, I ventured to the other dock closest to the house, over on the other side of those pine trees.

Scoping out the views for the ideal picture, I happened to look downward since I was approaching an incline onto the dock. There, lying inches in front of me in all his sunbathing glory, was this:

The rest of him was stretched clear across the dock, and he wasn't in any hurry to move. He'd probably just swallowed a small pony or something and was just taking an after-lunch nap.

The trip to Redart was productive, black snakes and huge herds of fiddler crabs notwithstanding. I'll share more photos of the place when I can.

But before I forget, the other night Anonymous Hallieford Resident invited several of us over to her restaurant, Sandpiper Reef. While she was busy pouring drinks from their new margarita machine, Mathews Mark regaled the crowd with stories.

A platter of fried oysters was placed in front of him. (They were delicious, by the way.)

Mathews Mark: "Did y'all ever used to tie strings around raw oysters?"

CBW: "Ummm. What did you say? Strings? Around oysters?"

Mathews Mark: "Yeah, you know, you take a string and tie it around the middle of an oyster and swallow it.

CBW: "What the ... why in the world would anyone want to swallow an oyster with a string tied around it?"

Mathews Mark: "So you could pull it back up."

We won't ask the ever-so obvious question of why at this juncture, because that is not germane to the point of this story, which is this: There ain't a whole lot to do around here.

And this: There is a killer boa constrictor on the loose in the vicinity of Redart, and he isn't afraid of anything, up to and including small ponies a frizzy-haired woman carrying a camera.

And also: Dear Reality TV Show Producers, there is a gold mine of television fodder here in Mathews County, Virginia. Truly.

Glimpses from the Road

This cute little house sits right alongside the road, close enough that I idled the car in neutral, snatched the camera out the bag, looked over both shoulders to be sure no one was watching approaching, glanced quickly in the rear view mirror, said two Hail Marys even though I'm not Catholic, and pressed the button to take the photo--all without getting arrested rear ended by another vehicle.

Since so far so good there was no good reason not to, I zoomed in and took another shot.

There's so much I could say about this lovely little house. Like how charming it is, even from the road. Like how I'd pay good money to sleep here on a rainy day just for the sounds of the water hitting the roof. Or like how it appears to be a combination of two local architectural styles: a farmhouse with a porch and a missing top half or a one-story dwelling that in later years grew columns and a front porch.

Please note: Chesapeake Bay Woman's expertise in architecture extends from here to nowhere and back, with a side trip down a path called Oh No She Didn't Just Pretend to Know One Hoot About Local Architecture, Did She?

No, thankfully, what I'm trying to say here today has nothing to do with architecture. It has to do with the fact that I drive by a million places like this each day--adorable homes, stoic old structures, vintage tractors or cars, lovely landscapes or beautiful yards--that I would love to walk up to, photograph, and write about. In the ideal world, the owner(s) would not have me arrested grant me an interview, which could be in person, over the phone, by e-mail or by courier pigeon. Either/or.

If you or anyone you know would like to have a structure or a vista photographed, please e-mail me at ChesapeakeBayWoman@gmail.com. If you or anyone you know have anything to do with the lovely little house above, please know that I found it charming and hope you don't mind me taking a few pictures from the road.

No matter what, though, I promise never to talk about architecture again.

Does anyone out there have memories that include rain hitting a metal roof?

p.s. Metal is a non-specific, non-architecturally correct term which includes tin, copper and/or any other roof-like material which would cause a rain drop to create a charming sound upon contact. This same material, used in a plate buried somewhere in Chesapeake Bay Woman's head, prevents any and all information from being retrieved from her memory bank but does not prevent her from attempting to talk about things which she knows nothing about. Unfortunately.

The Daffodil Festival

One week from today is the annual Daffodil Festival in neighboring Gloucester County. As much as I love daffodils, I've never attended this event, although one year I did stop by the old Gloucester High School to look at some of the professional arrangements in the daffodil show. You wouldn't believe how many different types of daffodils there are until you've attended one of these shows.

Additional information on the festival is available HERE. There's a very interesting section dedicated to the history of the daffodil in Gloucester,and I was surprised to discover that someone I know was descended from a key part of that history.

Below is an excerpt from the "Wild About Daffodils" section of the site:

The history of the daffodil in Gloucester County, Virginia is almost as old as the county itself. When Gloucester was formed in 1651 from part of York County the early settlers brought these soft reminders of English springs as they established themselves in the area. The soil and weather conditions were ideal for daffodils. The bulbs were passed from neighbor to neighbor and spread from orderly beds and burying grounds to the great houses to the fields.

