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.

It's Raining Men. Still.

Here in cyberspace, the Mathews County Womanless Beauty Pageant lives on, even though it's been over and done with for three weeks days now. Something like this doesn't happen very often, and we folks here in Mathews don't get out ever, except to Best Value and Food Lion much.

We don't shave much either, not even when wearing our Sunday best:


But we sure can bust a move. (Or is that move a bust?)


No, a Womanless Beauty Pageant in Mathews is truly a big Neal deal.


Mathews is known for fishnets gill nets, pole dancers fishing poles and miles of beautiful, glistening wigs beaches. The people who live here are crazier than loons generous to a fault and will do anything to help a good cause, such as Relay for Life.

They'll bend over backwards to help someone in need.


And speaking of need, this needs to be the poster child for next year's Miss Mathews Relay for Life Womanless Beauty Pageant:

And there will be another Womanless Beauty Pageant, right? I really need to get a life something to look forward to.

Be sure to check out some of the other posts and pictures from Saturday's event, including Big Hair Envy, Ann Marie, Noe Noe Girl, Native Devil and Meg (who posted tons of photos online. If I knew how to link it, I would. Meg can attest to my lack of computer skills. Ask her for confirmation that I'd never compressed, re-sized or cropped a photo until she taught me how this weekend. Thank you, Meg!)

For anyone wishing to make donations or to learn more about the county's fundraising efforts for the American Cancer Society, click on The Mathews Relay for Life website.

p.s. Hello, Realty TV show producers? Give me a call. Have I got a county for you.

Relay for Life

Once upon a time, Chesapeake Bay Woman had a friend called Bayman.

Bayman is the sort of person who'd give you the shirt off his back in a snowstorm and then ask if you also wanted his shoes and socks. He'd do anything for anybody.

One day, Chesapeake Bay Woman was sitting innocently at a lacrosse game, when a person we shall call Miss Kathy asked for suggestions of local men to participate in a Womanless Beauty Pageant as a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society. Chesapeake Bay Woman, who loves these sorts of brainstorming games, spewed off about 120 20 names, one of which was Bayman's.

Bayman has a close relative fighting cancer, and the event--in which men dress up as women and compete in a beauty pageant which includes formal attire, a talent competition and a swimsuit event--benefits cancer research. So I thought he'd be a good choice. Plus, I want to see him in a dress and high heels.

This was the look on Bayman's face when Miss Kathy asked if he would please dress up as a woman and dance to an Isley Brothers song strut around on stage to benefit cancer research:


But after he thought about it for a moment and realized it was for such a good cause, he jumped right in the manicure chair right on the powder puff band wagon.

The "Miss Relay" womanless beauty pageant will be held this Saturday at 7:00 p.m. at Mathews High School in the Harry Ward Auditorium, not to be confused with any other auditorium because there is only one.

Former professional football player Stuart Anderson will also be wearing a dress, people! participating in the pageant. Folks, this is a sight you will not want to miss is going to be fun!

Tickets are $10 at the door, and of course donations are always accepted. Checks should be made to Relay for Life and can be sent to Miss Kathy Gwyn, 17542 John Clayton Memorial Highway, Mathews, VA 23109.

In addition to serving as Bayman's agent, choreographer, make-up artist, wardrobe expert, Isley Brothers fan who knows just the song to play for the talent competition manicurist, pedicurist, stylist and talent manager, Chesapeake Bay Woman will be videotaping the event, provided she can (a) find her video camera (b) charge the battery (c) find the battery (d) figure out how to use it, all of which means that (e) Chesapeake Bay Son best be comin' along to handle the videotaping.

The End.

p.s. Does anyone know where a person such as Bayman might locate high-heeled dress shoes in a man's size 12? With all the freaks who shop at the Gloucester Wal Mutant (no offense to freaks folks from Gloucester), I'm thinking that might be the best place for him to start. Of course we don't have any place to buy shoes in Mathews unless you count horse shoes and even then you have to call in a special person.

p.s.s.t Big Hair Envy? Noe Noe? This might be the weekend for a sleepover in Mathews.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

Track and Field

This weekend my basement flooded, which is to say that Chesapeake Bay Woman spent two consecutive days in tears was forced to go through junk to ascertain what was regular old junk and what was trash that should have been thrown away decades ago really and truly junk, all of which was trash sopping wet.

