The Main Event

of the 120-year celebration of the Warwick River community and Warwick River Mennonite Church took place on Sunday.  The Yard Man and I started our day with a fantastic hotel breakfast  (the details of which I'd love to bore you, Reader Dear, but I'll refrain).

Since I'm starting with food: 

At lunch I ate some of those heritage pecans that are soon to be extinct (It was only after I had eaten the Chicken BBQ Meal, served outdoors on this day of most glorious weather!*)


But why, Dear Reader,  am I talking about  food when there were so many more-special features of this 120-year celebration ?! (No need to answer.  I'll move on).












First and foremost of the delights was the greeting of old friends and family!

It was the best by far!
There was an abundance of visiting going on, all day long!  We visited at lunch around the tables that were under the tent!  We visited while perusing the pies, and we visited while perusing the historical displays*!

 *A model of the community as it existed in 1947, constructed by an uncle of mine for a previous reunion (showing a small fraction of the blue Warwick River)

*Viewer Dear, here's a photo of my very own mother, Circa 1933. (There were, oh, so many  historical photos [neatly organized and displayed!])





















But, yes, there was so much catching-up to do that the only time the visiting stopped was during the "Old-fashioned Hymn Sing."*

*Except, uh,  due to my close proximity to my LTF, and another friend, I'll have to admit that a bit of visiting did not completely cease.







I told you it was a musical weekend, did I not, Reader Dear?!
Here are just a few clips:

SHALL WE GATHER AT THE RIVER
Listener Dear, this is a hymn, the unofficial theme song of this church and this community.

It's been the song we most love to sing throughout this entire 120-year span of time we're celebrating  (Now, I will readily admit that I've not been there for the whole one-hundred and twenty years, but ask anyone who has, Dear One! They will confirm it's true!)

Eventually The Yard Man and I had to say goodbye to the Warwick River and the Warwick River Church and the Warwick River community and the Warwick River 120-year celebration (It means, Reader Dear, that you must bid farewell as well).

It was late afternoon, and we had to head north.
(We had to cross the Potomac River, the Mason-Dixon Line, the bridge of which nightmares are made*!)
*Notice, Viewer Dear, how this is an old,  narrow, two-lane bridge with no shoulders, extending way high into the sky (perhaps half-way to heaven).  Imagine, if you will, being stopped for road work on this bridge while driving (nearing the crest, but not quite far enough to see over), escorting three of one's own small children southward.  Now, picture large tractor-trailers and other vehicular traffic speeding by in the lane that was allowed to move. Think about the bridge rocking and swaying with each passing vehicle.  (Think of being stopped for a hideously long period of time).  Imagine feeling as though you may soon be more than half-way to that heavenly home!  (Er. Uh. Now, Reader Dear, imagine the phobia!)

So, okay.  Believe me, Reader Dear, when I tell you that I was glad The Yard Man was driving.  We sped along toward home, and I mourned for all good things that are ending*

*Pecan trees. Etcetera.

As we ate

our mouthwatering Mediterranean meal, The Yard Man and I kept hearing small snippets of conversation from a group of four who were seated a few tables away from us.  It sounded as though they might be discussing the very celebration for which we were in town to attend.  There was nothing definitive, however,  until I distinctly heard the words "Warwick River."

Reader Dear, I scurried right over to their table and  asked them if I'd heard correctly.  "Are you in town for the 120-year celebration?" I asked, as I studied their faces and hoped I was not making too big a fool of myself.

Turns out, my hunch was correct!  They were, indeed, a part of the Warwick River community ("The Colony" it was called for many years. [ Officially, the place was Denbigh]).  They were, indeed, descendants of the handful of ancestors who founded the community and its church! They were, indeed,  relatives of mine!  (Everyone, you must understand, Dear Reader, who grew up in this place a century or half-century ago was related to me).

However, since age can work its strange magic on people, these four had to give me their names.
I crowed with delight!
We visited!

And then they told me, "We're going to hear Jay Shenk (another one of those connected to all of us by DNA, and living locally) perform with his band at the bar down the road.  It's really close by.  Are you coming?"

Oh, yes.  The Yard Man and I, we were in!
(We had already heard about the performance and discussed this opportunity to hear Jay Shenk on the fiddle, but weren't sure how to find the venue.  How serendipitous, we just followed the other members of our tribe to the spot!)

  
Reader Dear, my body sat sedately on the bar stool and sipped my Smirnoff seltzer, but some part of me was decidedly and delightedly dancing to the tunes!

Listener Dear, tomorrow The Yard Man and I, ourselves, will be helping to make melodies*!
*Different genre, of course.

I.e. to be continued

When I Left you

Reader Dear, The Yard Man and I were looking for a restaurant in Newport News, Virginia.  We had already booked a hotel room for the night and it was a wet and chilly evening.  We drove down Warwick Boulevard (a street that carried us past several landmarks of my youth.  There was the building that housed my father's various businesses  "Aha!  It's still here!" I exclaimed.