Some, such as the hardy Trumpet Major variety, seemed to thrive on neglect. By the beginning of the 20th century daffodils grew wild in the untended fields of Gloucester. It is from this abundance of natural beauty that grew the extensive daffodil industry which earned the county the title "Daffodil Capital of America" in the 1930's and 40's.

Everyone had daffodils but no one thought much about them except as wild ornaments. It was around 1890 that Eleanor Linthicum Smith, of "Toddsbury" on the North River, first saw the commercial potential of daffodils. She developed a good size bed of flowers and paid local children ten cents per hundred to pick them. The flowers were picked during their spring growing season, packed standing up in laundry baskets covered with cheesecloth, and shipped to Baltimore

Mrs. Smith's baskets of flowers were loaded on a hayrack - one hundred baskets with about 2,500 blooms - and hauled by horse to nearby Dixondale Wharf or Hockley Wharf on the North River. They were put on a steamboat and shipped to her son who worked in Baltimore's Union Station. He resold the flowers to depot newsboys who became the first daffodil retailers.

The profit from her daffodil sales eventually paid off the mortgage on her home. Aware of their value, she dug up the bulbs and transported them with her when she moved to nearby "Holly Hill". As word of the success of the business spread, others in the county began to take an interest in the cultivation of flowers. Mrs. Smith's granddaughter Eleanor and her husband, W.S. Field, later lived at "Holly Hill" and continued with the daffodil business. They were able to put five children through college between 1925 and 1945 on the profits .

Holly Hill is the house on Route 14 in Gloucester up on a hill, right across the road from that lone silo standing near the old M&G Transportation (which is now a seafood wholesaler). The home and surrounding barns are now an antique shop.

Anyway, my fourth and fifth grade English teacher at Gloucester Day School, Mrs. Eleanor Martin, lived at Holly Hill until her passing. She was undoubtedly one of those five children who were put through college thanks to the success of the daffodil industry her great-grandmother seems to have inspired.

Mrs. Martin was a lovely, intelligent, dignified lady and an excellent teacher. I can still see the purple workbook--Keys to Good Language--as if it were yesterday.

One time on a whim, I pulled into her old house pretending to look at the antiques for sale. The old farmhouse is brimming with beautiful wares, but I didn't see any of them. I was absorbing the sights and smells of the house, admiring the wall paper, marveling at the wooden floors--thrilled to be able to legally trespass walk throughout the home which I'd admired as much as the lady who once lived there.

When a woman approached and asked if I needed any help or if there was anything in particular I was looking for, I thanked her and confessed I was more interested in reminiscing about my former English teacher who once lived here. To which the woman replied, "She was my mother."

To this day there is an area next to the barns where the daffodils--likely transplanted from Toddsbury by Mrs. Martin's innovative great-grandmother--still peek through.

The next time I see them, I'll smile.

The Hooptie

This aging Pontiac which lives down Hallieford way still has charm, no? I think so. Look at that face, it's loaded with personality.

I have a very soft spot in my heart for old anything cars. My favorites are muscle cars from the '70s but some of these older model tanks everyday cars have appeal too.

Back in the late '80s and early '90s I worked in Washington, DC, and northern Virginia for a telecommunications company formerly known as MCI.

Chesapeake Bay Children? This was when people used calling cards to place long distance calls away from home, sometimes from the confines a claustrophobic contraption known as a phone booth. What about cell phones, you say? No such thing. Regrettably there *was* such a thing as puffy blouses, and even worse they were in vogue. Also, the dress code known as business casual had not been invented either, and a very young Chesapeake Bay College Graduate was *most* appalled at the fact that she had to wear a suit and PANTYHOSE with high heels to work every day.

You won't be may be shocked to know I've strayed from the topic.

Anyway, during that time frame someone I worked with was telling a very animated story, and about midstream she said, "Girl, you will never believe what happened next. She pulled right on up to the house in a hooptie."

Well I'd never heard that term before. Perhaps, like the wheel cell phones, it hadn't been fully invented or circulated yet. Or perhaps my sheltered upbringing in Mathews had something to do with it, who knows. Using the rest of the story as context, I deduced that a hooptie was just another term for old, beat-up (and sometimes jazzed-up) jalopies the size of small aircraft carriers.