After digging through to China layers of rubble, the source of the leak was found. Right next to that source, like the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, was a metal box containing letters and newspaper clippings from my past.

This concludes the basement portion of this post, and it also marks the exact spot in the whole basement operation when Chesapeake Bay Woman threw in the towel to focus her attention on the contents of that box, because that was way more fun and a lot less work.

Once upon a time, back in the Mesozoic Era Chesapeake Bay Woman was an athlete, and she thought she'd spend the rest of her days competing in track meets up to and including the Olympics. And she was very serious about that Olympics thing even though now it makes her fall out laughing until she nearly pops a pants button busts a gut.

Anyway.

As I was going through this box I discovered a newspaper article.

The headline was, "Kline Sets World Record in Richmond Meet." Mr. Kline from Mathews broke the world record for the 70-74 year old age group in the 400 meter dash. He came in at 68.1 seconds. For someone in that age bracket, that's unbelievable. Some 45 74 year-olds I know can't recall what they had for breakfast in 68 seconds, much less sprint a lap around a track.

The articles goes on to say, "Joining Kline at the Richmond meet were four other Mathews runners. Chesapeake Bay Woman won the long jump with 18' 1/2 ". She won the event by 1/4" on her last jump of the day. Blah blah blah. She also ran the anchor leg for the Pacers Track Club of Newport News mile relay team. Her 1:06 split gave the relay team a second place showing."

Basically this means that I ran a 400 (one lap around the track or one leg of the mile relay) only two seconds faster than Mr. Kline who was in the 70-74 year-old bracket. I might have been 17 years old. Repeat for emphasis: He was 70-74.

Anyway.

Here's the part that's important, and the reason I even mention this article, besides the amazing Mr. Kline:

"Mathews Mountain Man earned a fourth place ribbon by throwing the javelin 165' 11". He pole vaulted 12'6" and high jumped 6'. Ms. Seabreeze ran in the 1500 meters and Farley A. reached the finals in the 200 meter dash."

Mathews Mountain Man (known as MMM in the comments section) is Mathews Mark's brother. He has contributed some invaluable stories and is long overdue for submitting another one (hint, hint). Ms. Seabreeze, who used to take me to the skating rink and points beyond in her brown Pinto, also provides valuable and humorous commentary here. We were all part of a traveling track team who lost touch after it was over, and here we are 30+ years later reconnected however loosely and rather accidentally by this blog.

It boggles my mind.

Aside from Facebook, which seems to be reconnecting people who don't even remember each other (not that I'm speaking from experience on that "not remembering" thing), have you reconnected with old acquaintances through the internet or blogosphere?

Or how about a 74-year-old man running a 400 in 68 seconds. He was such an inspiration to me at the time. Do you know any people approaching older age who are in amazing shape and are exceptional athletes for their age?

Is there a market for junk '70s-era light fixtures, saddle blankets, typewriters, mismatched china, slightly damp clothing or soggy books?

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?

James Brown

Continuing with yesterday's theme of my mother's writing, here is a portion of something she wrote about James Brown. James Brown is my mother's absolute favorite after Joe Tex, but J. B. was way more prolific, and, might I say, hilarious. ("Popcorn," anyone? I break out into hysterics whenever I hear that song.)

------------------------------
"Everything in life can be set to a tune by James Brown, the Godfather of Soul. James has been setting my feet on fire since I cannot remember when. Growing up in the fifties, I stole into my father's Oldsmobile (I swear) and listened to James, Joe Tex, and whomever happened to be playing on the local radio station. Occasionally I would catch a bawling-out for running the car battery down, but not for my decadent musical taste, which remained my little secret.

....My children know better than to disparage my music (since they like it too); my husband used to play in a soul band and shares my fondness for the music-induced euphoria it brings us. Our neighbors* are mostly country music fans, going on and on about their heroes and heroines (some of whom we have never heard of), and we pretend to agree. It is pushing our luck to show our true colors....

On Mother's Day I cooked a very mediocre chicken dinner and cranked up James Brown. It was Mother's Day and this mother wanted it, OK? When it comes to dancing, I don't have a good foot; nevertheless "Get Off on the Good Foot" was the anthem of the day.

And I feel good."

