Sweet Rainy South

On the flight from San Francisco to Dulles yesterday, Lulu read while I slumped in a blessed Ambien-induced stupor. At the Alamo car rental place we ignored the dozen PT Cruisers on the lot and opted for the one Toyota. Soon we were headed through the southern night’s cacophony of crickets, arriving at the Holiday Inn in Orange County, Virginia at midnight. Around 2:00 a.m. I took another Ambien.

Waking up at 8:00 was a struggle. Stuffing the hotel’s disgusting complimentary breakfast sticky buns into my face I embarked on a successful journey to find my grandparents’ old house.

Then in the vast city of Orange we met up with a Mr. Rowe (whom I kept calling Mr. Wade) for coffee. He’d been headmaster of the local elementary school and a close friend of my late Uncle Courtney. “Now,” he said, “I’ve heard all about your brother but I don’t know anything about you.” While I was filling him in on how intriguing I am, a young linguistics graduate from William & Mary stopped by our table, having overheard our riveting conversation about derivational morphemes.

Next stop was the family farm where I spent a big chunk of my life through 1972. The woman who bought the place from Dad was generous enough to give us a tour through the house, which is magnificently unchanged. To wit, here are pictures of the porch swing now and in 1967.

Once again, I experienced the incongruity between the way kids and adults perceive physical space. The living room and front yard of my youth are a quarter the size they used to be. And my old bedroom, once cramped, is now microscopic.

Here are some more farm pix.

I had another strange experience. I followed the owner onto a small dirt road below the farmhouse. I was suddenly, overwhelmingly flooded with memories of the place — and yet I don’t consciously remember ever having been there. After a few disorienting moments I realized I remember the road well from my dreams but not Real Life. The dream place and the waking place are identical, except the former is overgrown with briars. Later I told Mom about the strange phenomenon. “The reason you don’t remember it is that it didn’t exist when you were growing up.” But it had to be. I swear I’ve been there. How can I remember so vividly something I’ve never seen?

Lulu and I wandered around a while, looking for the old quarry and misplacing ourselves in the woods above the Rapidan River. Then we thanked our gracious hostess and drove south again past other landmarks from my childhood: Montpelier Station, both uncles’ houses, the place my six-year-old cousin Greg was killed, and the Somerset Center Store that used to stock overalls and fishing worms but now sells twenty-first century necessities.

On the beautiful Blue Ridge Parkway, we startled a large black bear, and later stopped for some photo ops.

We drove through a massive thunderstorm with rains so heavy it seemed we were passing through waterfalls. By the time we got to the West Virginia farm the rain was light, the mist was rising and the cows were on the move.

A very cute mother unit with a cold greeted us with towering plates of brownies, an array of spray cheeses and a bunch of my other favorite things. We kept her up till nearly midnight.