Blue Stone Cabins

Back in the mid-1980's a friend wanted to buy her first home, and asked me to move in with her to share living expenses. At the time, I was living in Stuart Court on Monument Avenue, and the shock of moving to Oregon Hill is something I'm sure I will cover in a later broadcast. Today I'm thinking of a serendipitous overnight trip that my roommate Virginia & I made across the Blue Ridge mountains into the Shenandoah Valley.

Most of our Interstate highways parallel older, established roads, and I-81 is no exception. It runs alongside Route 11 on a mostly north-south route, anchored at the northern end by Winchester, and Bristol in the southern tip of Virginia. The interstate has, of course, eclipsed Route 11, acting like a younger, more popular step-sister. But Route 11 is where the more interesting sights will be found.

My father told me that Route 11 was once called "The Broadway of the South," because it passes through Virginia, Tennessee, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana, ending in New Orleans. Broadway of the South it may have been, but north of Virginia it continues through West Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, and New York, where it adopts a different number when it crosses the Canadian border near Rouses Point.

Interstate highways bore me to vexation, and I avoid them unless I am truly strapped for time. They are monotonous, dull, and have no soul. The older highways offer glimpses of the wonder of touring by car in times past. Here, I get a sense of history, and understand the unique flavor of each section of the state I am passing through. Most of us are so obsessed with getting there that we forget that the journey is often the most splendid part of the experience.

Okay, okay, enough of that. I'm supposed to be writing about the weekend road trip that Virginia & I took. We headed out of town on Route 250, through Charlottesville, waving hello to Tommy Jefferson's Monticello and the Rotunda at the University of Virginia, and crossed over Afton Mountain. At Staunton (with a wave and a yawn to Woodrow Wilson's birthplace) we turned north on Route 11 and meandered up the Shenandoah Valley.

We poked around Harrisonburg, ogled the cute James Madison University students, and found a diner downtown for a lunch purchase. Back on Route 11, various antique shops offered leg-stretching opportunities, and we stopped at a ramshackle shed that was surrounded by acres of the tackiest yard ornaments we had ever seen. It was all there in cement, the garden gnomes, lawn jockeys, saints, deer, kissing Dutch boys & girls, and uncomfortable benches that promised a souvenir case of piles if you sat on them too long on a cold day.

Outside New Market we saw a bewitching sign floating on a Blue Ridge mountainside to the east. Endless Caverns it proclaimed, looking like our Commonwealth's response to the Hollywood sign above Los Angeles. We took a neglected road that led to the sign, and as we drew closer, the trees encroached so that all we could see framed between the boughs was ENDLESS. Now offering tours once again, the caverns were at the time boarded up and abandoned, and the road ended at a chained gate.

By now dusk was settling into the valley, and we decided to find lodging, preferably at a cabin court or a Norman Bates motel. We eschewed more comfortable and modern establishments in favor of the Blue Stone Cabins, a string of tiny cottages behind a roadhouse restaurant dating back to the 1920's. After we checked in, we headed out for a southern-style meal at a family operated restaurant, and returned to our miniature home-away-from-home.

It certainly was little. The bathroom looked like an add-in, and it invaded the front half of the room, resulting in an L-shaped bedroom with twin beds mashed in however they would fit. A space heater offered comfort from the cold winter night, along with the likelihood of incineration or asphyxiation. There was a strange cannister apparatus attached to the outside of the bathroom wall. The bathroom itself, which loomed large in the bedroom, was quite cramped upon inspection. First came the sink, immediately followed by the toilet, and then a shower stall. The commode was conveniently close to the opposite wall so that a fellow could rest his forehead if sitting upright proved too taxing, and entrance to the shower stall required a large step over the toilet bowl.