Lest you think Chesapeake Bay Woman has finally gone off the deep end with her silly, made-up words or completely erroneous statements, you are correct she offers the following definitions provided by the urbandictionary.com:

hoop-d, hoopdie, hoopdy, HOOPTIE, hoop-t, hoopty, hooptee, etc.
Today it can be any car or vehicle used as personal transportation. But it was originally used to refer to classic 70's or 80's era large American cars (Impalas, New Yorkers, Towne Cars and so on...), usually found in the ghetto and in poor condition, that had been "pimped out" with garish paint, animal print interiors, wheels too large or too small and so on. They are often roomy, comfortable, worn out gas guzzlers.
Ex: The tail pipe fell off my hooptie.

or this:

hooptie
Any car that meets the following: a) driver must enter car through passenger side b) three different brand and size tires - three of them missing hubcap c) exhaust is held up by half a clothes hanger - other half replaces the antenna d) backfires every three blocks - loudest backfire being when car is turned off e) must open door at drive-thrus as windows don't roll down f) you only get one AM station and the tape deck eats all tapes inserted g) can't open the glove box as the whole thing will fall out h) if you let go of steering wheel while driving you'll make a u-turn i) must manually move blinker lever up and down as it no longer blinks on it's own j) must keep one foot on brake and one on accelerator when at a complete stop k) has had the same temporary registration sticker in the window for the last 18 months.

There are still quite a few hoopties alive and kicking in Mathews but most, like the car above, are planted permanently in a yard or the woods or even an old shed.

Do you have a story about a hooptie? How about pantyhose? Pontiacs? Hallieford?

Happy Friday!

p.s. This is a standing offer to anyone who owns a hooptie, a muscle car, an antique vehicle (including a tractor or boat), an older house or a scenic vista. In exchange for permission to legally trespass, I'll photograph your property and feature the photos on the blog (only if you wish) and/or give you copies of the shots. Be forewarned that if older vehicles are involved, I may want to keep drive them.

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.

The Barn

Once upon a Saturday, a group of friends met in bustling downtown Shackelfords, Virginia, for lunch. Afterwards they drove down some winding roads to property--which includes an old farmhouse and numerous barns--that's been in Big Hair Envy's family for many decades.

Then after Chesapeake Bay Woman realized she could walk all over the property and take photos without fear of legal ramifications, she came to the conclusion that she'd died and gone to heaven.

The End.

Now for the Epilogue, in which we discover that eerie similarities in barn doors can establish a blood kin relationship, particularly if one says so has a vivid imagination.

The shot above from Big Hair's family property is of the beautiful barn, a gorgeous old tree and a very, very vexing sign. While nobody was looking, I stuck out my tongue and thumbed my nose at this sign, because we had Big Hair's permission to be there.

We could go inside the barn, snoop through old boxes wander around the house, and loiter to our hearts' content. These No Trespassing signs were powerless to do anything to deter us. (Insert the sound of evil laughter here.)

Now we've arrived at the part of the post which provides pictorial evidence that Big Hair Envy and I are kin, even if we can't establish an actual family link, and even though nobody has ever emphatically (or ever) stated that barn door similarities prove kinship.

The barn door above is from her grandmother's property. Note the weather-worn red paint; the cracks in the door, and the vine forking out like veins over the woodwork.

Now compare that to the shot below.
This is the upper-level door from my grandparents' old barn, which now belongs to my parents. This barn is right next door to me, but about 30 miles away from Big Hair Envy's. Notice the weather-worn red paint; the cracks in the door, and the shadow of the walnut tree which forks out out like veins over the woodwork.

The only real difference between the two photos, aside from the obvious location, is the lighting.

In conclusion, based on the fact that we both had grandparents who owned red barns with almost identical doors, Big Hair and I must be kin. You won't find these sorts of scientifically-based assertions anywhere else on the internet. This is pioneering genealogical research at its best. Barns can establish kinship.

Just remember, you read it here first.

Old House

These remains of a beautiful old two-story house are on Gwynn's Island.

Most of the upper level is gone except for the facade. What a gorgeous facade this is. A diamond-shaped upper window; horizontal boards; a window to nowhere; and curved tree branches framing everything.

The window to nowhere alone could inspire me to write a story stretching from here to Shackelfords, Virginia. And back.

Speaking of Shackelfords, and we just barely were, yesterday I had lunch with some wonderful people at Shackelfords. These wonderful people
made me wear a tiara, but that's a story for another time.

After terrorizing the Shackelfords metropolitan area, we traveled to Big Hair Envy's grandmother's home, which is a place we can legally trespass in spite of all the No Trespassing signs a spectacular old farm house with several exquisite barns.

