Three Things

Once again we say hello to the day of the week called Thursday, and once again I ask you to share three things.  Always remember that three is merely a suggestion.  There are no hard and fast rules at all in my life here on this blog.

Let's begin.

1.  Yesterday I had the honor of watching a cross country scrimmage between Mathews High School and Gloucester High School.  Yes, it required getting up at 5:30 a.m., and no, I wasn't thrilled about that, but yes, Mathews dominated, and yes, I am thrilled about that. (Yes+No+Yes+Yes=It was all good in spite of the early hour.)

2. Son is in training to be a server at one of my favorite restaurants of all time, Robert in New York City Merroir, over in Topping at Locklies Marina. (If you do the Facebook thing, click here for their page. Otherwise click here for more info.

3. I would like to say thank you to LLC, a commenter whose real name I do not know even though she's visited here since the Blog Cabin show came to Mathews.  I'm usually able to send side notes to commenters here and there, but I can't with LLC because there's no email address assigned to her Blogger account.  Regardless, LLC, I'd like you to know that I appreciate your faithful reading and clever comments. Thank you.

3b.  This same thanks extends to everyone/anyone who has suffered through the years reads and comments.  Thank you!

Now it's your turn to share three (or more-- or less) things.  Whatever happens to be on your mind at the moment.

Dirt Lane

The other day, after dropping off Daughter at cross country practice,

I drove down the Glebe for the first time in 

a month of Sundays

a while.

I wanted to check on a soybean field that I adore.

It is still there.

So are the outbuildings adorning its edges.

~~~~~~~~~~

Have a fantastic weekend.

The Parsonage

I must pass this house ten or fifteen times a week going to and from the Court House for this or that. It sits between Bill Dixon's old place and Mathews Baptist Church, shown below. Although I've admired it from afar, especially in warmer months when a wisteria vine blooms out front, I had no inkling there was any special significance to the house until I started doing research for the book.

Come to find out, this is the old parsonage for Mathews Baptist Church, of which I have been a member all my life (although I'm no longer active). Ever since I can remember, however, the parsonage has been a brick house on the way to Gwynn's Island, on the left just before the bend approaching the turn-off to Redart.
I have no idea whether the church still owns the original parsonage.  No one lives there anymore. The house just sits politely and casually observes the passersby and goings-on in bustling downtown Hudgins.

Parsonage is one of those words you rarely hear anymore.  The Free Dictionary has this to say about it:

parsonage - an official residence provided by a church for its parson or vicar or rector; rectory or vicarage; glebe house.

We also use the word "glebe" around here lots, primarily because there is a road and an area called the Glebe, associated with the former glebe of Kingston Parish of the Church of England, dating back to 1665. In 1802 parishes were required to sell off all glebes, and in 1810 Kingston Parish auctioned off all its land to benefit the poor.

And this concludes a post which began as a discussion of the original parsonage of Mathews Baptist Church but veered quickly and unintentionally off towards the Glebe before the author realized what was going on.

The End.

Mathews Baptist Church, also known as Old Baptist, was founded in the 1700s.

The Glebe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1. Driving Very Fast
2. Basketball Practice

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

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

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

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

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