-Chesapeake Bay Woman's Mother
--------------------------------

*These are the same neighbors mentioned in a previous story, who may or may not have considered my parents to be devil-worshippers, even though they aren't. They just listen to James Brown on major holidays and streak through the yard on occasion.

Is there anything wrong with that?

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.

Houses

This aging beauty displays many of the qualities inherent to Mathews. She's an honest, simple, wooden structure. A dying breed who is clinging to her roots and refusing to let go no matter how hard outside influences try to force her to change.

And now it is time to stop talking about me (all except the beauty part...and perhaps the wooden structure part, although that is debatable; particular emphasis on the simple part) and start talking about houses in Mathews.

Mathews, Middlesex and Gloucester Counties are loaded with old houses of the same vintage: two-story, white clapboard farmhouses with multiple chimneys, green trim, green shutters and green roof. Some have incredible porches, others have remarkable outbuildings. The kitchen was usually located in a wing directly off the back to keep any potential fires confined to one place. Or that's what I've been told. By someone. At some point. Probably in a dream. Or not at all. Many of these homes are still lived in, many have been updated, but too many are skeletons like the one shown here.

I'm a substitute driver for Meals on Wheels. (The rest of my resume is more impressive and includes such occupations as strawberry picker, substitute lifeguard, monorail operator and career development manager for a global consulting firm in downtown DC. Excuse me while I go cry in the corner about that last job. The only careers being developed there were the employee's next one - I had to fire a kajillion people or at least tell managers how they could get away with firing people. It was very cut-throat. I get high blood pressure just thinking about it. Of course I also get high blood pressure looking at my mountain of laundry. Back to the point. What was it again?)

This particular day my daughter and I covered the Mobjack route, and this house was close to two of my stops. I should state that although I am talking about the typical Mathews farmhouse (as well as my previous jobs, totally unrelated), this structure actually is atypical, and I'd wager it was used as either a store, an inn or something else besides a home. It would have made far too much sense to post a picture of typical farmhouse when that's what I am trying to explain.

To impress you with my architectural knowledge, I'll point out that those three upside down V-type structures across the roof are unique as are the two overhangs coming from the front doors. Two front doors? Extremely uncommon. For all I know this is a picture of some historic landmark that everyone else knows about except me. That would be common.

There are so many things I love about delivering to these older people, but most of all I relish every interaction with them, the last of the truly old-fashioned Mathewsonians. They speak with the thick Mathews accent I knew growing up; they live in very small, modest houses; they are unpretentious, straight forward, kind people with very few requirements in life.

The older folks are like these older homes: beautiful tributes to a bygone era when life was much simpler and less demanding.

Sibling Rivalry

This is the diary I found yesterday. I have thoroughly enjoyed reading through it. Even though I was only about 9, the quality of the writing is slightly better than what I put here on a regular basis.

I have two younger sisters, both of whom now live far from Mathews. As the oldest sister, I was often put in charge of them, and this gave me an unnecessary license to boss them around. And torture them.

I will save the stories about how I bossed and tortured them for later. This is more about some of the minor flare-ups caused by irritation. You know…you live with someone for so long, there’s really not much else to do, little things start to irritate you, and because you are bigger and older you start things.

Such as World War III.

For example:

Saturday, January 26, 1974

Dear Diary,

Today it is raining. I came home from Nanny’s. When I got home I played with my horses. Middle Sister always cries when you touch her horse. She is a big crybaby (underlined so many times there is almost a hole in the page).All she does is cry. Today I just stood and looked at the rain.

-Chesapeake Bay Child

*I’m talking about plastic horses here. More importantly, if it’s true that I was only playing with my horses, then why would I be touching Middle Sister’s enough to make her cry?

Answer: Because I was the older sister and I could get away with it.
_____________________________________________

Or this:

Tuesday, December 23, 1975 (a year later)

Dear Diary,

Today I walked down the street with Nanny to go to the store. After that Mamma came and took me home. When I went to my room it was a mess. Middle Sister hadn’t made up the bed or anything. She likes to live like a pig. I just cleaned up my room the other day.

-Chesapeake Bay Child

*My grandmother Nanny lived in the next county over and had no car. We would have to walk about two miles to get to the grocery store. More importantly, the biggest pig in the family was me! If I did in fact clean that room up, it would have been the first and last time.