We fell asleep as the heater clicked and wheezed threateningly, and I was the first to awaken the next morning. This was not unusual; I'm a morning person and Virginia is a direct descendant of Rip Van Winkle. I brushed my teeth and hopped (literally) in the shower. The hot water felt wonderful, because our wee heater was no match for a winter night. Just as I rinsed off the last bit of soap & shampoo, the hot water turned arctic cold in a split second. I leapt reflexively over the toilet and landed in front of the sink, wide-eyed and startled utterly awake.

When I exited the bathroom, Virginia was just stirring.

"How was the shower?" she yawned.

"Great!" I assured her, eyeballing the mysterious cannister, which I now realized was Thumbelina's water heater.

As I got dressed in warm clothing, Virginia shuffled into the bathroom. I sat on my bed and waited.

Sink noises. Toilet flushing. Shower curtain drawing closed. Almost show time.

The shower thundered for a few moments, and then a piercing shriek split the Shenandoah Valley. I clutched my sides and rocked with suppressed laughter. I barely composed myself before Virginia, her platinum hair obscured by shampoo suds, shot out of the bathroom like a cannonball.

"What's wrong?" I queried, my voice smooth with concern and innocence.

Virginia was nearly incoherent with shock, and I reflected with satisfaction on the numerous mornings that she had beat me into our bathroom at home. Her showers were long and languid, and I knew all too well exactly how she felt as she stood in the middle of the floor, teeth chattering, clutching a bath towel for lack of hot water.

Jamaican Jive Talkin'

Last Wednesday, after a long day at work with no lunch, I called my friend John and arranged to meet him for dinner. I knew I would be too tired to prepare anything nourishing when I got home, so we agreed to meet at a place we were curious to try. The Phoenician serves Mediterranean food, and our favorite place, The Grapeleaf, had suddenly closed recently.

The Phoenician is only a few blocks from my office, and it sits on a stretch of Broad Street so familiar to many American cities. A miles-long succession of blocks built in the post-WWII years, filled with automobile dealerships, fast food huts, non-descript agencies and bland storefronts. Harsh and ugly in the bright sunlight; gray and dreary in the rain. Nevertheless, the Phoenician has received favorable reviews, and I was hungry enough to "eat the ass-end out of a skunk" as my redneck friend Ronnie would say.

I parked behind the restaurant in a parking lot across the alley, and took up a position leaning against a half-wall where I could see the side lot and the back lot. I figured this would let me watch for John, whichever spot he chose to park. I was soon joined by a healthy-looking woman who ambled across the alley. In a mellifluous voice, she introduced herself, told me she had just arrived from Jamaica the previous day, and was in my city to do the Lord's work. She seemed filled with island good cheer and optimism. She then asked me if I went to church.

Me: I'm in a church at least six times each week.

Jamaican Pilgrim: Really? Is good. What church?

Me: I go to several.

Jamaican Pilgrim: What kind?

Me: Oh, Episcopal, Methodist, Presbyterian.

She then reminded me that she came here to do the Lord's work, and was about to share something important with me when a man came down the alley from a Chinese restaurant which sits beside the Phoenician. He held an eggroll wrapped in waxed-paper, which he offered to our Jamaican guest. Much like an old computer, she seemed to freeze. Her mouth slammed shut and her eyes glazed over, staring into some unknown place, perhaps her homeland. She appeared to be in a trance, remote and unreachable. Still, the man persisted to offer her the eggroll, which she did not acknowledge. Finally, bewildered and disgusted, the fellow returned to the back door of his restaurant.

Our island guest snapped out of her trance, and eagerly told me that the Lord had told her to come to this alley to find food, and that when she saw me she knew that the Lord had sent me to her. She explained that she could not take the eggroll, because she had asked him for help and the man had refused her, so when he approached her this time the Lord told her not to accept his help. But she could take money from me.

Me: That's a shame. I just saw the Lord send someone to you with food, and you refused it.

Jamaican Pilgrim: Oh, but I could not take it. I need food from the gas station on the corner, but I need money from you.

Me: No.

Jamaican Pilgrim: You won't give me money for food so I can eat?

Me: No. Good luck.

The Lord works in mysterious ways.