I took so many photos that my newly replaced batteries started to wear down. Downloading and then uploading all these photos will require all day Sunday and well into Monday a bit of time, but rest assured this week is going to be replete with photos of one of the prettiest old homes I've had the pleasure to legally trespass inside visit.

Thank you, Big Hair Envy, for letting us legally trespass.

Have a peaceful Sunday full of family, loved ones and friends who let you legally trespass.

Snow

Although it's not readily visible, there's a house hidden in this snow-laden thicket. It's a tan house with white trim; you can juuuuust make out the door. (If you click on the image it makes a world of difference.)

Mother Nature tucked us snugly under a light blanket of snow Friday, and I took advantage of the opportunity to photograph such a rare occurrence around here.

In spite of the warm, welcoming sign on that tree, I was not trespassing. No, I was stopped in the middle of the road with my window rolled down. The house is only a hop, skip and a jump from the road.

Above is a better view, although the house still tries to blend in, wishing to remain anonymous and forgotten. So I left her alone and did not trespass in spite of my ardent desire to fling open the car door and trot the few steps over the ditch and through the woods, to grandmother's house we go... the horse knows the way to Stop it NOW, CBW. (Oh, all right!)

No, I stifled my urge to get out and walk over to take a look inside investigate further. Since it was so quiet and nobody else was around, I settled into the notion of snapping photos from the comfort of my car while Mr. No Trespassing Sign ridiculed, scoffed and very clearly disapproved of my activity. He was blatantly rude, actually, displaying very unbecoming behavior and a severe lack of decorum.

Just when I began to feel comfortable--in spite of the rude sign--there in the middle of the road with my window rolled down, listening to the exquisitely soft, soothing and tranquil sound that snow makes after it falls, yes right there in the glare of a most impertinent No Trespassing sign, a car came barreling right up behind me.

Then I had a heart attack.

The End.

Mark's House, Part IV

Today is another chapter in the book called, "Chesapeake Bay Woman Doesn't Have to Go to Jail for Trespassing." This book is available courtesy of friend Eligible Bachelor Mark, who is the caretaker of this house which dates back to the 1700s.

The photo above is not a photo of the house--although it's there--nor is it a photo of the well--which has a padlock on it. (I just happened to notice the padlock in passing. I wasn't going to peek inside or anything.)

No, the photo above is of that magnificent tree in all its glory. Look at how majestic he is; how broad his shoulders are; how tall he towers.

It's possible for a tree to be a he, no?

(That last sentence may well be the winner in the next Name the New Dr. Seuss Book Contest.)

Above is a closer view of Mr. Tree. I like the contrast of the stark tree with the lush green grass and the little river of sunlight to the right. To me the tree and its couple of downward reaching branches look like someone trying to touch that glowing river. But I have a vivid imagination which includes winning the lottery and creating a reality TV show, so don't pay me any mind.

Here's Eligible Bachelor Mark stepping out of the woodshed. He was loading up that wheelbarrow with firewood to heat the house. That tractor just to the left of the wheelbarrow has definitely seen better days, but it didn't stop me from wanting to take her for a spin. See above about a vivid imagination, which is essential when trying to start up a tractor which has been sitting outside of a woodshed since the 1700s 1970s.

Now we have arrived at the photos which tell one more tale relating to Ms. Hijinx, who is the resident ghost. Mark explained that earlier this week, while passing through the dining room from the kitchen to the living room, he noticed a chair had been moved. Mark did not move it. His son did not move it.

Below is the position of the chair exactly as he found it.

Below is the same chair, photographed from a different angle. It appears that whomever was sitting there wished to glance out the window.

This concludes this chapter of "Chesapeake Bay Woman is Ecstatic To Be Legally Trespassing." If anyone wishes to contact Mathews Mark directly his email address is mtodd0129@gmail.com.

If anyone wishes to contact Chesapeake Bay Woman to feature a house as part of her Legally Trespassing series or about that reality TV show, send an email to ChesapeakeBayWoman@gmail.com.

As a side note, although today's post contained 4-5 pictures, it took me 1-2 hours to upload these courtesy of my speedy dial-up sprinternet. Ordinarily 4-5 pictures would last me, oh, 4-5 days since I usually only post 1 shot per day.

(And now I will be swallowing 1-2 aspirin since these 3-4 references to my enemy called numbers have caused my brain to sputter and my synapses to smolder.)

Tune in tomorrow for Three-Thing Thursday followed by Who Knows What Friday; at some point I will figure out announce the dates for Blog Fest 2010: The Hijinx Edition.