I did cruel stuff to both of my sisters. I can’t even tell you some of the things I did because they’re so awful. A less awful thing I did often, especially on long car trips, was to lick my hand and then wipe it on their arms or legs, any exposed patch of skin. This was usually because they were getting too close to me. They had crossed that invisible line that separated my territory from theirs. Then they’d holler, “Mamma, Chesapeake Bay Sister is licking me,” and start to whine and cry or something. If one of them licked me back? It was full-on war.

Many times my mother nearly had an accident in the lime green VW bus due to such fights going on in the back seats. The beauty of the bus was we were so far back she could not reach us. It is a wonder my poor mother has any marbles left after all those years of our fighting.

Now that we’re older, we have put all these silly tiffs aside. When we see each other, we don’t lick each other. I don’t touch their stuff.

I will say, though, that both of my sisters have this irritating habit of wearing too much lipstick ,and when they drink coffee or wine their lipstick marks are all over the glasses and cups (and I find the glasses and cups all over the house). They wear so much lipstick that sometimes even the dishwasher doesn’t get it off. And no way am I putting my hands in those glasses to wash that stuff out. No way.

That would be just like them licking me.

Dr. K.

Without going into the details, the past 24 hours have been unexpected and dramatic. With no warning, my son collapsed and was rushed to E.R. #1, where they were ready to send us home, except that our Voice of Reason, otherwise known as Dr. K, prevailed. We went to Better E.R. #2, otherwise known as Civilization. All is fine now and the drama and suspense are behind us. This is just a small way to say: We love Dr. K.

Dear Dr. K.,

Thank you for marrying who you did and moving to Mathews, more than likely a destination you would never have selected. Because you did marry him (whom I have known forever and also admire except that he has this habit of being a p.h. - ask him what that is and wait for him to tell a lie about it referring to me), I knew you were a good person. Step One for a quicker transition to Mathews: Know someone who is from here. Marrying them is even better.

Thank you for moving here in spite of the fact that you and he could have been successful doctors anywhere in the country. Anywhere. And incredibly successful. Did I say ANYWHERE?

Thank you for being so funny and so entertaining. I've said before you missed your calling as a stand-up comedienne. Step Two for being successful here is the ability to put people, especially From Heres who often are intimidated by outsiders, immediately at ease and able to say anything without being perceived as different or inferior. You are able to do this in the first minute of talking to a patient.

Thank you most of all for being the only voice I heard, understood and--this is critical-- believed in a situation where I thought my son was going to die. He didn't and he's fine, but you were the only person whose voice stood out and made sense to me. Your prediction as to how it would play out regarding next steps-- even though you did this over the phone without seeing Son--were so vastly different from the emergency personnel there with Son. You set my expectations right up front as to what we might be dealing with, and projected a sense of urgency when the hospital staff was ready to send us on home.

Even when we got to Major Hospital Number Two, where every possible local expert you could want was on hand, your voice and opinion took precedence over everything.

Mathews is a small town without a lot of high-fallutin' luxuries. But the quality of the people who are either born here or choose to live --and for that matter WORK-- here cannot be matched. Anywhere. By Anyone.

Thank you, Dr. K. As I told you today, you grossly underestimate the value of your phone calls and your solid, straight-forward, no-horsin' around words.

And thank you Mr. R. for marrying her and bringing her here.

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.

Bubbas

I wish to preface this by saying that I love Bubbas. And may no Bubbas be harmed in the making of this post.

Bubbas make the world--OK, just Mathews--go 'round. If not for Bubbas, there'd be no distinction between a true From Here Mathews County male, and any other random male. OK, so that's not true either. Just know this: I do not intend to disparage anyone--bubbas, friends of bubbas, wives of bubbas and--MOST importantly MUMMAS of bubbas. This is merely a caricature or stereotype of the "typical Bubba."

And if I know anything, it's that there ain't nothin' typical about nary a Bubba. Or as a Bubba would say, "Oh dahln, we's as right as rain and ain't nare one of us right." (Where the second "right" in that equation had to do with mental rightness, as in they're all crazy. And the word "nare" is not a typo, but how they pronounce nary, by dropping off the "y". But I swear I'm not trying to disparage anyone. Swear. Do you notice how quickly I can lapse into Mathews Talk here? It's neat being able to speak two languages.)