(It's now a [car] body shop in the rear, and a nail salon up front*)
*Up front--it's where I spent my time as a teenager at my first job.  That's where I sat my transistor radio atop a filing cabinet I rarely used, and sat myself behind a desk to answer the phones for my father's two business partners: Mr. H, a Frenchman who paced the floor,  smoking nervously, and slammed down the phone when upset (though he was a sweetheart most of the time). And Mr. M, a middle-aged Jewish man with a lot of daughters. **
** (At lunchtime I'd take Mr. M's big boat of a car and bring him back two schnitzels with kraut in a paper bag, perched on the seat beside me.)


At the other side of  this building was the carpenter shop that my father also helped to establish.
(It's now "The Total Grace and Love World Center"  [Oh.my.goodness])

Further down the road was the high school I attended.  I believe it's now owned by a college.  I don't know.  It didn't look the same.

We came to Hilton Village.  The theater is still there, as are the row of peaked-roof houses built about a hundred years ago.  Since, Reader Dear, I'm giving you so much history already, I'll just add this, too:
"Hilton Village is a planned, English-village-style neighborhood in Newport News, Virginia. Recognized as a pioneering development in urban planning, it is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. The neighborhood was built between 1918 and 1921 in response to the need for housing during World War I for employees of Newport News Shipbuilding & Drydock Company. It is recognized as the United States' first Federal war-housing project."







Okay, okay, back to the story at hand! The Yard Man and I found a very delightful restaurant (the choices were few).  This one serves a Mediterranean menu.  The owner was dressed in a suit and tie and personally delivered each meal to his patrons.  "What is your country of origin?" I asked him.
"Afghanistan," he told me.
He seemed so pleased by our visit, served us a complimentary appetizer.  And we, likewise, were so pleased by the fabulous food.  "Oh, too bad, we can't bring our friends here," I rued to The Yard Man.  "You know they would love this place.  Especially Elias!"

Once again, Dear Reader, I'll have to interrupt this tale and continue later.  The Yard Man and I had a surprise awaiting (we kept getting clues as we ate our meal [but I'm going to stop right now and leave you filled with suspense (or possibly yawning)])

Here We Are

in Newport News, Virginia.
The Yard Man and I are here at the very spot of my growing-up years.  We are down at The Dear Old Neighbor Man's property beside the Warwick River.  It's where the 120-year celebration of the church and community was set to begin. The afternoon fun was to include games, water activities and hot-dogs on the grill.   Items we had been instructed to bring along were: Swimsuits, Towels, Blankets and Lawn Chairs, Sunscreen, Hats, Sunglasses, Life Jackets, Water Shoes.

Alas, umbrellas and rain coats were not on the list! The afternoon was waning by the time The Yard Man and I got to the spot, and there was a steady rain falling.

"For sure they cancelled the afternoon activities!" I had surmised to The Yard Man

But, surprise!  There were a few people huddled in The Dear Old Neighbor Man's boathouse.  There were a couple pieces of watermelon left.   We had enough time to greet everyone and eat the watermelon.  But, sadly, the afternoon's activities had been quite extensively changed by the weather.

Dinner would be served at the church because of the rain, we were told.

On the way to the church (half-mile away) The Yard Man and I drove past the pond that used to exist in my grandparents' back yard (yes, yes, Viewer Dear, the pond still exists.  It's covered by a thick layer of green pond detritus [as it has always been (since I've known it)]  It's my grandparents who have moved away).

Even the access trail from the road up into the woods still exists (as it did in my childhood [though it's no longer the "cliff" that it used to be])!


What truly no longer exists is the house and barn that were built by my great-grandfather way back in the 1800s.  "Slow down!" I instructed The Yard Man as we drove past the site. The buildings have been recently bulldozed to make room for a housing development.  My great-grandfather raised his family in that house, my grandfather raised his family in that house, my uncle raised his family in that house.  The end.

The ancient pecan trees that were planted by my great-grandfather and fed generations of his descendants are still growing and thriving.  They are scheduled for demolition as well.

Time moves on.

The Yard Man and I moved on, too.  We stopped at the church briefly (and The Yard Man ate two hot dogs), then we set out to find a restaurant.

Traveling South

Traveling Back in Time:

Reader Dear, this past weekend I took a trip back to the place of my childhood in southern Virginia.  The event that prompted the trip was a 120-year celebration of the church of my growing-up years. The weekend was filled with nostalgia, old friends and music! 

It was The Yard Man who escorted me south, and The Yard Man travels nowhere without his stack of favorite CDs.  We needed to load them in the player before exiting the driveway!

It was a long road trip for just twenty-seven hours at our destination, but the music sped us along.  For three hundred and some miles, we traveled melodiously!

                                                                                                                                                                                   We noted all the usual landmarks.

"We have to stop at the peanut shop!" said The Yard Man.  We were so hungry! Reader Dear, (I confess) we ate too many samples.  But, it's okay.  We carried away an armload of those good goobers!




We crossed four rivers.
















  



We  traveled a "Trl"

                                                                                                                                 
We passed some southern buildings that northerners would call eyesores
(Picturesque, Viewer Dear, is what I called them).

Oh, yes, Dear Reader.  This journey will be continued.

 I will take you farther.