I asked for some guest input on this post because I didn't want to sit here all righteous and proclaim that I knew everything there was to know about Bubbas.

Guest Contributor Karen had this to say about Bubbas, and she is an expert, because she's a Come Here, married to a From Here, and in her line of work she caters to Bubbas and all their kinfolk.
(Yes, I am speaking another language. Do not adjust your tuners. It's a syndrome called LIVED IN MATHEWS WAY TOO LONG).

Here are Karen's astute observations:

#1. A bubba always has a nickname, usually diametrically opposed to his appearance (i.e. "Slim"). When he dies, this nickname will be prominently displayed in his obituary and perhaps on his tombstone. None of his friends will know his true name.

#2. The offspring of Bubbas, male version, always have names ending in "y". Jimmy, Ricky, Bobby, etc. They will be known as "Slim's boy Ricky".

#3. The offspring of Bubbas, female version, will be named after a beloved woman in the Bubba's life, usually his momma. They will therefore have names much older than they are.

#4. A bubba has an odd number of teeth.

#5. Fine dining means going to Hardee's instead of Little Sue. (Editor's Note: Little Sue = convenience store, and Hardees is just plain WRONG but we're in Mathews and it is the only fast-food chain we got. Have. Whatever.)

Thanks to Karen for that very descriptive input. As a side note, Karen's real line of work should be stand-up comedienne. She just doesn't have time what with her day job and all. But if anyone's looking for a killer of a comedienne, she's the lady.

Here is the opinion of one of my sisters, let's just call her Sunshine (since everyone else in high school did):

Physical Description: Pumpkin on stilts (Blog Author interrupts Sunshine's description to say, "Hellooooo, I resemble this remark and I am NOT a Bubba. We now return to Sunshine's description, with no more interruptions). Sometimes they look like a Watermelon on bow-legged stilts*. Eye color is usually alien blue with more red than white outside the pupil. Cowboy boots, huge belt buckle. Sunspots. Large bags under the eyes. Hair is anything from Charlie Brown sprigs (always covered up by a baseball cap) to complete redneck plumage resembling mullet, skullet,** or mud flap.

*Bow-legged stilts evolved from many centuries of doing "The Mathews Shuffle" (This is how all bubbas dance, and they usually snap while doing the dance; it's simply a shifting of the body from right to left while the inside heel clicks inside of other heel.)

A Bubba's favorite phrase is (Editor's Note: profane language to follow) "goddamnbubba" or " cooooooootdaaaaaaaayyyy" (where coot == good and where that phrase is really an abbreviation for GOOD DAY IN THE MORNIN'.)

** Blog Author's Question Back to Sunshine: WHAT THE HECK IS A SKULLET?? Can you fry bacon in it?

O.K. Hopefully you now have some idea of what a Bubba is. A Bubba is also the salt of the Earth, the best friend you could ever have, someone who will do anything for you (unless the Nascar race is on), and who hopefully will stick around here for a while. They've got lots of stories to tell, and (insert Bubba accent starting now) lemme tell ya summpmm dahlin,' you're just as perty as uh pickshuh an' I don't know much, but I know them Bubbas is as straight as an arrow and as serious as a heart attack.

Swimmin' in the Creek

Creeks in Mathews are the size of what most people would call rivers, and the swimming season starts officially now and ends as soon as the first stinging nettle is spotted. Which is probably tomorrow.

"Stinging nettle?" you might ask. Yes, stinging nettle. It is what non-Mathews folks would refer to as a "jellyfish," probably dating back to 1600 England or to the Very First Bubba, whichever came first (no harm intended to Bubbas. Or England). Even typing the word "jellyfish" gives me the heebeejeebies, because that is such the wrong word. The right word is stinging nettle. Referring to Bubbas does NOT invoke the heebeejeebies. It's a delicate, complex ecosystem, this Living in Mathews thing.

Today, my daughter, her friend Robin, their friend Olivia, and my older son (just along to "supervise" because he has no real interest in associating with younger girls, or being seen close to his mother, or anyone in his family tree, unless they are his friends from school, since he's tending toward TEENVILLE), went swimming in the creek in our back yard.

It was a hot day, one where every child and parent at any sporting event will report to bed with stings of the first sunburn. It was also a day full of funnel cakes, snow cones, BBQ sandwiches, crab cakes, french fries, ice cream sundaes, ring pops, and sweet iced tea because it was the Opening Day of Little League, which is the equivalent of the first day of DISNEY in Mathews. (And yes, our Little League sells crab cakes.) This also means that we're all just waiting for the diabetes-induced coma to overtake us so that we don't have to suffer anymore.

Never mind all that.

After a morning of sweltering sporting events, Robin, Olivia and Daughter went directly into the creek, where directly means do not change clothes from sweltering sporting event, go directly into the creek with your clothes on and wallow in the mud. While I fretted about who'd be the first person to cry out in agony after stepping on an oyster shell or worse, glass, they were hootin' and hollerin' with unabashed joy. They splashed and romped and cavorted in the brackish salty water until the cows came home.

We don't have cows, by the way. And for now, we don't have stinging nettles either, thank goodness.

We do, however, have plenty of Bubbas.

Houston: We Have a Picture

Yes, it is blurry. Yes, it is crooked. Yes, I know, I know.
After several weeks of procrastinating, I finally decided to heed the very well-written advice of an earlier commenter on how to upload photos. I took a deep breath, cursed while I tried to find the instruction manual to my camera, cursed after I found it, cursed when I couldn't find all the cords to hook Gizmo A into Slot Z, chewed off 9 fingernails, mopped my brow, cried, and then got down to business.

After 14 of the longest minutes I've ever impatiently tolerated, I am pleased to announce that I have finally uploaded a picture from my digital camera. Now, keep in mind that I have not edited it or done anything to it. It is imperfect, and that's fine with me because the point here is that I finally figured out how to upload the darn thing. Unfortunately I doubt I will make this a habit because I simply cannot endure the torture that involves uploading on dial-up internet.

I selected this photo as my first (and possibly only) one for the following reasons:

- This stretch of highway on Gwynn's Island is my favorite, not only in Mathews but also the world. Of course I haven't seen the world, but that's irrelevant.

- I like the curviness of the road, the sign and the tree.

- There is some symbolism in the number 45. It isn't my exact age, but in not so long it will be.

Now, I've got to clean up the fingernails from my desk. And change shirts. This technology thing is very nerve-wracking.

Donk's

Last night we went to Donk's Theater, which is also known as Virginia's Li'l Ole Opry. (www.donkstheater.com.)

Donk's is located in bustling downtown Hudgins, VA, which consists of a convenience store that sells clean drinking water, beef jerky and toilet paper (aka The Mathews County Essentials); a church organized in 1776; and a post office. All right next to this theater which Dolly Parton has visited.* (Seriously. Mathews County might not have any stoplights or stores that don't sell beef jerky, but we can and do attract the occasional celebrity.  Just ask Tom Cruise, who considered buying a house here, and John Lennon, who actually did.)

Donk's is a mixture of Hee Haw meets Real Talent with a side order of Eccentricity, heavy on that.

But it is also a place for wholesome, family entertainment provided by folks with a genuine, straight-from-the-heart passion for music. And corny jokes. **

Last night was their talent search. The house band, which is very good, played the opening set, which included one song that pretty much sums up the spirit of Hudgins and the Lil Ole Opry: Betty's Got a Bass Boat. In between songs, the emcee would interject his own special flavor of humor. **

Next, the four talent contestants did their thing. The first poor lady started off strong but then couldn't remember the words to her song and left the theater in shame and humiliation, all self-inflicted. I wanted to run and give her a hug but feared she'd call The Law on me.

The second act, I'll call him Guitar God, was a young boy who played the guitar.  I thought I had died and gone to heaven. I have NEVER heard a guitar played as well or in that style before. Ever. And while it is true I do not get out much, I don't know how anyone could disagree with the statement that he's a Guitar God. A sheer genius.

The third act was a young couple singing a duet. They came in second place and did reasonably well.

The fourth and final act was a Mathews native who also managed to forget a few words but who gets an A for effort.

Guitar God won, and I am sure y'all will be reading about him in years to come.

And if you ever have the chance, give ole Donk's a try. It really is good, clean fun with some great music, lots of heart and plenty of corny jokes.

* The emcee at Donk's said that when Dolly Parton gave him a hug, it was the two best things that ever happened to him.

** What did the Mamma Bullet say to the Daddy Bullet? We're gonna have a BB.